Have you ever observed the dawn’s early rise from the comfort of your bed, lingering under the warmth of the blankets, long after the sun has made a brilliant debut?
This is my church and I worship these moments from the altar of my bed, believing at times, the aging French doors are my stained glass tribute to our loving creator.
My view of the courtyard is framed by an enormous white arbor, built by Larry and his Dad some fifteen summers ago, and now covered with a rather robust wisteria. I observe a variety of birds perched on the telephone wire that runs along the back fence, and I am compelled to praise God for this blessed glimpse of life.
I know I should be at church but I can’t seem to convince myself to get out of my soft pew. How we live out the mystery of our faith is as individual and unique as we are a people.
I for one am a disastrous Catholic, choosing a quiet morning worshiping God in bed to the chaos of Sunday Mass.
I confess most sins silently in the privacy of my room, only offering the condensed version to our local priest. I love the biblical stories but more often than not I long for a more mature theology, which is inclusive, and less restricting.
I do not believe God gives a shit about doctrine, I think God will look into the depths of my heart, and God will see me most clearly in my acts of love. Makes me wish I wasn’t so selfish and self-absorbed.