Delycia and I will be worshipping today in our beautiful backyard church. The door is our back door, which opens into a sanctuary of blessed sights and sounds. There are no stained-glass windows, but the sunlight on the leaves and limbs of the trees lends a consecrated look to our special place of worship. The floor is just the good grass of springtime, and the pews are the lawn chairs that let us relax while we worship. Of course, we can also worship by wandering through Delycia’s hallowed flower gardens, or simply by standing still and listening to the choirs of birds and feeling the flow of the always ceremonious breezes. We worship no god who stays up in the sky, no deity who decrees that some will suffer in hell. In our flowery backyard church, we choose to honor the sacredness that’s all good and in everything – in shaking leaves, in tulips turning in a puff of wind, even in the old stones that set the gardens apart. Our minister is sometimes a squirrel, sometimes -- like today -- simply a blue sky.
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