I was not impressed
with how well the congregation was dressed
or of all the elaborate trappings inside
and definitely not, pastor's fine/expensive ride.
The size of the building did not move me,
and the way they pased the bucket, 
I was forced to ask "damn, I thought GOD's Word was free."
And when the donations/contributions/tithes request was made,
I smiledd, thinking:"pastor's gettin paid."
The women parading around as if in a fashion show
made me realize that this sunday routine is done out of part habit 
and part for show and their income 
was the only thing they really wanted to grow...
What bothered I the most
was the theatrical
display of experiencing the Holy Ghost.
I would've been angry but it was too comical,
seeing these full-figured women being so light on their toes
as they did the Spirit-got-me dance,
eyes rolling back in their heads, like they was in a trance.
I was about to laugh, until I saw Sister-what's-her-face 
flailing arms hit Brother-new suit in the nose.
 
I looked around to check out the kids,
especially the little children,
and wondered what would be the condition of their heads,
as time moves on and they become ladies and men.
But as I looked around
I was sadddened, knowing that they would be bound
by traditions that was rooted in slavery,
traditions that perpetuated the myth 
of the all-knowing preacher-lady and/or preacher-man,
traditions that have little to do with adhering to GOD's Plan
and that negates Spiritual bravery.
As I exited, I felt a little relief,
knowing that I finally had the answer
to some of the problems plaguing Black folks like a cocktail of cancer.
I finally understood why
so many Black folks waste their existence and senselessly die:
"because we have traded our faith in GOD,
our knowing GOD, for mere belief,
not in GOD
but in pastor...