Sunday Sermons

"Sunday, damn Sunday."
-Bus Driver (Petals in the Wind, V.C. Andrews)

I have a love for all things beautiful and nothing is more beautiful than a little old lady dressed up for Sunday sermon, with a Bible tattered and faded from years of reading, and carting her multitude of grandchildren behind her.  It makes me wish we still lived in a time when she'd have them tied to her with a piece of string, walking down the road to church.  Instead, her string has turned into a mini-van, and they're fighting over what kind of biscuit they want their granny to buy them at the drive-thru.  Even that can't take away from the beauty that is years of hardcore faith and resilience. 

That being said . . .

"Sunday, damn Sunday."  The day when the hypocrites that put Granny to shame come out in droves.  I'm sorry, but if you party all weekend, come through my window smelling of alcohol and looking blitzed out of all comprehension, please don't post things about being "blessed" on Sunday.  You are not blessed.  You are making a mockery of Christianity.

Yes, I understand that it isn't our place to judge but one has to wonder what kind of message this sends to other people.  Such as "I can do what I want Monday-Saturday and act like a saint on Sunday."  No, no, you can't.  I'm calling you out on it, right now. It's when you aren't ashamed of your religion Monday-Saturday and can walk in to a Sunday sermon knowing that you haven't been living a lie that you'll really be blessed-crying like a baby, singing, shouting, rejoicing Grandma blessed.

For the sake of the never-doubting grandmas who spend hours a week praying with faithful hope, for the years spent carting your dirty, rotten butts to church every Sunday, just . . .stop.