
It’s early … faint with infrequent songs from the birds.
The sun, though still hidden behind a structure, providing shadowy light.
Dampness … on the chairs, the table, the leaves of the plants and trees, from the early morning rains.
Early Sunday morning.
The Sabbath.
The day of rest.
Since the arrival of the Pandemic, Sundays have been different. Sabbath has been different.
Worship has, largely, not been experienced in church buildings, not with congregations, nor large worship bands, nor communion under one roof. The Sabbath has been Sunday mornings and Saturday afternoons and Tuesday evenings. The Sabbath has been spent on the sofa with a cuppa, a pouch or two and pajamas. It has been spent on hikes in the mountains, over a book on the patio, making a puzzle on the table, listening to a podcast, talking to a long lost friend. Worship has been through the work of the hands of the Creator, in nature, or as we get to know our neighbors, or as we take someone a meal, or send money to an agency who brings His love to others, or share an online worship service with others who would not darken the door of a church.
We are the church.
We carry His message wherever we go.
Worship flows from us … like a the first morning …
the birds. the light. the rains.
All worshipping together …
because they just can’t not worship,
because we just can’t not worship.
Sunday morning has broken,
and just like that first morning, His creation (us included) are worshipping Him.
This is life.
This is Sabbath rest.
Morning has broken like the first morning
Blackbird has spoken like the first bird
Praise for the singing, praise for the morning
Praise for them springing fresh from the world
Sweet the rains new fall, sunlit from Heaven
Like the first dewfall on the first grass
Praise for the sweetness of the wet garden
Sprung in completeness where His feet pass
Mine is the sunlight, mine is the morning
Born of the one light, Eden saw play
Praise with elation, praise every morning
God’s recreation of the new day
-Eleanor Farjeon