“My great great grandmother, Amanda, was Presbyterian, but we were given the freedom to search our own conscience. Some family members became Methodist some Lutherans. Many of my cousins became Baptist mainly through marriages.”
I felt a need to introduce a little history at that point, and said, “You remember the circuit riders? In the era in which my great great grandmother lived these riders was Baptist, Presbyterians, or Methodist. Most times the religion of the slave owner was the religion practiced by the slaves on plantations, at least when the slave owners were present. The slave owners of my ancestors were Presbyterians.”
“This is very interesting,” my instructor admitted with anticipation.
I continued. “My grandmother introduced me to many not-so mainstream religions such as Holiness, and Evangelism. When I finished high school, I choose the path of my father and became a Catholic. In my youth there weren’t too many black Catholics.”
My instructor asked, “So who influenced you to become a Catholic instead of a Presbyterian, Methodist, or Baptist.”
“It was a personal choice. When I moved to Chicago, I went to a Catholic college where I took a class in Christology. It was there it dawned on me that Jesus was really a Jew. I began to explore Jesus’ faith in depth. I visited a conservative Jewish Synagogue, but the people weren’t welcoming or friendly. Then one day during a soul-searching walk along Hyde Park’s beach, I come upon a Temple that had open doors. I set up an appointment to speak with the Rabbi. The congregants welcomed me warmly, and I felt a connection with them. I’ve been associated with them for 30 years now.”
“So what does this have to do with your grandmother being Cherokee?”
“My great great grandmother’s heritage was Native American. Many of the customs and practices of my grandmother were very similar to the practices of Judaism. First, there is the belief in one God. Second, there was a sacred ceremony where the celebration involved the beliefs that the Great Spirit walked on earth, and who’s name was mentioned on this holy day. The joining-together, or covenant, made between two Natives depicted our relationship with God while a heavenly host of special songs were sung. It is at this time of renewing the body and the mind with the Great Sprit is deliberated. In Judaism, this would be similar to the High Holy Days. Tales also speak of a house that the people assembled and dissembled as they travelled. This house contained holy items for their ceremonies. My grandmother kept a menorah in her kitchen. At Christmas time, candles were burning in the window next to a Christmas tree. When she died, one of the times I took was a broach with the Star of David embossed.
The Cherokee is a matriarch society. My grandmother was the matriarch. If my great great grandmother had been a black woman with no Cherokee influence, my life would have been more towards the African practices. This is not to say that we didn’t practice Christianity in the vein of the black church. It only speaks of the embed beliefs that guided us as a religious people. Also, Africans brought their religion with them from the old country, and was practiced in secret. It’s was a melting pot of religious beliefs.”
After walking for an hour, we stretched and thanked each other for the knowledgeable conversation. For me I learned a new route to walk. For my instructor it was a question of religion. The day had started out doubtful, spiked with uncertainty. Yet the hope for a beautiful day prevailed. As I headed for my car, I noticed the building that outlined the Chicago skyline, and in the water was a seagull perched on a piece of wood. As I drove home, it became a day I confirmed for myself why I am a Jew. But, mostly it was good day because not only did I give, I also received.
Saturday, May 14, 2011
Tuesday, May 10, 2011
All I Wanted to Do was Sing
My husband told me not to take it personal, but I couldn’t help but feel violated in some way. All I wanted to do was sing, but that wasn’t going to be that easy. Let me give you a snapshot of what happened to me a couple of days ago.
I had found a Senior Center that offered a choir program I could participate in once a week. It was going to be fun because the choir wasn’t professional, so I could relax and just sing. The day I started with the G-Notes group was a little darning. I wasn’t for sure how the group would receive me since I was the only person of color present.
“What do you sing,” the pianist/leader asked me.
“Mezzo-soprano with some high notes,” I said.
The women in the Altos section welcomed me to sit with them. By the second meeting, I had earned the respect of the sopranos and joined that section. Lucy was the diva of the three women that sat on the back row.
Most of the women were nice, but hesitated to be acquainted. I remember asking Marion, one of the back row sopranos, a question. Her response was, “Just do what you’re told,” in a commanding voice. I didn’t take her remark personally, and by the end of the year, I felt the back row and the lesser sopranos in front had come to accept me.
In my second year with the choir, the first order of business was to reorganize the choir into sections. I was supposed to sit between Lucy and Marion, moving the third soprano to the front.
