A sermon preached @LCMontheHILL on John 3.14-21, Numbers 21.4-9, Ephesians 2.1-10
It’s where a thread of asphalt winds through the hills of western North Carolina, tying together an old white house on the top of a hill, an apple orchard, the family church, and its adjoined cemetery. It’s a thread that stretches back over centuries. This holy place is a place where as an eight year old I walked barefoot through the apple orchard. Meandering down the rows of trees, I made my way back to the big white house with its rusted tin roof, lost in the captivating world of my own imagination.
I felt the stiff blades of grass and the sun baked clay push back against my exposed feet, when suddenly something shifted and my imaginative world came crashing down into reality. Under foot something moved, something squirmed. My eyes shot to the ground. Pinned beneath my foot were scales, a white under belly, and frantic writhing. I don’t do snakes; not now and most certainly not as an eight year old. So, I can’t tell you for certain if I stepped on a snake or if it was a fire-breathing dragon. Rather, instinctively, I ran, making a bee line straight through the orchard. With each breath, my heart raced and my lungs stretched, until finally I collapsed onto the ground in a heap.
