This Sunday morning, my sanctuary is my backyard. My sermon is the various bird chirps, squaws, hums, and tweets that fill the vast Maple tree hovering like a huge, green tent over my yard. My pew is a black wrought-iron chair shaped to my body with a feather pillow folded against my lower back. My brethren are three lazy West Highland White terriers and one lazy Shetland Sheepdog. For the most part, they lounge beneath my wrought–iron chair with no conscious whatsoever. They are the experts, not regarding spiritual things, but regarding guilt-free living. The sermon today is guilt-free living.
Not that long ago, I could not skip church without feeling guilty. Not long ago, to skip church for anything other than a bedridden condition was reckless, naughty negligence. An encompassing need to justify my delinquency badgered my thoughts. I don’t do that as much now.
Now I realize how 31 years in controlling churches seriously confused me. Now I am unraveling. Now I know that “whatever the law says, it says it to those who are under the law” (Romans 3:19).
I am no longer under the law. And that is a big HALLELUJAH!