Twelve thousand feet.

I spend a good deal of my life here, suspended between heaven and earth. Two miles up - and still more blue above than below. But this, my most common of cruising altitudes, is surely high; High enough to out-run the reach of a bullet, and to clear most mountain peaks in this parcel of earth. It is high enough to escape the heartache below me too, and to gain a little perspective before heading down into it again.

Flying has been described as "hours and hours of sheer boredom punctuated by moments of sheer terror." There's some truth in the words, certainly for bush pilots whose "moments" can be rather spectacular if the weather or the airstrips are particularly bad, or if the goats are too stubborn to move. But in this juxtaposition of adrenaline and boredom, little is said about the "hours and hours." Probably because they make for less interesting stories. Most pilots thrive on the adrenaline.

My love for flying, from a child day-dreaming through the chain-link fence at the local airport, to a young man commanding a sophisticated machine with skill and a clenched jaw over Africa, has slowly progressed. I have come to appreciate the hours in between. I've thought that maybe this development is because my days are so busy, and the time flying from one place to another is some of the only rest I get. It may also have something to do with where I fly - hard places that bear so much resemblance to man's fallen nature and so little to the manufactured paradise of the world I come from. Part of me needs the rest. Part of me wants to escape.

This sort of escape is not to be shunned. Running from the rebellion is sure to land us in the Father's arms. And this is where I land, when I fly. My slice of sky at pressure-level one-two-zero is like a church, even as it is unlike one. The front pew has space for two but I usually sit alone. My seat is comfortable and comes with three-way adjustments and a five-point restraining harness. The preaching is quite good, and varied, as I load up sermons in an iPod and cram the earbuds under my headset. And the music is even better. Third Day often leads worship and, much to my delight, singing along is encouraged (so long as the microphone is flipped out of the way and I'm careful not to transmit over to Air Traffic Control.)

This church is a sanctuary without a building. No stained glass or carpets. No vaulted ceiling. Just a face full of sky and cloud as I lift up my head and sing, pray, think, ask, wrestle, rest, and sometimes cry. Could God be any closer at altitude than He is on the ground? Such thoughts remind me of the story of the first man in space, a Russian cosmonaut, who upon reaching orbit dutifully reported that God was nowhere to be seen and therefore must not exist.

Such an ideological stunt almost seems more childish than what I heard from Zachary, our five-year-old son, when I took him flying just last month. As we climbed above a layer of friendly-looking clouds, he perked up over the intercom. "Mom is this where God lives?" She tried to explain, but to no avail. "Mom, if we go higher can we go all the way to heaven?" We smiled as parents do, but Zachary was utterly mesmerized, little gears chugging away in his head... "how can I get closer to God?"

I imagine the dour-faced cosmonaut was thinking the same thing, regardless of his state-sanctioned media byte. It is a question in the heart of every man. The answer, of course, does not require an airplane. We all live our lives in the "in between." Between the breath of God and the stuff of earth. Between our precious soul and our troublesome biology. Divine providence and our human condition. Between Heaven and earth. From this standpoint, a sanctuary is any place that turns our eyes (and hearts) toward Heaven.

My airborne reprieve is a dwelling place for the moments, not a place to settle down. Part of me wants to keep on going up, like little Zachary, beyond the clouds and my ability to comprehend, all the way to heaven. And part of me knows there's something still to do down below in the dust. I have come to appreciate the moments suspended in Africa's wild blue. There God draws me to the sidelines of the battle, whispers encouragement, and nudges me back into the fray.

Down below I remember. "Closer to God" is not a place from which we measure a distance or an altitude. It is a heart from which we foster an attitude.