I want so badly sometimes to make you happy.

To be moved by the disparity between the sun bleached wood

And darker wood hidden behind kind welcome messages

That sits on the pews at church.

 

To be so moved by the words of the preacher,

Or the music played and sung,

As to run straight back into the arms of a God I no longer believe in.

 

To want to wake up early on a Sunday morning,

To want to learn the names and be close with everyone in the building,

To not see attendance as an occasional chore

Or a way to get the things that I want.

 

But I simply do not feel these things

And I will never make you happy in this way.

 

You’ve pretty much given up at this point,

So many years of rejection finally having gotten through,

But I can still feel the hurt when I don’t say grace at dinner,

Or “God bless you” back when I leave the house in the morning,

The desire for at least one child to share with you

This thing you say saved your life.

 

I’m not angry at those words anymore, I promise.

 

But I am simply not moved by the sermons

Or the music

Or the people

Or color difference in the wood

 

These are

Beautiful, yes,

But not Holy.