Chris Duffett © 2010
Sunday morning and two brothers struggle to keep up with their dad, They trot behind their marching hero, who is in urgent pace, Quickly up the aisle closer towards the beeping, busy check outs. A harsh word and now the young legs canter close behind, Despite their daddy being weighed down, burdened by two over large crates of caustic beer. His t-shirt declares ‘also available in sober.’ It feels like these aisles are a million miles away from the ones lined with hard wooden pews or padded chairs, of kids songs and Jonah and the whale.
Sunday morning and multitudes scurry, locked out of the Sabbath celebrations. They are barred through their lack of know-how, know-what and when, hangover-yawns or too busy, or can’t be bothered or, or, or, Irrelevancy cloaks the stone cold spacious sanctuaries, Of course they are welcome but the invitation goes un-said and any welcome is hidden away, quiet and only hushed to those who already are in.
Sunday morning, people, people everywhere but not a quenching drink of the Spirit in sight. Sunday Sabbath day, shopping day, busy day, kids driving me up the wall day, chasm from 10.30 family service day. Yet, how will the sacred scarred healing hands reach out to those who are bereft of Messiah comfort unless Saints meet, Face to face with the public, in public in the parks, shops or street?