This is a cathedral of rebellion.
Others would like to control it,
From outside to in.
They think it should be thin,
Slim and graceful.
They expect artful buttresses,
Careful, clean lines of architectural wonder.
I ponder that these choices aren’t my own.
It has grown.
It began as a tiny chapel.
Space for worship of just one.
First come, first served.
A queue formed and it became a church.
A place for congregation,
A communal space,
It was shared,
And decisions began to be made.
When it grew,
Swelled,
Expanded,
It became the responsibility of many.
It was run by committee,
And discussed at length,
At leisure,
The doors and windows,
Entrances and exits,
Every inch of the inside and out.
It became their responsibility.
It became theirs,
Everybody’s.
Stuffed with worshippers,
All carrying their humble opinions like concealed weapons,
And it became their cathedral,
Home to their worship alone,
They took posession.
It was their profession,
To endlessly analyse,
Every aspect up for discussion.
The images in the windows,
The placing of the fripperies just so,
What can be kept inside and held on to,
What must be expelled,
And so it rebelled.
It took the body politic,
It ran into the night,
Reclaimed itself and stands alone.
Strong and unsupported.
It writes its own rules,
Is decorated how it wishes,
Belongs only to itself.
This is not some precious temple.
This is a cathedral of rebellion.
This is mine.
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