Sunday morning is one of the most sacred moments of the week for me. Not just when we gather to worship. Although I love that of course. But I’ve also come to love so much the quiet moments when Sunday first starts. I walk through an empty church, turn the lights on, adjust the thermostat. I look at the pews and anticipate who will be here. I look at the empty spots of the people who have already passed on and are worshipping in glory today. The click of the lock, silent footsteps in the sanctuary, the hum of the lights as they warm up. Looking at the old pictures we put up of people who worship here decades ago. All of that has become so special to me. Each Sunday I wait in eager anticipation to see what God is going to do that week. I pray for people I hope to see here this morning. I pray that God would bring salvation, that God would restore marriages, bring wayward children back home, that God would bring life where it seems there is none. The past year has really taught me not to take anything for granted. This Sunday morning ritual feels like one of the holiest moments of my week for me. God’s great mercy he allows me to serve as an under-shepherd to this flock. Each week this reminds me that I am not the savior of this place. But all I can do is point people to the one who is. And I can’t wait to do that each week.