Flash Fiction / Church-Hopping
Around this time of year I like to church-hop. I never go for the service but I like to show up during open-hours when the choirs practice. I know some of the singers from school, town, through mutual friends. A few nights ago I was nodding off in the second-to-last pew in St. Thomas’s, one of the larger churches I frequent. Its stoic spirals and steeple remind me of the past. Two stained-glass windows—which were situated at opposite ends of the church and comprised nearly all of the wall on each side—were painted to resemble large hands. I once read that over time stained-glass windows flow downward, i.e., the glass at the bottom becomes thicker as the glass at the top becomes thinner. I often wonder how long it will be before the hands collapse onto the congregation and if I will be there. As the choir begins practicing, I wonder why this choir’s rendition of “Carol of the Bells” sounds exactly like that of St. Peter’s church, and every other church. Why you can pick fifty people off the street with even rudimentary vocal coaching, make them sing “Carol of the Bells,” and it will sound like any other fifty.
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