After the assignment of seats, I came into the room the following week to find Lucy’s sunglasses and a small purse in my chair. To avoid a conflict, I moved Marion’s book into my chair and took Marion’s seat. All I wanted to do was sing, nothing more then that.
At our first concert, some of the lesser sopranos remarked, “Some of us are singing too loud!” I asked the tenor, who sat next to me, if it was me. Eric said no, that the choir needed strong voices. So, I continued to sing in my same voice at rehearsals and thought no more of it.
At our second gig, after our performance during the social hour, Lucy and one of the lesser sopranos commented again, “We were too loud.”
Marion noted that this was good because most seniors can’t hear. Since then, a number of incidents took place, which pointed to the fact that they were talking about me!
Finally, during a rehearsal a number of coincident occurred. Last week, I came into the room and found no seat for me. This week, as we began to rehearse songs, one of the lesser sopranos informed the choir that Lucy was doing a lovely job of singing the upper notes, but was drown out. The four lesser sopranos in front of the back row all agreed. Now I had to figure out what I was going to do.
After being "isolated" from conversations, and enduring eye rolling episodes, I decided to do nothing and hope the new director would give structure to the choir. Until then I would sing softly but carry a big stick against a problem that looked and felt like discrimination. As I said, all I wanted to do was sing. I have to take it personal.
I had found a Senior Center that offered a choir program I could participate in once a week. It was going to be fun because the choir wasn’t professional, so I could relax and just sing. The day I started with the G-Notes group was a little darning. I wasn’t for sure how the group would receive me since I was the only person of color present.
“What do you sing,” the pianist/leader asked me.
“Mezzo-soprano with some high notes,” I said.
The women in the Altos section welcomed me to sit with them. By the second meeting, I had earned the respect of the sopranos and joined that section. Lucy was the diva of the three women that sat on the back row.
Most of the women were nice, but hesitated to be acquainted. I remember asking Marion, one of the back row sopranos, a question. Her response was, “Just do what you’re told,” in a commanding voice. I didn’t take her remark personally, and by the end of the year, I felt the back row and the lesser sopranos in front had come to accept me.
In my second year with the choir, the first order of business was to reorganize the choir into sections. I was supposed to sit between Lucy and Marion, moving the third soprano to the front.
After the assignment of seats, I came into the room the following week to find Lucy’s sunglasses and a small purse in my chair. To avoid a conflict, I moved Marion’s book into my chair and took Marion’s seat. All I wanted to do was sing, nothing more then that.
At our first concert, some of the lesser sopranos remarked, “Some of us are singing too loud!” I asked the tenor, who sat next to me, if it was me. Eric said no, that the choir needed strong voices. So, I continued to sing in my same voice at rehearsals and thought no more of it.
At our second gig, after our performance during the social hour, Lucy and one of the lesser sopranos commented again, “We were too loud.”
Marion noted that this was good because most seniors can’t hear. Since then, a number of incidents took place, which pointed to the fact that they were talking about me!
Finally, during a rehearsal a number of coincident occurred. Last week, I came into the room and found no seat for me. This week, as we began to rehearse songs, one of the lesser sopranos informed the choir that Lucy was doing a lovely job of singing the upper notes, but was drown out. The four lesser sopranos in front of the back row all agreed. Now I had to figure out what I was going to do.
After being "isolated" from conversations, and enduring eye rolling episodes, I decided to do nothing and hope the new director would give structure to the choir. Until then I would sing softly but carry a big stick against a problem that looked and felt like discrimination. As I said, all I wanted to do was sing. I have to take it personal.
Friday, April 15, 2011
A Question of Religion, part 1
I was aroused in the early morning by a thunderstorm. The crackle of lightening, and the roar of thunder echoed through my open bedroom window. I rose from my bed. The air was cool on my face as I watched the rain dance lightly on the concert patio floor next door. Today was special. At ten o’clock, my Tai Chi class will be gathering at Evanston Beach.
People in Chicago say wait ten minutes and the weather will change. My plan for the next two hours was to witness this change. As the morning sky roared again, I thought it would take a miracle to see the sun today.
It was nine o’clock when the rain stopped. The moist air began to smell warm as the sun peeked through a cloud for just a second. I felt there was hope, and just maybe I will be able to practice my Tai Chi at the beach.
