Sterile sermons
An old church stands with a spired steeple
Amidst the townspeople at Fox and Main
Where the hypocrites pray for sinful souls
And clergy holds sermons that entertain.
Within this sanctuary lined with pews
And opalescent glass and glittering gold
Odoriferous breaths of morning booze
Betray inebriants among the fold.
The Sunday sermon lectures temperance
Its message they heard many times before
The spoken words make no difference
Because people don’t heed them anymore.
The pimps and sots, sinners all congregate
Buying forgiveness while passing the plate.
poem by Albert Ahearn
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Related quotes
Sunday Morning
Sunday morning silence, curtain stay closed late
No one thinks of kitchens mornings in a filthy state
Dishes cups and beer stains, ashtrays on the floor
Sunday morning papers are left outside the front door
Sunday school and sunday roast
Sunday papers sunday post
Sunday morning sunday rest
Sunday sermon sunday best
(sunday, bloody sunday rest)
Glass of fizzy water helps to start the day
Sit and listen to sunday silence, problems fade away
Sunday cars and drivers break the morning air
Uncollected milk outside reveals theres no one there
Sunday school and sunday roast
Sunday papers sunday post
Sunday morning sunday rest
Sunday sermon sunday best
Sunday school and sunday roast
Sunday papers sunday post
Sunday morning sunday rest
Sunday sermon sunday best
Bathrobes hang in waiting, windows steaming up
Somewhere in the sink downstairs lies an unwashed cup
Tea and toast for breakfast clear away the plates
Wash-up prepare for cooking sunday lunch awaits
Sunday lunch awaits
Sunday lunch awaits
song performed by by Madness
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Affluent In Rituals
In places that sedates and rids those of fears,
I observe the pretense of those convinced...
They have found santuaries void of deceptions.
Viewed they are praying in worship,
Passing notes to provoke those there
In true devotion and unaware...
They have become subjects of gossip shared,
And whispered between psalms!
In places that sedates and rids those of fears,
Hypocrites of faith are seen wiping tears!
And as soon as dried eyes are cleared temporarily...
A sermon that teaches is lost!
Those that come with souls deceiving...
Are affluent in rituals.
And in gold leaf crosses embossed.
Tossing images of sacrifice.
Vowing they themselves are Christ-like beings,
Duplicating these scenes in pristine temples!
Appearing as they do to be high maintenanced,
To leave pews packed and congregated...
For an awaiting world,
Corrupted by their misunderstanding!
As they invoke words of God 'spoken'...
Although nothing done reflects anything,
Of what has been taught, heard and digested!
poem by Lawrence S. Pertillar
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Searching For a Church?
After your long and weary search, have you found the perfect church?
A simple church ruled by men; the perfect church you can’t condemn.
Or do they all appear the same, just another building with His Name?
And once inside you’re not sure, if you feel the presence of The Lord.
There’s only one true Church of God, upon this earth that all men trod.
That is The Church of Jesus Christ, and bought by Jesus, with His life.
God’s Church has no denomination, for in Christ is only one Salvation.
His Church has no walls my friend; it has a beginning but has no end.
Christ’s Church began at Pentecost, not for the righteous, but the lost.
His Church is made of sinful men, whom by God were all condemned.
But redeemed with a special price, when His Son became a sacrifice.
Then dipped into a cleansing flood; sinners purified by Christ’s Blood.
Are you looking to men to find, God’s forgiveness and peace of mind?
My friend, are you truly not that sure, where you can go to be secure?
Christ’s first Church had no steeple, and was filled with humble people.
Humble people who gave their life, to reach the world for Jesus Christ.
If you’re still searching for a church, you should end your weary search.
The Church is men like you and me, saved by Christ’s work on Calvary.
Nothing’s been added to the cross, except sinners who once were lost,
Since, they’ve entered in The Door, and now belong to Christ The Lord.
(Copyright ©04/2006)
Church
I am sure there are those who go to church,
For purposes I have yet myself researched.
But I do not intend to learn more about Satan.
Nor about those demons...
Dispensing sins.
Where from inside a church...
People pray to be forgiven for them.
I am sure there are those who go to church,
Other than to wear their Sunday best.
Or to regurgitate...
Scriptures learned or verses they've rehearsed.
