I Lost My Faith In A Baptist Church
My mother still wears the perfume she wore to church 6 years ago.
It smells of the cheap pearls draped loosely around her neck
and car rides filled with silence that’s too sacred to be broken.
Our late arrival brought bickering from my father
about how fragile our reputation was here. The sapphire carpet
and stained glass windows of the man being worshiped
deflects my mind from my father’s redundant rage.
Whimsical polyphonic hymns and a mellow orchestra
permeate the chapel and I thank him for quickly changing
the melody that flooded my ears from a familiarly aggressive one
to an uncomfortably traditional one. Pastor Dave preaches
phoney lines of gratitude, playing God’s advocate but
he’s as treacherous as the fibs he proclaims. Still,
the golden offering tray was brought before us, begging for money
to be placed inside. Disbelief swept my mind as the hypocrite
that labeled us as “homeless” guilted us for money
we simply did not have.
Faith for a God that convinced me he wasn’t listening was lost
and my prayers proved to be pointless. My Sundays
are no longer spent in a place I was never welcomed in to begin with
and hymns that were once whimsical devastate my ears
like the shouting from my father I heard 6 years ago.