I parked my car at the Evanston Park entrance. I feared I might be the only one attending the class. I decided I would take a walk along the lakefront if no one showed. As I waited, I rubbed sunscreen on my face and hands, and searched for my hat to protect my eyes from the sun.
At ten, the instructor arrived at the beach. I believe she was glad to see someone came after the storm. Moments later two other people from another Tai Chi class arrived. We were a small group of three, but the rains had stopped, the air was warm, and the sun was shining.
For one hour, we moved deliberately, waving our arms and stepping with one goal in mind. I concentrated on the seagulls as they swooped down for fish, and the purple martins catching mosquitoes in the air. As I listened to the water crash into the rocks, I felt at peace with myself. When the class dispersed, I decide to walk the lakefront anyway. My instructor decided to join me. It was like having my own private guide as we strolled through the lakefront neighborhoods dressed with large mansions.
After walking for a half an hour, my instructor said, “May I ask you a personal question?”
“No problems what do you want to know?”
“How did you become a Jew?”
“That question is a long story, but I will give you a short version.”
A little embarrassed, she said, “I don’t mean to pry, but I heard you talking about the Passover Seder.”
“I’m asked that question a lot, so I’m prepared to answer. In fact I wear this mitzvah so others will know I’m of the Jewish faith and not a Christian.”
“Well, I guess I shouldn’t feel so bad for asking you.”
“My grandmother has Native American ancestry. And oddly enough one of the items in her kitchen was a seven-candle menorah. She would tell me, “Find a good Jewish man, and get married.” I thought, “I’m a black woman. How am I going to find a Jewish husband?”
My instructor commented, “What does being part Native Indian has to do with being a Jew?”
People in Chicago say wait ten minutes and the weather will change. My plan for the next two hours was to witness this change. As the morning sky roared again, I thought it would take a miracle to see the sun today.
It was nine o’clock when the rain stopped. The moist air began to smell warm as the sun peeked through a cloud for just a second. I felt there was hope, and just maybe I will be able to practice my Tai Chi at the beach.
I parked my car at the Evanston Park entrance. I feared I might be the only one attending the class. I decided I would take a walk along the lakefront if no one showed. As I waited, I rubbed sunscreen on my face and hands, and searched for my hat to protect my eyes from the sun.
At ten, the instructor arrived at the beach. I believe she was glad to see someone came after the storm. Moments later two other people from another Tai Chi class arrived. We were a small group of three, but the rains had stopped, the air was warm, and the sun was shining.
For one hour, we moved deliberately, waving our arms and stepping with one goal in mind. I concentrated on the seagulls as they swooped down for fish, and the purple martins catching mosquitoes in the air. As I listened to the water crash into the rocks, I felt at peace with myself. When the class dispersed, I decide to walk the lakefront anyway. My instructor decided to join me. It was like having my own private guide as we strolled through the lakefront neighborhoods dressed with large mansions.
After walking for a half an hour, my instructor said, “May I ask you a personal question?”
“No problems what do you want to know?”
“How did you become a Jew?”
“That question is a long story, but I will give you a short version.”
A little embarrassed, she said, “I don’t mean to pry, but I heard you talking about the Passover Seder.”
“I’m asked that question a lot, so I’m prepared to answer. In fact I wear this mitzvah so others will know I’m of the Jewish faith and not a Christian.”
“Well, I guess I shouldn’t feel so bad for asking you.”
“My grandmother has Native American ancestry. And oddly enough one of the items in her kitchen was a seven-candle menorah. She would tell me, “Find a good Jewish man, and get married.” I thought, “I’m a black woman. How am I going to find a Jewish husband?”
My instructor commented, “What does being part Native Indian has to do with being a Jew?”
Thursday, March 31, 2011
My Ghetto Comment
My friend Lisa was upset about the flippant way the youth of today use the word ‘ghetto.’ In fact, comments like, “She’s so ghetto,” changes the depth of the word for people who lived and suffered under horrendous conditions. Lisa asked the people that follow her blog what they thought about this new usage of the word ‘ghetto.’ With some changes, this was my comment.
Wanting to validate my thoughts, I looked up the word ghetto. Webster dictionary defines ghetto as “1 a quarter of a city in which Jews were formerly required to live. 2 a quarter of a city in which members of a minority group live, especially because of social, legal, or economic pressure.”
