Don’t go gettin’ me wrong, I ain’t one to cast stones at a feller’s faith, but there’s a mighty peculiar thing about some churchgoin’ folks, ‘cludin’ me.
They’ll traipse into the pews every Sunday, singin’ hymns loud enough to wake a hibernatin’ bear and quotin’ Scripture like they’re auditionin’ for St. Peter. They’ve got the prayer book dog-eared, the preacher’s hand shook, and the collection plate polished with their generosity. But deep down, where the soul whispers truths the heart done ignored, there’s a gnawin’ emptiness—a suspicion that all their pious doin’s might be no more’n a well-dressed sham.
In its plainspoken way, the Good Book tells of a day when folks’ll stand before the Almighty, hollerin’, “Lord, Lord, didn’t we prophesy in Your name? Didn’t we cast out demons and work miracles?”
And the Master, with a look that’d pierce a man’s soul like a Pacific coast foghorn’ll say, “I never knew you, you actor.”
That’s the rub–ain’t it? The fear that all your churchly strut and sermonizin’ might’ve been a grand performance for a theater with no audience. It ain’t about religion, mind you, with its starched collars and polished customs.
It’s about repentance, the bone-deep, life-turnin’ repentance that costs a man somethin’. The kind that makes you leave your nets like Peter or climb down from your sycamore like Zacchaeus.
If a man’s soul is worth a plug nickel–he’d do well to ponder this dread before the curtain falls. For what’s worse than a life spent prayin’ to a God you ain’t never met?
The Old Blog in the Desert 
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