God is dead.
The thought crashes, a gong shaking his breath. He’s heard the saying before, from some long-dead philosopher. Foolish utterings by bored men, but here in the close confines of the church the words take meaning.
He used to hear god on the notes of the hymn, in the eyes of the congregation. He still senses the need in the hungry way the crowd stares up at him, but he also hears their confessions, knows their sins. How they kneel and beg forgiveness, then rise with dirty knees.
God is dead, so where does he turn from here?
You paint such a scene in a few words!
Krissy I love your stylistic choices so much. I love reading your pieces aloud! Beautiful! 😍🫶