An image of the word ‘ghetto’ conjures an Americanized picture in my mind. In western America, one would think of ghettos after visiting some of the reservations where incarcerated Native Americans lived. If you go to Chicago and see the Projects, you would think of ghetto. In all parts of the States, there are areas for indigent people and other areas for the very poor. It is not by choice they live this way but because of ‘social, legal, or economic pressure.’
As a young child, I remember hearing the elders speak of the people in ‘the bottoms,’ a part of my hometown that was occupied by those less fortunate than those who lived in the better part of the city. Lest not forget the phase, ‘they came from the other side of the tracks.’ My community held those people of color, who found their way out of their situation to live the good life, in high esteem. While other people continued to settle in the ghetto for lack of hope.
The expression ‘you can take a person out of the country but you can’t take the country out of a person’ applies here. The environment a person grows up in forms a certain way of thinking and reacting, and becomes a part of that person. No matter how much pretense a person displays in public, it is in private the baggage of the past can appear. In other words, no matter how much the person tries to leave old ways behind, the successful people still feels where they came from. Of course, there are exceptions to the rule.
Regardless of what Webster says, or the labels ghetto implies about people, the word ghetto is nothing but a product of it’s time. A book by Joyce Sequichie Hifler called A Cherokee Feast of Days wrote, “Whatever becomes second nature to us has first caught on in our thinking, only to operate, in time, without thinking at all.
No, I don't care for the flippant used of ghetto. It has negative images attached. As Joyce wrote, “We have to fight habit with habit, deliberately changing one thought, one action, for another. If we simply try to remove the habit without filling the vacuum, we are opening the door for more and worse to come in.” I wonder how ‘ghetto’ will be used in the future.
Wanting to validate my thoughts, I looked up the word ghetto. Webster dictionary defines ghetto as “1 a quarter of a city in which Jews were formerly required to live. 2 a quarter of a city in which members of a minority group live, especially because of social, legal, or economic pressure.”
An image of the word ‘ghetto’ conjures an Americanized picture in my mind. In western America, one would think of ghettos after visiting some of the reservations where incarcerated Native Americans lived. If you go to Chicago and see the Projects, you would think of ghetto. In all parts of the States, there are areas for indigent people and other areas for the very poor. It is not by choice they live this way but because of ‘social, legal, or economic pressure.’
As a young child, I remember hearing the elders speak of the people in ‘the bottoms,’ a part of my hometown that was occupied by those less fortunate than those who lived in the better part of the city. Lest not forget the phase, ‘they came from the other side of the tracks.’ My community held those people of color, who found their way out of their situation to live the good life, in high esteem. While other people continued to settle in the ghetto for lack of hope.
The expression ‘you can take a person out of the country but you can’t take the country out of a person’ applies here. The environment a person grows up in forms a certain way of thinking and reacting, and becomes a part of that person. No matter how much pretense a person displays in public, it is in private the baggage of the past can appear. In other words, no matter how much the person tries to leave old ways behind, the successful people still feels where they came from. Of course, there are exceptions to the rule.
Regardless of what Webster says, or the labels ghetto implies about people, the word ghetto is nothing but a product of it’s time. A book by Joyce Sequichie Hifler called A Cherokee Feast of Days wrote, “Whatever becomes second nature to us has first caught on in our thinking, only to operate, in time, without thinking at all.
No, I don't care for the flippant used of ghetto. It has negative images attached. As Joyce wrote, “We have to fight habit with habit, deliberately changing one thought, one action, for another. If we simply try to remove the habit without filling the vacuum, we are opening the door for more and worse to come in.” I wonder how ‘ghetto’ will be used in the future.
Monday, March 14, 2011
The Train
You’ve never seen America until you’ve seen it by train. Observations of the landscape viewed from the large windows of each car let’s you see the beauty of this country frame by frame. The settings of the mountains, meadows, rivers, and farmlands with rolls of grain open eyes to a simpler life. Reality in secluded places not accessible by any means, other than the trains, exposes a style of living seldom experienced by those in the city or suburbia.
The narrow gauge trains of the west journey through much of the country’s most majestic places. Slowly the trains wind their way around curves, embracing the hills and mountains as they travel through some of the most beautiful unseen topography. The view is a picture of the wonders of nature, worthy of any canvas or digital photograph. As these trains trek over the terrain, they take you to the next mountain that’s just as majestic as the last.
