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Enter Poem or Quote (Required)Required narrative poem It was in the sixth month of the fifth year, when B. Obama was the president. I heard the loud noise of many actors - singing praises, clapping hands in tribute. Play-acting, cultured lines, memorized songs, performed by men and women with spirit, indistinguishable from sincere praise. Drama entangled with reality. It was the evening of the fourteenth day, I had invited a friend out to eat. A dinner and a show to celebrate his retirement from a life of teaching. The play was a homecoming church service; it honored a pastor who was moving. Though the scripted testimonies given were heartfelt, I had a strange sensation. I kept seeing these same entertainers in former plays as thieves and infidels. Make-up, costumes, and props were authentic; the audience applauded loud and long. The next day, the fifteenth, was a Sunday. Hurrying through breakfast, I bathed and donned my good clothes and best vocabulary. With Bible in hand, I headed to church. As always, the praise songs and the scripture were rehearsed, the bulletin was the script. The program even listed times for prayer; I offered my largest bill to the plate. My worship was a measly performance. Should they had watched from a balcony pew, my non-church work friends would have seen me as - simply another moonlighting actor. At work last week, I had cussed out the boss. Three of us sneaked out early last Thursday. On occasion, I lie and scheme, even have a good laugh at tasteless, raunchy jokes. I left church and wandered in deepest thought, pondering, “What is worship all about?” An hour alone with God was revealing, brooding o'er events of the past two days. My pretense at worship, hypocrisy, disappointing to God, awkward for me. A major breakthrough, I just let God talk; then I apologized for my play-acting.
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