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Enter Poem or Quote (Required)Required It’s a sad and sorry state to drive past every day, the little Baptist Church I once attended every Sunday. Weatherboards are flaking paint and spouting needs repair. The Cross is leaning at an angle and starlings nest in there. And like so many others now I no longer do attend, Sunday has so much to offer than to find some time to spend an hour locked in worship that so dearly should be found, and so I turned my back upon the Church that’s falling down. Then a note was sent to everyone who once sat in the pews, stating that on Sunday involved important Parish news, and every baptized Baptist would be wise to now attend, the little Church where many years bore comfort as a friend. Rumours spread like wildfire through pub or school and street, that the Church’s days are numbered and that is why we have to meet, but the Vicar kept his cat inside the bag for all he had to say, was “Make sure you do the right thing and I’ll see you on Sunday”. Now like that cat with curiosity it’s killing all of us no doubt, while we try to figure out just what the Vicar’s on about. Is he throwing down some gauntlet? Will his news be good or bad? Or will he tell us all that progress, will claim this Church we had. Every seat and up the back was crowded to the core. The Vicar’s never seen so many in this little Church before, and when he ranted fire and brimstone, us sinners couldn’t look at him, then he took a breath and solemnly declared that things are grim. “This Church” He said, “As you can see, is desperate for repair, but there’s good and bad news for you folk who I believe do care. The good news is we have the money for renovating to fulfil - The bad news toward our Church is - it’s in your pockets still”.
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