I am generationally removed from what passes as Sunday Morning Worship in this day and age. I have been told so numereous times. I find no argument thus far coming from those who have taken over which changes my mind, and it (my opinion) remains firmly locked in place. I go to try and find something I recognize. I wrote this poem to chronicle my angst.
I arrive each Sunday morning
with some anticipation
that perhaps I’ll find it again.
I feel no comfort, only anxiety.
Has it left me, or have I left it?
Am I on the wrong page?
The buzz of people talking in the sanctuary
before the service,
politics, health, sports, gossip,
it creates quite a din.
No time for quiet reflection,
thoughts of God,
relief from the every day.
Hustle to be on time.
Announcements with prayers in them.
Prayers with announcements in them.
Racks with unused hymnals,
silent reminders of the inspired
utterances of saintly poets.
Sometimes we sing one or two,
rarely stopping for a breath between them
so we can chant some over used chorus
several times while craning our necks
to see the words displayed high above
on a drop down screen.
No music to follow. Just some bouncy tune
that we should know because we
hear it so often.
It makes me want to bunny hop down the aisle.
I squirm and hope that the song service ends soon.