Its cold out today and I’m stepping back into the church of my childhood.
Its grand edifice stands as it always did, intimidating and yet majestic.
Inside the cavern of its supposed holiness still fills me with foreboding and I wonder why I have travelled so far to once again subject myself to the Church of Fairweather Friends.
Today I’m sheltering from the elements, but I still feel the age-old chill of indifference run through me. Around me, the symbols of faith stare down on me, long forgotten saints and the torturous Stations of the Cross just where I left them. A priest enters and bids us welcome, his piety on display, and I recall the friend of my youth who stood in the same spot saying the same things, and we believed. Later I stood beside his grave, his conviction bringing about his pre-mature death. I wonder as I observe the faithful how many will suffer my fate when difficulty arises, no caring, no compassion but loads of denial.
the walls that surround
ache with the sins of the past