Gilded doors open wide to the smell of varnished wood and the soft steps of carpeted footprints. Light filters through stained glass murals creating shards of majestic light. Empty moments wait in anticipation.
The cross hangs centered high above the lectern framed by ornate chairs creating an isle of redemption. The rows of spindles form a line of demarcation between the masses and the messengers; and the only thing between them are the soft cushioned shelf to kneel.
Words and bread are washed down with wine and meanings fermented for centuries. Centuries of roles played out to the rhythm and design of a place called sanctuary. A place where freedom has boundaries.
And then the day when the silence of tradition is shattered by pain and misfortune wrapped in elegance and smiles. Feathered hats and stiff shirts ruffle in a truth remembered. Thunderous truths that remind us that it’s ok to “fall short”. This is the one truth that keeps our commitments in line with the architecture of reality.
Then the reality of silence reminds us hypocrisy is necessary to further the cause. The less fortunate need our contempt to remind them that blessings are earned; that faith has a reward as evident by you’re place in the pews.
Then the gilded doors open wide to the light of truth. The soft winds of the world caress the idea that prayer is what separates the chosen for posterity. Handshakes and hugs are safe amongst the forgiven; so now the armor of God will protect the chosen from the filth as they go forward into the world they strive to order.
These remnants of historical fiction are embedded in the souls of structure. Humanity was lost on the fulcrum of Christ. Nothing is Holy. It’s man’s desire to rule that perpetuates truths as a parody of faith.
Christ lived amongst the people outdoors where no one was homeless. Where everyone was lost in the idea of humanity as one. The church was where they traveled; in a grove, in a house, or on a boat they ate, breathed, and believed.
His words inspired the world to goodness; not in a book, not in a building, but in a gaze where breath and flesh pressed the meaning of goodness into acts of kindness.
So now I travel as one, not alone, but within an ancient truth passed down through time and thought. Born unto me through the simple truths of good and bad, right and wrong. He was not the Author, but the messenger who gave his life for the truths I’ve known since birth. And I’m the only man that owns this for myself, everyone else is a usurper.