And in privacy misdeeds confessed.
But there is evidence lacking on urban streets,
Near these places where 'The Word' is heard.
And sermons are preached.
All I observe is decadence done.
Where hypocrites congregated and speak,
To others what 'they' should not do!
As a form of their 'community' outreach!
While showing how the devil does it.
From lessons recited to ignite inner fear.
And the 'how-one-should-live'
To get those expected golden 'wings'...
Given to them,
By a 'heavenly' being...
Adorning upon them 'halos' they've earn.
As melodious harmonic voices sing!
With angels appearing to dance near.
And this conflicts with my depiction of God!
When I witness the destruction of all that God creates.
As those who say they are of faith with 'belief'...
Do not find their actions neither wicked or odd!
poem by Lawrence S. Pertillar
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His True Church
I know many religious people, and one Church with no steeple,
A church that’s built with no walls, built on only believing souls,
Built upon an Eternal Foundation, that being our very Salvation,
Built upon The One Cornerstone, and that is Jesus Christ alone.
Many, who worship in a building, to Truth alone, are unyielding,
Building a church on tradition, God’s Truth, with man’s addition,
Added to the work finished by, Jesus Christ who reigns on high,
Ignoring His words “it is finished”, Grace by many is diminished.
Men making a way to Heaven, not by grace but religious leaven,
Building church in a human way, as they lead many souls astray,
As many souls weekly perch, in the pews of a manmade church,
Relying on their religious activity, to help them work into eternity.
“I will build my Church” He said, that was Christ, who is the Head,
Head of His True Church on earth, filled with souls, by New Birth,
All members being Born Again, into His Church, not one of men,
You’ll find, you no longer search, as a member of God’s Church.
Jesus is the Way, Truth and Life, as Head of the Church of Christ,
And each of us is a living stone, built through faith in Christ alone,
His Church He proceeds to build, to complete as His Father willed,
Leading the only True Church friend, as others shall see in the end.
Prepared To Deliver And Teach
Speeches, sermons, lectures...
Are prepared to deliver and teach.
However...
If they are delivered too seriously,
Without a bit of comedy...
Those giving those speeches,
Sermons and lectures...
To teach with an outreach to people,
Will find most of them asleep.
Disturbed from a droning boredom,
Only to awaken to applaud...
Begun by those relieved with sighs,
That whatever was heard...
With the giving of a patience,
Is over!
'You were wonderful.
I sat through it with my eyes closed.
Absorbing in meditation...
Every meaning of your intention.
To allow the depths of your words to sink in.
But I must ask you this...
Do you mind explaining parts of it I miss? '
~No!
Not at all.
Which parts were those? ~
'The beginning? '
~Yes.~
'And...
The end.'
~Okay? ~
'Do you mind repeating,
What was said in between them? '
poem by Lawrence S. Pertillar
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Hypocrites in the Church? Yes, and in the lodge and at the home. Don't hunt through the Church for a hypocrite. Go home and look in the mirror. Hypocrites? Yes. See that you make the number one less.
quote by Billy Sunday
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Village Green
Out in the country,
Far from all the soot and noise of the city,
Theres a village green.
Its been a long time
Since I last set eyes on the church with the steeple
Down by the village green.
twas there I met a girl called daisy
And kissed her by the old oak tree.
Although I loved my daisy, I saw fame,
And so I left the village green.
I miss the village green,
And all the simple people.
I miss the village green,
The church, the clock, the steeple.
I miss the morning dew, fresh air and sunday school.
And now all the houses
Are rare antiquities.
American tourists flock to see the village green.
They snap their photographs and say gawd darn it,
Isnt it a pretty scene?
And daisys married tom the grocer boy,
And now he owns a grocery.
I miss the village green,
And all the simple people.
I miss the village green,
The church, the clock, the steeple.
I miss the morning dew, fresh air and sunday school.
And I will return there,
And Ill and daisy,
And well sip tea, laugh,
And talk about the village green.
We will laugh and talk about the village green.
song performed by by Kinks
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Blasphemistic Emoting Hypocrites
Turned off I am,
By those in church voice.
Softly spoken scripture quoting,
Folks who approach...
Those with souls to save.
