Church - quotes and descriptions to inspire creative writing
For the most part, the forest was my church, for I need to be able to see the heavens, feel the openness, experience the sunlight and let the birdsong be a salve to my mind. It was then my mind was free, then that I felt I was enough. I was one animal walking among many, all of us different yet connected. I guess it simply felt homely in a way that felt right, me quietly giving of my affections and nature giving back, nurturing a part that those stone walls left cold. As I became older, I softened in my feelings toward those steeple spires, toward those bells and windows of many hues. For just as a house needs love to be a home, those walls of rock needed love to be a church. The day I felt that love, the day it flowed as easily as a natural breeze and the light of the son came from the eyes around, it felt right too.
The church was tiny and cheap, with plastic stained windows instead of glass. Instead of pews, metal benches ran across the room. With a shiny tiled floor and the smell of old cigarette smoke, it was practically a Vegas Chapel.
The most important job of the church today is to lobby for plain speech that uses only positive phrasing. Unless that happens, unless we speak what we mean without the use of negations such as "don't, not and won't" the free will God gave us is stolen by the advertisers and the politicians. How can we make choices when they use language that instructs our subconscious and conscious minds differently?
"Don't lay down in the dirt and take it" instructs passivity to the subconscious. "Stand up for your rights, dream big and make love your priority" is clear for both levels of the mind, it gives us the free will to choose it if we wish. The former is double-talk, the latter is honest to the meaning, the speaker is being truthful about their intentions.
It's time for the church to make sure it is speaking clearly and advocate on behalf of people for their right to plain speech, speech that is clear to both levels of the mind.
The building before me is beautiful, old stone and stained glass, but to me it is nothing but a cage for God. He can't be contained by walls, I don't need a pastor to bring Him to me. He is inside of me, He is in the mountains, the rocks, the rivers. He is in the spirit of all animals, including us. He is the love that made our world, the love that needs us to cling to Him and know we are safe with Him, with Love. The earth is my church and I see it desecrated daily. I am with Him everywhere, all the time. I don't need a clergyman to forgive me, He already did that. So take the empty buildings you call churches and house the poor, take your riches and feed them. You let the devil in the doors long ago with your worship of money, gold, and power, then came your predator priests to hurt His children. God isn't contained in those walls and the First Nations had it right all along, living in peace and Love, harmony with nature and our Creator.
So I am at church all the time, my family and friends are my church, the sunshine is my church and the first snow of winter is my church. And the deadly sins are the ways in which you will be fooled into destroying the earth, deadly not always in a personal way to you, but to the entire planet, His planet.
If our creator is Love then my church is my family and friends. Church for me can be a shared meal or a good joke that has us all laughing. Church for me is cooking a homely and wholesome meal. Church for me is walking the dog and the mountain top after a fresh layer of pristine snow. Church for me can be inspiring music by diverse artists such as Bob Marley, Sinead O'Conner, Mary Black and Whitney Houston.
I worship by showing love and compassion, by thinking for myself and embracing the arts and the sciences. I refuse to be a sheep, I don't need a shepherd. I am a lioness, a mama bear. I feel His light within me and it helps me to say "No" to things that are wrong or harmful. He gives me to confidence to walk my own path with his Love as my guide.
When we arrive at the old church everything is the opposite of what I expected. Darwin was supposed to be over-awed and I was supposed to be cold and stoic. I should have known better. I'm projecting my feelings onto him again, I thought I'd catch that the next time I did it but I guess I'm not as smart as I like to think I am. Darwin sees old stone walls and decaying benches drenched with rain, plus he's still subdued after the heavy fever. I, on the other hand, see my mother in the front pew with her peach hat and my father in deep discussion with Reverend Green. I can hear the organ music and smell the fresh flowers brought by the fussy old ladies that dust even when there is none. I see the children chasing each other to their parent's exasperation and the delight of the lonely widows. And I feel Him here, I thought He would be gone, that these walls would be deserted. I am haunted in these walls and overwhelmed. It is my turn for tears. Rare for me, but I let them flow.
Found in Darwin's Ghost - first draft, authored by .
Moving into the passage, he wondered whether this quiet air tinctured with the scent of incense , candles and the more solidly Anglican smell of musty prayer books, metal polish and flowers had held for Berowne also the promise of discovery, of a scene already set, a task inevitable, inescapable
The brightly lit passage with it's floor of encaustic tiles and its white-painted walls ran the whole west end of the church. The little vestry was the first room on the left. Next to it with a connecting door was a small kitchen about ten feet by eight..
I broke down and dropped to my knees,
The last breath had been pulled from my lungs.
Father, he reached for the cheeks and spoke,
“Find your faith, speak with no man’s tongues.”
Black traces of sin began to pour from my mouth,
And the devil stood to applaud.
Father stepped back in fear,
“Look within yourself to find God.”
But there is no God here,
Only a lost, broken soul.
A place where demons raise their young,
A place where shatters of glass are added to the coal.
But yet you tell me to look deep down here,
The place that harbors the secrets that never left my lips,
The place where my greatest of judgement trips.
The place that provides the solution my mind sips.
Don’t tell me to find my faith within,
Because the hell inside doesn’t allow a god.
What good is it to listen to myself,
When all the voices inside are leading me to the spinning rod.
So Father, forgive me when I say,
That you have done no good.
I think when I told you I was dying,
You simply misunderstood.
There is no light hiding in the darkness of these shadows,
The pieces inside don’t all fit.
You can’t just raise your hands and say a prayer,
Because upon entering the Holy Spirit got the faith scared out of it.
I called to you in need of a miracle,
And you looked at me with pity.
You turned from my cry,
As if I hadn’t tried everything already.
Father, look with your eyes at the worst of failures,
See what happens when you let the suppressed come out to play.
Do you not understand what happens when you’re four months overdue,
And the devil tells you it’s time to pay.
But look no more,
You have absolutely no reason to cry.
Father, I have only one request;
When the next scream calls your name,
Promise to atleast try.
...and already his mind was reaching out with relief to the solitary contemplation of alabaster effigies, sixteenth-century glass and the awesome decorations of Winchfield.
In the distance rose the purplegray spire of a church and the irregular forms of old buildings.
vestry, pulpit, Victorian architecture, wrought iron grille, norman arches, spires, campanile, heavy iron bound door, candle holder, wax, coin box, matches, Gothic splendour, vicarage, bell tower, high arched windows, stained glass, cuplola,
ecclesiastical garb, cassock, ecclesiastical tones, whispers, choir, hymns, singing, children scampering
parish, parish priest, musty prayer books, incense, flowers, encaustic tiles, ceramic tiles, apse, chapel, chandeliers, nave, hight altar, crucifix, statue of virgin and child, gargoyle, angel, mosaics, Christ, offertory box,