On most trips in the west, you could cross bridges that are a football field long with an eight hundred foot drop. The scenery over these tassels guarantees to leave you breathless as your aerial view outlines the beauty of places seen only from a train. Imagine trying to see a hundred foot waterfalls off well-defined mountains from an airplane.
These trips are great adventures to enjoy with your children or grandkids, giving all involved memories for a lifetime. From seeing the animals, both wild and domestic, as they feed near the forest edge, or watching them track across the fields. You can view all this from a coach with wide windows and air-conditioned comfort or from an open coach where the wind blows through your hair. Some caution here regarding the insects you may encounter at high speeds. On less commercial train trips, you can enjoy the reenactments of an old west with train holdups, guns fights, and banjo playing.
Of all the trains that have ever existed, I prefer the steam engines. To me the steam engines have a spirit. A breathe of steam from these locomotives exhales, and drives the pistols that turn the wheels through the landscape of unblemished lands, makes my heart flutter. The train accepts its momentum with each breath as it rocks me into a serene comfort, while it chases the rails down the road.
The large gauge trains travel the regular rail lines in the eastern part of the Unites States. Many of the trains of yesterday have disappeared. If it were not for a small group of dedicated people, who volunteer to keep these trains running, we would lose a piece of history. I’m thankful for these volunteers, who maintain the narrow gauge, and what is left of the wide gauge trains, because they do so for the love of these majesty iron horses.
The narrow gauge trains of the west journey through much of the country’s most majestic places. Slowly the trains wind their way around curves, embracing the hills and mountains as they travel through some of the most beautiful unseen topography. The view is a picture of the wonders of nature, worthy of any canvas or digital photograph. As these trains trek over the terrain, they take you to the next mountain that’s just as majestic as the last.
On most trips in the west, you could cross bridges that are a football field long with an eight hundred foot drop. The scenery over these tassels guarantees to leave you breathless as your aerial view outlines the beauty of places seen only from a train. Imagine trying to see a hundred foot waterfalls off well-defined mountains from an airplane.
These trips are great adventures to enjoy with your children or grandkids, giving all involved memories for a lifetime. From seeing the animals, both wild and domestic, as they feed near the forest edge, or watching them track across the fields. You can view all this from a coach with wide windows and air-conditioned comfort or from an open coach where the wind blows through your hair. Some caution here regarding the insects you may encounter at high speeds. On less commercial train trips, you can enjoy the reenactments of an old west with train holdups, guns fights, and banjo playing.
Of all the trains that have ever existed, I prefer the steam engines. To me the steam engines have a spirit. A breathe of steam from these locomotives exhales, and drives the pistols that turn the wheels through the landscape of unblemished lands, makes my heart flutter. The train accepts its momentum with each breath as it rocks me into a serene comfort, while it chases the rails down the road.
The large gauge trains travel the regular rail lines in the eastern part of the Unites States. Many of the trains of yesterday have disappeared. If it were not for a small group of dedicated people, who volunteer to keep these trains running, we would lose a piece of history. I’m thankful for these volunteers, who maintain the narrow gauge, and what is left of the wide gauge trains, because they do so for the love of these majesty iron horses.
Wednesday, April 14, 2010
That Time of Year
It was a cool sunny day and that time of the year when I enjoy looking out my bedroom window at the star and saucer magnolias. The first order of the day was to pour myself a cup of coffee, get dressed, and walk around my house to see which plants survived the winter. It was that time of year.
It never ceases to amaze me when something I planted the year before survives the winter, especially if I leave the plant in a pot. I’m excited on the last trip to the garden store in early fall to find some great buys. These deals are usually in a small corner of the store with an orange or yellow sign with the words Close Outs in bold letters.
Last year in late August, I found three summer-beaten and abused bushes in 1-gallon pots. Two Hydrangeas, of which one was woody -possibly zone 5 - and the other had variegated leaves, which I kept in my garage during the winter. The third plant was a Red Lake Currant bush - a zone 4 plant. The currant had a tag. Normally I stay away from zone 5 plants; those plants that will probably die when the temperature reaches -10 degrees. All things considered with Chicago weather, there are no guarantees that plants will survive even in zone 4, which is a minimum of -20 degrees. Zone 3 gives me assurance of seeing the plant again regardless of the weather.
I wrapped my hands around my coffee cup for warmth as I walked towards the largest garden in the front of my house. Clutching my cup with one hand, I reached to move some leaves and uncovered some Bells of Heaven. About 15” from the Bells is the Hellebores’ with pink and white flowers. Burned by the winter cold, it had survived its abuser.