~They seem to be all over the place,
These days.~
Passing out their leaflets,
Depicting the end of life as known.
With pictures of Sunbeamed disciples,
With wings and halos worn and overblown.
Blazing away and being lifted up by the rays.
And when these folks are safe,
In shelters behind closed doors.
They pick up their phones,
To gossip with neighbors.
To talk about the minister.
And who in their churches,
Is disliked and ignored.
And what 'they' don't condone.
Yet they cuss out the children,
Who loudly play on the streets.
Calling them sinning heathens...
Then threaten to call the police.
Flipping through their Bibles,
On Wednesday during Bible class.
Singing in the choirs,
And unwrapping candy snacks.
Making noises throughout the sermon.
Giggling with whispers passed.
Then when asked to attend meetings,
To get things done in the community....
Excuses from their mouths come out.
No time do they have for unity!
Not for their minds to grasp.
But praise God that they've been asked!
Turned off I am,
By those in church voice.
Softly spoken scripture quoting,
Folks who approach...
Those with souls to save.
Passing out their leaflets,
Depicting the end of life as known.
With pictures of Sunbeamed disciples,
With wings and halos worn and overblown.
Blazing away and being lifted up by the rays.
Going through the motions...
Emoting hypocrites,
Devoid of spiritual motive.
And blasphemistic...
These self righteous loyalists.
Devote not one shred of consciousness...
To rituals routined.
Without a depth of feelings connected.
At least none believed,
Either meant or seen...
To be convincing.
'You can't tell me nuthin' bout Gawd.
I study! '
~But do you know how to pray?
Something is missing in your conveyance.
A delivery is heard.
But a comprehension of it needs 'your' attention.~
'Excuse me?
You I don't see in church at all.'
poem by Lawrence S. Pertillar
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Hope For Heaven
Grey church sits lonely on the hill,
Awaiting its next Sunday thrill.
Voices rising up to the spire,
Kept in tune by the local choir.
Regulars that every week,
Enter the door the Lord to seek.
Its rural town’s a busy place,
Harbouring a mixed human race.
On the seventh day most sleep late,
Don’t venture through the old lychgate.
They think about the open shops
And whether lunch requires pork chops.
The bells ring out, the faithful meet,
For some it is their only treat.
They catch up on the parish news,
And who will this week, clean the pews.
Then wander home their minds refreshed,
By words spoken when they were blessed.
Grey church that stands through passing time,
Listening to its own clock chime.
Could tell a million happenings,
Of centuries of natterings.
All the souls who have passed away,
Laid to their rest, and there to stay.
Such peace surrounds this house of God,
So many feet this path have trod.
But it remains steadfast and true,
All the inclement weather through.
Solitude for the broken heart,
Hope for heaven when all depart.
poem by Ernestine Northover
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Monument
I got the message in my mailbox
Nobody goes to church no more
Theyre closing down your little altar
Theyve locked the sanctuary door
Dont fight it
Who can say that you didnt try
Dont fight it
Old soldiers never die
Where will I go to leave my offering
To think about how lifes so queer
And listen to the little choir
The sermon I dont care to hear
Dont fight it
Who can say that its not the end
Dont fight it
And if we dont meet again
I know somewhere a monument
Stands in the name of our love
Somewhere are monuments
Standing in the name of our love
Ive seen such strange times
Seems like lifetimes
Sometimes good and sometimes bad
And I dont see how it could
Have been much different
Everybody gave the best they had
song performed by by Utopia
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Pray
I just can't sleep tonight
Knowing that things ain't right
It's in the papers, it's on the TV, it's
everywhere that I go
Children are crying, soldiers are dying,
some people don't have a home
But I know there's sunshine behind that
rain
I know there's good times behind that
pain
Hey, can you tell me how I can make a
change?
I close my eyes and I can see a brighter
day
I close my eyes and pray
I close my eyes and I can see a better
day
I close my eyes and pray
I lose my appetite knowing kids starve
tonight
Am I a sinner, 'cause my dinner is still
on my plate?
Ooh I got a vision to make a difference
And it's starting today'Cause I know there's sunshine behind
that rain
I know there's good times behind that
pain
Can you tell me how I can make a
change?
