“On the whole, I do not find Christians, outside of the catacombs, sufficiently sensible of conditions. Does anyone have the foggiest idea what sort of power we so blithely invoke? Or, as I suspect, does no one believe a word of it? The churches are children playing on the floor with their chemistry sets, mixing up a batch of TNT to kill a Sunday morning. It is madness to wear ladies’ straw hats and velvet hats to church; we should all be wearing crash helmets. Ushers should issue life preservers and signal flares; they should lash us to our pews. For the sleeping god may wake someday and take offense, or the waking god may draw us out to where we can never return. ”
― Annie Dillard
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I dressed a mess of metaphors
In corduroy and cotton
I sent them in their Sunday best
To a place many had forgotten
“We love the Lord!” They cried aloud
“He is the one that’s risen!”
But when they saw what they had done
They put their God in prison
And there She sat, and sat and sat
Waiting for the moment
When she could emerge
Victorious! Unbroken!
But when the Bronze Age demiurge
Spied the ones assembled
She sighed a sigh from long ago
Then bellowed, and they trembled
“Even when I tell you
Not to harm or crush another
You stare and drool and play the fool
So I ask: Why should I bother?”
Church, a nice concept. The reality, however, is something different.