In the stillness of the sanctuary, a voice boomed.

"The word of God does not say you have to get your life in order before you come to Him." This evangelical voice echoed to me as if from a long distance, although, note, I was sitting only a few pews away. "The word of the Lord says that, 'While we were yet sinners, Christ died for us.' The word of the Lord says--" and here, the pitch in his voice rose considerably, this faceless man in the Brooks Brothers suit "--says that Christ ate with sinners! Tax collectors!"

A sleepy "amen" echoed in the rear, and it lacked enthusiasm as much as the voice from the pulpit was overflowing with it. The amiable agreement blended with the buzzing flies as soon as it was uttered, swallowed by the air around him because it lacked the energy to break free. Sunlight flooded through the stained glass, illuminating the dust in its colored rays. The open door ushered in pools of morning light, casting the room in a lazy amber.

"Yes, brothers and sisters," the voice continued, "you don't need to be pure to come to Christ!" I watched the preacher as though in a dream, and a my mind birthed a most wonderful idea in its depths, much like sea creatures stirring to the surface after a long winter. His words became clearer to me as I turned my head to him, and began to listen.

"Jesus came back to heal the sick, my friends! He did not come for the righteous; he did not come for the religious; he did not come for the spiritual! He came for sinners!"
Sinners.

"He came to set us free! He came so that we may love God and know God." The faceless man in the pulpit leaned forward, as if to share a secret, and the congregation remained unresponsive. "He came back so that we may be forgiven, brethren. For God so loved . . ."

I faded away again. I drifted along the thread of the wonderful thought of forgiveness. I stared at the stained glass depiction of Jesus on the cross. Light filtered through, staining the chapel in color. Was this forgiveness? What did forgiveness entail? As I contemplated, the blazing shadows moved slowly with the sun, and the voice droned on some distance away. The air conditioning hummed insistently, but many people fanned themselves with their open Bibles; I wondered if these people were forgiven, and if this was all that forgiveness meant to the saved. The voice in the pulpit had been filled with energy; I pondered the source of the energy, if it was from God. The congregation sat stonily, pew after pew; the air was heavy around us, like a thick wall. The vitality of the voice was reflected back onto the preacher by the burdened air and never reached the people it was intended for. Instead of common worship, congregation and preacher were spinning in separate universes, spiraling downward in an infinite cycle. The audience of the preacher knew forgiveness, and all it required of them was sitting in this sanctuary, Sunday after endless Sunday of this burdened air.

When the voice was almost ready to cease, a soft piano began to play. The faceless man seemed unaware of the music, which was close to beautiful but actually perverse. The notes played faded into the sticky air as the sermon had, but suddenly the voice itself had become clear and loud.

"You can come to Jesus today with your burden." As the voice mingled in my mind I rose mechanically, moving down the pews. Every movement was pronounced, and all in the slowest of motion. I embodied the spirit of youth; wrinkled faces turned to me as I walked toward the altar, nodding slowly and closing their eyes. Curiously, the voice of the faceless preacher faded out as I neared him, and he himself turned to follow me with his gaze as I passed him. All eyes were on me as I knelt at the altar, and yet, their minds were elsewhere. I brought my hands up before me in a position of prayer, with a feeling of being trapped underwater.

Forgiveness. I felt both light and peace snake up the thread of that thought. I heard dimly the voice; "ask, and you shall receive." My lips moved and my eyelids slipped forward, blinding me.

"God, please forgive me, for I am forever taking my leave of you and your people this morning. Amen."