Church discipline is a thread that we can share stories. I will start by relating about a childhood experience. In the beginning, BAC (before air conditioning), the churches were generally built a bitter higher than most of them in these modern times. This was so for a couple reasons, one was that some would have a "fellowship hall" under the sanctuary, and another was so that when the windows were opened the breeze would be cooler and less street dusty. It came to pass on one hot summer Sunday morning, that I became fidgety on the hard wooden seat and began to play with my shoes, the song books, the funeral parlor fan on a large Popsicle stick, and even crawled down to the floor to see what everyone's legs looked like. I was unaware that folks around me might think it inappropriate to crawl under the seat to peer back at them. Dresses were a lot longer then, and I wasn't at the age where I would have cared to look anyway. I was more intent on socks, shoes, and saggy hose. And especially, I wanted to see if my playmate and heart throb, Kat (short for Kathleen) would slip a look at me from her perch some rows back. My father was a man of great size and few words. When he poked his finger at you, it came with a look that could freeze water in the hot July summer. He pointed to me. He pointed to the bench. I knew what that meant. Being defiant, I ignored the non-verbal instructions rather choosing to enjoy the pleasures of sin for a season. Leaning toward me, he motioned with the sternest stare, cleared his throat, and "hitched his belt." Hitching of that large belt was the great sign of impending doom, a tremendous prophetic sign that if I didn't get settled in the seat, great wrath would descend. But being obstinate, and taking pleasure in thinking that at church he wouldn't do anything to embarrass himself, I played the fool. Suddenly, a massive hand grabbed mine. I was lifted off the floor. No amount of repentance was going to stand in the way of judgment. Great strides took him to the door with me dangling like one displaying a fine fish catch on the string as I was motivated along by the sheer mass that I might fall and be crushed by his feet. Outside we went, down the steps, around the corner, to the bushes under the open windows. My dad could hear me - the preacher preached louder. The people could hear me - the preacher preached even louder. The preacher could hear me - he held his notes close and preached even louder. The neighboring Presbyterians could hear me and peered out the windows in rows of hats, gloves and scarves - I don't know what their preacher did. What I do know is that when my dad finished, we marched back into the church and I was none to gently set down. I didn’t look at Kat. I was embarrassed. My brothers and mom were looking at us, and she smiled at dad. I was embarrassed. Everyone was smiling, giving my dad the thumbs up. I was embarrassed. And the preacher.....He continued preaching, smiled, chuckled, and gave my dad a thumbs up. I was embarrassed.