Tradition
By Karin Resor

Sunday morning, cool and bright
Sitting in the pews
Recovering from last night—

Following the cues:

“Stand up, sit down, kneel, pray, sing”—
Sneak a peek at the others
Performing the ‘proper Sunday thing’.

We’re all supposed brothers!

The priest is droning familiar chants,
He seems bored to me.
Succumbing to a sleepy trance,

My mind is light and free.

The organist’s following Lydian mode
The choir sings to soon
Is there a God in this mode

Enjoying this old tune?

Or does he thrive on this
Does He listen from afar
Or skip some of the service?

Is He too stupid to catch on

To what we’re thinking now?
Are we attempting some sort of con—
Absolving conscience-laden brow?

A yawn escapes – to my dread!

I get some dirty glances
The priest continues to change the bread
With his mystical dances.

Does this man know what he’s doing—

Can I trust tradition?
My foundation is ungluing—
Am I a son of Perdition?

Frightened awake; my heart pounding
I must clear up some questions
My rebellion’s resounding
Renouncing lethargic traditions.

I cannot spend another Sunday
In this wretched pew
What’s with my sudden foray—
This desire to review

The base of my foundation
Upon which my whole life stands
My soul yearns for salvation
Unspoiled by human hands.

Oh God! If You can hear me
Deliver me today
From customs embedded deeply
Which befuddle and betray.

Enrich my life – a gift from You—
Please do not delay
Must I languish in a pew
I need an answer now

Will you punish me severely—
I’ve stomped the ‘sacred cow’!

Can’t bear this repetition
Won’t obey man’s commands
I’ll learn to follow my own heart
Wrought by Your loving hands!

K.R. 9/97