It is from such sightings I draw my energy to garden. First a quick glance at my Spireas that screamed, “Give me a haircut.” I knew it was time to do some spring cleaning and cutting. Plus the weather was still cool enough to guarantee a successful transplant. However, before I do anything I wanted to sit in my swing and finish my coffee. From where I was sitting, I could see the robins busy flapping around in the birdbath. I still have problems understanding why birds take baths in 40-degree weather. Seeing the magnolias from a different perspective, I looked up into the sky and thanked God for letting me see such a beautiful day. As I took my last sip of coffee, I headed for the house to rid myself of my coffee cup in exchange for shears, a small rake, and a garbage bag.
I’m always so eager to start planting that I forget I’m not in Tennessee. This spring I promised myself I would wait before I started digging. In years passed I planted annuals only to find out that there was a perennial in that spot last year. This became apparent after reviewing last year’s garden pictures - I had murdered a plant after it had spent so much energy surviving Chicago’s weather. This year I will slow down and count the flowers I have, and only invite those one-season friends into my space if there is room.
It never ceases to amaze me when something I planted the year before survives the winter, especially if I leave the plant in a pot. I’m excited on the last trip to the garden store in early fall to find some great buys. These deals are usually in a small corner of the store with an orange or yellow sign with the words Close Outs in bold letters.
Last year in late August, I found three summer-beaten and abused bushes in 1-gallon pots. Two Hydrangeas, of which one was woody -possibly zone 5 - and the other had variegated leaves, which I kept in my garage during the winter. The third plant was a Red Lake Currant bush - a zone 4 plant. The currant had a tag. Normally I stay away from zone 5 plants; those plants that will probably die when the temperature reaches -10 degrees. All things considered with Chicago weather, there are no guarantees that plants will survive even in zone 4, which is a minimum of -20 degrees. Zone 3 gives me assurance of seeing the plant again regardless of the weather.
I wrapped my hands around my coffee cup for warmth as I walked towards the largest garden in the front of my house. Clutching my cup with one hand, I reached to move some leaves and uncovered some Bells of Heaven. About 15” from the Bells is the Hellebores’ with pink and white flowers. Burned by the winter cold, it had survived its abuser.
It is from such sightings I draw my energy to garden. First a quick glance at my Spireas that screamed, “Give me a haircut.” I knew it was time to do some spring cleaning and cutting. Plus the weather was still cool enough to guarantee a successful transplant. However, before I do anything I wanted to sit in my swing and finish my coffee. From where I was sitting, I could see the robins busy flapping around in the birdbath. I still have problems understanding why birds take baths in 40-degree weather. Seeing the magnolias from a different perspective, I looked up into the sky and thanked God for letting me see such a beautiful day. As I took my last sip of coffee, I headed for the house to rid myself of my coffee cup in exchange for shears, a small rake, and a garbage bag.
I’m always so eager to start planting that I forget I’m not in Tennessee. This spring I promised myself I would wait before I started digging. In years passed I planted annuals only to find out that there was a perennial in that spot last year. This became apparent after reviewing last year’s garden pictures - I had murdered a plant after it had spent so much energy surviving Chicago’s weather. This year I will slow down and count the flowers I have, and only invite those one-season friends into my space if there is room.
Monday, March 8, 2010
Judas' of God
Look at you! Judas’ of God
Your actions of faith are in vein
You’ve masked your true intent to serve
God sees your heartless shame.
Faith has given way to a faster culture
Compassion for people a thing of the past
Pretending to care has become hypercritical
Out reach to one’s brother blankly cynical.
When you give, you should give from the heart
Otherwise the act is soiled
When you help, help from the soul
Otherwise the deed is spoiled.
Look at you, Judas’ of God
Your iniquities will be your undoing
And the roles you play because of tradition
Will serve as your own blind conviction.
Your actions of faith are in vein
You’ve masked your true intent to serve
God sees your heartless shame.
Faith has given way to a faster culture
Compassion for people a thing of the past
Pretending to care has become hypercritical
Out reach to one’s brother blankly cynical.
When you give, you should give from the heart
Otherwise the act is soiled
When you help, help from the soul
Otherwise the deed is spoiled.
Look at you, Judas’ of God
Your iniquities will be your undoing
And the roles you play because of tradition
Will serve as your own blind conviction.
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