Sunrise Service
Growing up my church had a tradition of Easter sunrise services. To he honest I hated them. Not the services themselves, but the sunrise part. As a teenager, there were only two things that would get me up voluntarily before dawn. One was fishing, the other, hunting.
I am not sure it it was time in the Ari Force or just growing older that turned me into a morning person. Regardless of the cause the shift occurred. I am now up most always before the sun has clocked in for the day shift.
The church I am part of now does not provide sunrise services, so I conduct my own.
My cathedral lies in a small valley which adds to my sense of seclusion - a sense which I treasure in a world where we probably know too much about too many people.
My seat is in the balcony, and I make my way there under a vow of silence and a sense of reverence. My head remains bowed as I proceed, picking my steps out carefully to avoid unpleasant encounters with prickly neighbors. Because of the shroud of darkness I often need a flashlight to assist, unless the moon is full.
Taking my seat, I switch off the light and settle back to await the holy procession. I close my eyes to focus on faith and not sight. I silently take pity on those warm in their beds who will miss the pageant.
The procession nearly always begins the same way. Near silence of the battleship gray pre-dawn is broken by the call of a single worshiper as the sun summits the eastern ridge. I wonder if it it the same worship leader each time or if they take turns?
The choir quickly follows suit and the near silence of only moments before is replaced with a cacophony of Cardinal congregants, and the holy procession begins.
Sometimes the procession is lead by the docile and domesticated; sometimes by the wild and woolly.
The latter are the reason for my attendance this day. They assist me in practicing the sacraments of silence, solitude, and solemnity.
And sometimes...I am gifted with the opportunity to touch the created as a conduit to the Creator.
I am not sure it it was time in the Ari Force or just growing older that turned me into a morning person. Regardless of the cause the shift occurred. I am now up most always before the sun has clocked in for the day shift.
The church I am part of now does not provide sunrise services, so I conduct my own.
My cathedral lies in a small valley which adds to my sense of seclusion - a sense which I treasure in a world where we probably know too much about too many people.
My seat is in the balcony, and I make my way there under a vow of silence and a sense of reverence. My head remains bowed as I proceed, picking my steps out carefully to avoid unpleasant encounters with prickly neighbors. Because of the shroud of darkness I often need a flashlight to assist, unless the moon is full.
Taking my seat, I switch off the light and settle back to await the holy procession. I close my eyes to focus on faith and not sight. I silently take pity on those warm in their beds who will miss the pageant.
The procession nearly always begins the same way. Near silence of the battleship gray pre-dawn is broken by the call of a single worshiper as the sun summits the eastern ridge. I wonder if it it the same worship leader each time or if they take turns?
The choir quickly follows suit and the near silence of only moments before is replaced with a cacophony of Cardinal congregants, and the holy procession begins.
Sometimes the procession is lead by the docile and domesticated; sometimes by the wild and woolly.
The latter are the reason for my attendance this day. They assist me in practicing the sacraments of silence, solitude, and solemnity.
And sometimes...I am gifted with the opportunity to touch the created as a conduit to the Creator.
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