I close my eyes and I can see a brighter
day
I close my eyes and pray
I close my eyes and I can see a better
day
I close my eyes and pray for the
brokenhearted
I pray for the life not started
I pray for all the ones not breathing
I pray for all the souls in need
I pray, can you give 'em one today?
poem by Pawan Kumar 'Meonlafesta'
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Some Have Steeples. Some Don't
What do I think of church?
'Yes! '
Church?
Like in 'church' church?
'Yes! '
Well...
Some have steeples.
Some don't.
Some have people.
Some wont.
Some are religiously political.
And some are politically religious.
My vehicle is my church.
And that's all I care about.
'Oh?
So your 'car' is your church? '
Oh.
No no!
My 'body' is my church.
It is my sanctuary.
Now...
Keep in mind,
I am not devoted to keep it as pure,
As it should be.
But I do the best I can,
Not to be led away by temptation.
But everyday I pray to be forgiven,
Of those 'sins' I know I should not enjoy!
However...
You can find me anytime,
Self righteously defending...
My point of view.
poem by Lawrence S. Pertillar
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A Normal Day At My Church
I woke up this morning
grey clouds covered the sky;
no rain clouds there,
no sunshine neither.
Just the beginning of a cloudy day.
It wasn’t cold nor hot,
but just comfortable.
Being Sunday, it was quiet too.
I had already written my sermon the night before
and a short prayer to accompany it.
We had our service in the fresh air
in the middle of the street.
The town Marshals guarding either end
so no one could get away.
They were allowed to let people in,
but to prevent others escaping.
A captive audience you could say.
It wasn’t a big crowd,
but just big enough.
As we sang I See The Light,
someone threw some pretend sticks of dynamite at my feet.
Now had they been real
I would have seen the light
and been floating around
where the angels sing.
As it was only pretend,
I reached down,
picked it up, and handed it back
to the joker that threw it in.
The service went off quite peaceful after that.
Happily, I can say the service went quite well
and everyone enjoyed the message of friendship
that it conveyed.
Although I am only a pretend Preacher
and not a real one.
My sermons always try to relay a message
in how we can better our lives.
If only one good thing comes out
from what I say, t
hen I honestly believe
that I’ve had a good day.
The positive reaction
is when they go away,
telling their friend
they went to a good service today.
I will always get the joker
who will make people laugh
while they are trying to sing a hymn.
It doesn’t deter me
to get my message through.
The message is very simple,
we need to love everyone
no matter what they have done
and always keep a smile on our face
to brighten up each day.
If we keep that message in mind
then less troubles we will have
and always outstretch
our hand of friendship everywhere.
4 May 2008
poem by David Harris
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Sonnet: Men Collude in Sin
Some mortal sins are of convenience,
Like adultery, murder and false-witness
Between two individuals or more; hence
People commit them without harness.
The devils link the minds amongst sinners,
To sign a pact of mutual sinful ‘joy’;
And soon turn out to be real winners,
While sinful souls imagine they enjoy!
The bond grows stronger with the passing time;
The sinful habit turns now addiction;
The partners sin in almost any clime;
Until the devils bring on them affliction.
But lo! Tis late for remorse, repentance;
’Tis time for God to pronounce His sentence.
5-31-2002 by John Celes
poem by John Celes
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Forgiveness
Forgiveness is an act that works through God;
Forgiveness is an act of God in man;
Forgiveness is the work of God’s great love;
Forgiveness is an art that man must learn!
Men with good sense will restrain their anger;
Such men defer their anger for long times;
To forgive transgressions is man’s glory;
To hold one’s tongue is done by people smart.
Forgiving is an act almost divine;
Forgiving is something not all can do;
Forgiving someone is too tough at times;
Forgiving fully is done by just few!
To preach is easy; forgiving is tough;
Forgiving is an honor of men wise;
If God should forgive us, we must forgive;
Like God, we must be slow to anger too.
‘Forgive those who sin against us, ’ tells Christ;
To gain God’s forgiveness, we must then, first;
There is no limit to forgive someone;
Forgiveness is a virtue Jesus taught.
One who forgives has no revenge in heart;
One who forgives has no hate from the start;
‘Forgive and God will forgive you, ’ says Lord.
Forgiving plants the seed of love of God.
