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    In 1948 a tornado ripped through our town and leveled Saint Mary’s Catholic Church, where my family worshiped. It was the only church destroyed in town, which caused some of our town’s more doctrinaire Protestants to speculate that God’s judgment might somehow have been involved. This was back in the days before ecumenism and tolerance. When my Baptist father married my Catholic mother, families on both sides were aghast. My great-uncle warned my father of the Catholic conspiracy to wed Baptists, bear their children, and give the kids to the Pope. I’m certain there were days when my father prayed mightily for the Pope to take us away.

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    This ecclesiastical crisis was resolved when my father elected to dispense with religion altogether and stay home to read the Sunday paper. Mom rousted us out of bed and marched us over to the Catholic church. Saint Mary’s didn’t have a nursery as churches do now, so we kids would squeeze into a pew next to Mom. Five against one. My sainted mother would kneel to pray, clasp her hands, and close her eyes. We children would sag in the pew, envying our pagan neighbors.

    One Sunday morning as my mother was deep in prayer, I slipped from the pew, went next door to Pleas Lilly’s gas station, and spent my offering money on penny candy. I made it back just in time for Father McLaughlin’s sermon, which was about a husband and wife who had lied to the church and spent their offering money on themselves. When they walked into the church, God struck them dead. As I was listening, the Tootsie Rolls congealed in my stomach, an immovable mass, a testament to sin and disobedience. I fell to my knees beside my mother, endeavoring to pray my sorry soul out of perdition. Though I have prayed many times since that day, I can’t recall another time I beseeched the Lord with such passion.

This, he explained, is why the devil never sleeps.

    Later that afternoon, I confided my sin to my brother Glenn, who pointed out that God often waits to smite us until we are sleeping. This, he explained, is why the devil never sleeps. This seemed consistent with what I already knew to be true; I had once heard a TV preacher thunder that the devil never slept. And that night, neither did I. I lay awake repeating over and over again the phrase “I love Jesus. I love Jesus. I love Jesus,” hoping God would think twice before killing someone with such sweet praise on his lips.

    When morning dawned, I prized the tender mercies of God as never before. And I have, since that time, believed with all my being that were I to stray from God’s house to sin, the pathway home would lead always to an open door. Such deep consolation does faith provide.

    This gospel of the open door in no way originated with me. Jesus once told of a son who had wandered away to sin and returned home to love, of one whose self-trust turned to father-trust. “I will arise, and I will return to my father,” said the prodigal.

    And the son arose and walked homeward toward a father

...whose eyes were peeled for a son’s return,

...who kept a robe pressed and ready,

...who had the family ring shined and polished, and

...who had the homecoming meal at oven’s door. Such deep consolation does faith provide.