When I Ask Myself, “Why Do I Still Go To Church?”

One of my favorite parts of a great movie involves a little kid sitting on his tricycle at the end of a short driveway, somewhere in suburbia. Then, Mr. Incredible, depressed and discouraged from his recent lack of involvement in crime fighting and the way he has been shoehorned into an average, ordinary life, arrives home and climbs out of his tiny little car. He looks over his shoulder and sees that boy on a tricycle, staring.

“What are you waiting for?” he demands, still in a foul mood at the boring turn his life has taken.

“I don’t know,” the kid replies, then shrugs and admits, “something amazing, I guess.”

That’s how I feel these days when I go to church.

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