G.H. Morrison could have been speaking of the church of my childhood when he wrote, “I love old sanctuaries worn by the hand of time, and the grass-grown corners where our fathers sleep. I love to worship where there are rugged faces round me that have known what tears are; where I can bow in reverence before Almighty God. I love a church mellowed and grey with years.” I returned after decades to my home church and thought of Morrison’s description, “mellowed and grey with years.” I stood in the midst of an empty sanctuary, hours before service time, and my mind was caught in a flood of memories. I heard the laughter of children, the thunder of preaching, the lively music. I saw hands raised in worship and the wonder of lives transformed. I was suddenly aware of how that place shaped me, though I had not considered it before … how the music of the church first scored my heart … how the vaulted ceiling and soaring pipes of the organ caused you to look up … how my primal thoughts of God were formed in a place where God was not merely explained, but experienced. Everybody should revisit “Bethel” – that place, taken for granted, where God was working when we were yet unaware.
Reposted with permission from onehope.net.