I never knew exactly what my sermon would be. In my church, I chose the sermons, sermons just for me. A glorious treasure hunt as I would roam or stalk, excavate and uncover, reveal or discover, finding inspiration as it found me. Guided by curiosity and availability, by ever changing interconnections never quite exactly the same. I might have a theme to which I’d temporarily sacrifice my volition. But always I’d be rewarded with leads, avenues of exploration, journeys of being and culminations of self-discovery as an ever-ongoing grail of inner transformation.
My sermons would encompass vast fields of activity, entire continents of mood and emotion, galaxies of possibility and wonder. I would be enthralled by the insatiable excitement those unintended preachings generated. Perpetually my soul was left wanting More, always eager for More. Never never enough.
Preachers came and went, each one extracted of their very marrow. They left their own souls with me. Some had multiple sermons, many only one. The magic of those sermons, oh the magic of those sermons. I can’t recall ever being disappointed. I would take them home with me to pour over them every spare moment I had, literally. Stolen retrievals of otherwise dead time all filled by snatches of marvel. Any waiting of any kind an opportunity to revel. I would become enveloped until the mystic hours of silent night. The still bliss of post-midnight worship serving as benediction. At least one sermon completed before time and energy yielded from reluctance to necessity. On really glorious days, wholly free blessings, two, maybe three.
Sermons were restricted somewhat within a range, but I did not mind, my church was beautiful, if small. Holding the promise of the universe in every corner, every pew, every reverential entombment. A wondrously delicious church with many many precious corners. Merely being at church, moving through the pews of knowledge, the icons of knowing, the potentials of possibility, was enough. I would glean glimpses of previously imbibed sermons along my explorations, a re-awakening and re-kindling of that sacred flame which had so fortuitously been evoked in me. Me, an initiant to More. A mere glance of remembrance enough to re-ignite still lingering embers of already-absorbed magic.
My church required nothing of me, asked nothing, merely a responsibility to the sermons. That expectation to an initiate a reverent care taken as a profound trust and gift. A fabulous fortune bestowed on all, yet availed by few. Perhaps indicative of the greater reality we assume operates according to our beliefs, but which does not.
My church also a refuge, a haven from the constraints and limitations of the imagine-less world. A sacred space where the profane did not venture as they feared that which could reveal the very hollowness they needed to fill, but attempted to pretend out of existence. In my church I could BE, I could BE anything, anywhere, anytime. Once released from the constraints of self-conception through repeated sermons of exemplified example, a never-ending flight of freedom ensued.
My church encouraged this adoption of new and different Ways-of-Being. For my church is the church of churches. Through my sanctum, I immersed in all the other churches, in every aspect of them. Finding their beauties and their flaws. I found churches most never knew existed, a particularly special thrill. I was extended in my church. I grew there, a growing which helped me, helped me never fully grow up. For my home-of-the-heart has a way of keeping me young. My soul-space filled me with spirit, with the spirit of adventure, the spirit of love, the spirit of knowledge and bestowed on me the rewards of perpetual-youth. In me was kindled a thirst for wisdom, for the sublime, for the profound, not to mention the transcendent, and my special love, the More…
In my church, the churches of my local library and bookstore, I found all this, and much More.