Sunday Morning

     It's Sunday morning and if I can get past the enemy's whispers and actually get out of bed to go to church, I then have to decide who is going to dress me.  I could put on the armor of God, but I choose to let the enemy provide my attire.  First he pastes a fake smile on my face and draws on what I call "laugh lines" but they are truly battle scars.  He wraps me in duct tape of unforgiveness, and then I slide my legs through the holes in the bottom of my box of guilt and shame and slip my feet into the cement blocks of my past.
     I eat my breakfast of lies and doubt, before I put on my coat of depression, negativity, sadness and anger stitched together with unbelief.  I throw on my hat of self loathing and out the door I go.
     I find my favorite seat when I get to church and quickly slip into it, because it's just to difficult to visit with others bound up in my outfit.  I notice the lady in front of me passing out gloves of gossip to her small group of friends and I feel my necklace of judgement tighten around my neck.
     The pastor takes his seat up front and opens with prayer.  He asks God to put on our glasses of truth and I notice suddenly I can see others in various stages of the enemy's dress.  Some only have on the duct tape and others are free to move around in their box of guilt.  A few are just as bound in the coat of depression or only wearing the hat of self loathing.  I realize there are very few completely free of Satan's designer clothing who have chosen to put on the armor of God and I wonder if I can ever be like them.  I notice each of them have had their necklace of judgement replaced with beautiful beads of grace and mercy.   As the pastor starts speaking, I see a piece of duct tape fall from his elbow and a chunk of cardboard box slide to the floor. 
     The pastor invites the children's choir up front to entertain us with a few songs and I notice how free from the enemy's clothing they are except for two little girls and one boy who are already wearing a box of guilt and I wonder who helped them get dressed
     As the children leave the room and we open our bibles, I am surprised to find an arsenal of tools inside.  A gold pair of scissors, a box cutter and a chisel are neatly lined up on the pages.  As the pastor speaks, I notice a few people use their tools to cut away tape or slice their way out of their box.  With tears streaming down his face one man chips away at his cement shoes and a "free" gentleman moves to sit next to him as support.  Watching others breaking free I throw off my hat of self loathing and begin to cut away my duct tape.  I can feel my heart growing in my chest as we sing songs of worship and cut away at our outfits.  I find a freedom in the umbrella of hope the pastor is erecting over those of us who choose to let him. 
     When the service is over, I watch the pastor reach down and pick up the piece of duct tape that had fallen from his arm at the beginning of the service and place it back on his elbow.  Several people do the same before making their way back to their cars.  I notice the older gentleman who has finally chiseled his way out of the cement shoes of his past, is dancing.  He sings, skips and spins in circles as his body is lighter than it has been in too many years.  I can't help but smile as I look down at the mess I have left on the floor.  I decide to leave most of it there and follow him from the building. 
     I'm glad I got out of bed and came to church.  I feel a sense of comradery.  I watch the pastor laugh with a few of his friends and I realize the piece of duct tape on his arm adds an attractiveness that the church leaders from my youth did not have.  He is one of us.  No better, no worse.  We are all equal in our various states of dress or should I say, undress?  As I walk through the parking lot, I notice a man scrambling around picking up discarded pieces of tape and other clothing.  He puts them on his own body and I feel sorry for him.  Why would he choose to carry other's bondage?
     A group of undescribably beautiful people who I believe are angels move through the church and the parking lot picking up the left behind pieces, while singing in voices like I have never heard.  Two of them whisper in the man's ears who has chosen to wear other people's garbage, while one angel leads the pastor to the gentleman.  They sit together on the curb to have a conversation.  I see the pastor hand the gentleman a bible as I pull away and I say a little prayer for both of them. 

Jesus love you!