Sunday morning.

Somewhere under a cathedral ceiling the choir is singing an old song. Out here under the open sky the choir sings the oldest song.

Somewhere under a cathedral ceiling, a “contemporary worship team” is singing a new song. Out here under the open sky, the choir sings the newest song.

The angels sing softly on the wind, they roar like thunder on the water.

They’ve sung from the beginning.
Unceasing.
They’re still singing now.
They’ll sing until the end. Maybe even longer.
I worship out here with color, because I usually sing out of key.

When I am finished, I will go sing badly in the cathedral. I enjoy those songs too. Or perhaps I won’t sing at all, but still I will hum along.

But one thing is certain- on this Sunday I will go at night, because the morning is full of light.