Title: “The Law & the Lift”
I knew I had them at “mildewed tent of the tabernacle.” Their eyes glazed over, not in boredom—no, no—but in holy awe. You don’t survive a three-hour sermon on the combined ceremonial intricacies of Leviticus and Deuteronomy unless you’re being spiritually fed. Or held hostage. But semantics.
I strutted up to the pulpit that morning with the zeal of a Levitical goat and the audacity of a Deuteronomist tax assessor. I had charts. I had hand-drawn maps. I even had a replica ephod I made from my grandmother’s curtain tassels. The congregation? Rapt. Silent. Possibly unconscious, but respectfully so.
Hour one: I broke down the entire burnt offering system, complete with sound effects. A young child wept. I assume it was out of conviction.
Hour two: I marched them through the moral precepts of Deuteronomy like Moses on caffeine. I saw a deacon attempting to gnaw through a hymnal—clearly overwhelmed by truth.
Hour three: I turned inward—spiritual application time. I cried. Someone else cried. Might have been from dehydration. But still, I pressed on.
And then—it happened.
A rustling in the pews. Movement. They rose as one man. Unity. Revival. I nodded sagely, arms outstretched like a triumphant priest. “Yes! Yes, saints, arise! Let the law live within you!”
And arise they did. Six elders hoisted me like the Ark of the Covenant. Oh, how they rejoiced! The organ wheezed, the fans whirred, Sister Myrtle mumbled something about “eternal deliverance” (from what, I didn’t ask). They bore me through the sanctuary with more zeal than choreography.
It wasn’t until we passed the vestibule that I realized something was amiss.
We did not turn back toward the pulpit. We did not descend into the baptismal for a celebratory dip. No, brethren—we turned toward the parking lot. Fast.
There was no parade. No chariots of fire. Only a stern silence and the faint clatter of potluck trays as I was ceremoniously deposited outside next to the recycling bin. The lid of which, I might add, was open—perhaps symbolically.
The door shut behind me with a finality that would’ve made Ezekiel nervous.
I stood there for a moment, still clutching my ephod, and wondered if perhaps I’d gone too deep. Too holy. Too… legislative.
Then again, Moses was exiled too.
But I’ll be back next Sunday—with charts on skin diseases and a full breakdown of the year of Jubilee.
They won’t see it coming.
