The last church i went to consisted of a new and an old building. Beside the old one, a thin hedge ran from the playground, past the house where the pastor and his family resided, to a low, red wall. It was at this end where a small, wooden gate interrupted the hedge.
A cemetery grew on the other side. It was old and, almost everywhere, headstones sprung like tree stumps from the unkempt grass, weeds snaking around them and green fungi crusting the love words into obscurity.
That church, like all the others that iâ€™ve encountered, is like that cemetery, DEAD. But death doesnâ€™t adopt the form of worm infested corpses. Death is the lack of honest praise; the absence of unadulterated love for God. Death is the liars seeking and attaining social standing, the children drowning under the waves of religion swelled by their parents and the pastor who is sometimes not a pastor but a mere man making a living based not on faith but on deception, lusting after the power that he sways over his, and not Godâ€™s, congregation.
That was the first reason why i left.