When all are sinners, forgiveness is prime;
By doing so, we gain the love of God;
Through forgiveness, our tolerance will grow;
For prayers to be heard, forgive right now!
A man with grudge is like a fruitless tree!
Grudge can stand in-between you and heaven!
Spare no occasion of forgiving men;
Judge not others but show mercy on them!
We turn like God when we forgive others;
Forgiving earns more souls for God, brothers!
Copyright by Dr John Celes 11-13-2009
poem by John Celes
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Head The Call
Have you been listening, (Listen to the music)
Have you been sleeping (The sermon's in the music)
(The man standing next to you, he must surely be your brother)
(So brother please) heed the call
(The piper he's still piping)
The magic in the music
(The drummer he's still drumming)
The message in the music
(Sweet song of loving you should be singing)
(So brother please) heed the call
Listen to the music, Listen to the music
(Listen to the music) heed the call
(Listen to the music) heed the call
Heed the call of the music
Heed the call of the music
Heed the call of the music
Heed the call of the music
(It's still early in our morning)
There's still time for singing
Let's not waste our morning
Join in the singing
The outlaw of the midnight
He all too soon comes winging
(So brother please, please) heed the call
(Listen to the music) (Listen to the music) yeah
(Listen to the music) (Listen to the music) oh oh
(Listen to the music) oh oh oh (Listen to the music)
(Listen to the music)
song performed by by Kenny Rogers
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Forgotten Church
Here stands the church
suddenly illuminated but usually ignored.
It's tucked away in the corner of the market place.
I see the spire, imagine the pews
look up at its stained glass windows
and hear the choir boys.
I relish the sound of church bells,
they calm me and the emptiness
of the market place on Sundays.
The trader's stands are packed away,
leaving bits of litter floating along
in the sunshine.
Here are the cobbles
where heels break from shoes
and women wobble.
No brightly coloured thongs hang
from rails now
or fancy petticoats.
No wafting scent of cooked chicken
or men's voices shouting
'ripe bananas'.
Here, in the heart of Romford,
the little church has always been
with its warm heart beating,
softly,
forgotten,
as people pass it by.
poem by Ruth Walters
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Sunday 4: 44 A.m.
the church bell sounds.
you wake up.
you wash your face.
comb your hair and
wear the best dress
on sunday.
you look again
in the mirror to check
if all about you is well
and presentable.
you take the rosary
and the prayer book.
you read the gospel.
you mumble your prayers,
you thank your husband.
you take the puppy.
you smile again in the
mirror. you thank God.
now you open the gate
and head for the nearby
church and hear mass
and the usual sermon
of the parish priest.
90% of your life
is devoted to religion.
10% is devoted
to anything else.
you have aged.
you still mumble.
i still wonder whether
it is you who misunderstands me
or i misunderstanding you.
everything seems to be
mangled and mingled.
when you come back
breakfast is ready and
everyone in the house
pretends that there is nothing
wrong with the table, or the
cover, or the broken pieces
of the glass.The maid is
quick in sweeping them
away from the door into
that thick grass beside
the window of this house.
sunday morning is still
our morning. A nice one.
the sun has come and
we are planning for another
picnic in the nearby beach.
there will be no questions.
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Sundays Past
On Sunday mornings you would wear a dark suit
With a tie and shiny shoes you are ready to en route
The church bells would ring calling for morning mass
While you check the weather through the window glass
A last glance in the mirror and you are on your way
You join the church goers without any further delay
Walking over uneven cobblestones in our small town
Children would jump on the sidewalks up and down
Dressed up for church everyone is wearing their best
Thinking about the priest and what they have to confess
Men lifting their dark hats as they wish a Good Morning
Then pass by the cemetery bowing heads as in mourning
The church bells now ringing louder and more demanding
Calling all sinners to mass without misunderstanding
I always knew that right then the decision was made
And it was agreed to skip church without being afraid
Through the old alley you and others took a known detour
Heading straight to the pub on the corner that is for sure
Around noon I would go to meet my father by the church
And he would talk about mass having done some research
At home my mother would just smile and shake her head
While my father gave her a wink that was hardly misread
Joking around we would eat lunch smiling with every bite
Keeping my father's Sunday secret and the world was alright
© 2011
poem by Kristina Louisa Carr
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