Sunday morning should be a time for meditation, reflection and worship of all that is holy. By "holy" I mean, sacred, blessed and life-giving. It is a time to give thanks for all of life's natural wonders and all of humankind's gifts and talents. So perhaps that is why sometimes I just stay home and quietly, in my own fashion, ponder and wonder. It is in the quiet that small still voice can be heard. But, I admit, it is not the only place it can be heard.
When I go to a place of worship, I go loaded up (or down) with expectations. I expect everyone will be there for the same reason. Often, this is not the case, to which I allow myself to become critical and judgemental. That, I know, is on me. Tune it out. Listen to the music. Hear the words of scripture and the sermon. This is difficult, if not impossible, in a room filled with people who have come into the sanctuary much as if it were their living room or an open park.
This is when I am reminded that Jesus himself was never in a church. He never advocated a church structure such as we find today. He was a take it to the street kind of guy. Imagine, calling Jesus a "guy"! Blasphemy?
Anyway, sometimes I just think I need to be with myself and dwell on the living Spirit, much like I am doing here in these words. Lest this become a sermon, I must draw myself up short here, and give the caveat that it is my way of justifying not going to church this morning. The Holy is in the garden and in the wind. It is in the sound of the birds and gentle breathing of a sleeping dog. And, yes, it is in the everyday hubbub of life as we know it. This Sunday morning, it seems, I just needed to remind myself of that.