I haven’t yet gotten to writing what I want to write, and am stalling for time, so in the meantime, I present for your consideration, and scene I wrote some three years ago of not-really-fiction:
People, we believe that
God is bigger than the air we breath, this world we leave.
And God will save the day, and all will say:
My glorious, My glorious, My glorious….
“What on Earth does that mean, anyway? My glorious?” Irene nudged the young man standing next to her, hands raised and swaying to the electronic chords and whispered in his ear. He didn’t notice, so she went back to attempting to mean the song at hand. “worship in spirit and in truth.” How is that done? by squeezing the soul through an emotional mould into a shape that could say every word in all sincerity, even the ones she didn’t understand. It was a failing task. Perhaps the correct posture would help: she closed her eyes and raised a hand tentatively, palm up. No use. The song ended with a flourish of drumming, and was replaced by another. “Rise up Church on broken wings, fill this place with songs again” — this at least made sense; broken wings indeed. The darkened convention center was filled with sweet or broken voices and hands raised up like Bermuda grass in midsummer, as an enormous projector screen prompted the lyrics: “and we’ll shout to the North and the South, sing to the East and the West…” A small, self-conscious hand forced itself up to shoulder height, and stayed there a moment indecisively, before being joined by another. A pair of blue-green eyes snatched a peek at their neighbors, before closing resolutely as Irene focused her whole being on feeling what everyone else was; feeling as she was supposed to.
She had very nearly gotten it, when every instrument doubled its volume and the room began to clap and hop in place. Irene’s eyes flashed open, and her hands dropped; this was an emotional range she wasn’t accustomed to play, and she stood there a moment in bewilderment as the hopping and clapping became steadier: “We’re gonna dance in the river, we’re gonna dance in the river,” they sang, and grabbed both her hands.
For five minutes the entire room jumped invisible ropes, and then collapsed into their seats as the music ended and a man’s flushed face was projected twenty feet high behind the band.
“Let us pray. Father God, I want to thank you for this opportunity we have to be here tonight, Lord, and for each and every of these young people you have brought here tonight, Lord, and for the honor of being able to share with them, Lord, and I ask that you would speak through me tonight, and, Lord…”
I will concentrate on what he’s saying, thought Irene, yes, yes, amen. No; go away thought, this is not anything like a Grammy acceptance speech, that’s probably blasphemous to even think. Is he just making this up now, or is it written somewhere on the pulpit? Make us change agents for the Kingdom? Please don’t, God! I think I’m going to fall over — is it alright to open my eyes, or is that disrespectful? Back to listening… if one can’t pray with the speaker, does that mean they don’t have that relationship they’re always talking about? I am so very hopeless… Lord have mercy…