I realize “Church” conjures up some hard things for many people, but imagine an olive-skinned woman who hasn’t aged at all. Her mature face boldly stares into mine. We’re seated at a table and suddenly the ambient clatter dies like someone turned down the volume. While she’s absolutely timeless, there’s a weariness around her eyes. Her hands twist in her lap. It’s then I see the crusted dirt and blood all over what must have been a beautiful ancient linen robe. My heart sinks as I see the political stickers like bandaids holding rips closed. I want to ask her so many things but in my imagination, she sits there, mute. So I write her a letter.
Dear Church,
It must have been amazing back at the beginning. In fact, it’s all people want to talk about these days.
“Let’s go back to the days of Acts” they say. This is usually followed by “it must have been like a hippie commune”.
“If we can just get back to that simplicity…” My suspicion is people are the problem. Maybe not right away but eventually, we bring our baggage and muddy up the waters.
But back then? I bet it must have felt like being at the beginning of the greatest experiment of all time. Can this group of people from such vastly different cultures coexist? But the miracle of it all wasn’t the coexisting. It was the fact that they went beyond and showed the most incredible love for each other. I read the stories and still wonder at the layers of hardship and persecution they endured. Yet in my culture of 21st century America, the churches I’ve been part of snagged on the most imbecilic things.
However, the thing about time is that it never stops. Just as you never stopped. In fact, the more Rome (and many others after) tried to eradicate you, the faster you spread. Though Constantine had a strange effect. One would think that easing up on the persecution would make you flourish.
However, when following Jesus became easy, the Christians shifted from how to love and encourage each other to how can I be encouraged.
I’ve seen it in my own life. When the road is steep and filled with uncertainty, I find I can almost touch Jesus’ hand yet I’m concerned with helping and serving from that place of tenderness with Him. However, when a smooth path is laid out in front of me and it appears things are falling into place like I’d hoped, my focus shifts inward. It’s a disturbing trend. And our inherently self-focused culture can’t see the danger.
Nor the danger of history-blindness. Our modern era tends to go back only as far as the Reformation preferring to shroud everything prior in a dark morass of “Medieval Times”. As if the Church was hidden and Christ was silent. But you were indeed alive and women found their places serving, leading, and (dare I say it) preaching!
Over the 44 years I’ve spent with you, I’ve sampled a few of the denominations that splintered off from the Reformation.
There was the Bible Church. Some tend to be more Independent Fundamental than others. They’re very passionate independent people focused on evangelism.
Then there are the variety of Baptists. They can be very rigid and compartmentalized, equally focused on evangelism like the Bible churches. Underneath that passion, those in charge tend to be determined to keep power at the top.
The Non-Denominational variety? Let’s just call it what it is: Baptist 2.0 dressed up in trendy graphics with a noun-centered name generally meeting in a warehouse of some kind.
Currently I’m immersed in the Reformed variety – very historical and catechism-oriented. Kind and welcoming to a point, but as with any group, prefers those already inside. Though I have to say, out of all the versions I’ve been in, I prefer this one far above the others.
Small, midsized, or megachurch, it doesn’t matter. I’ve never truly belonged. I volunteered, led Children’s Ministry, taught Kindergarten, led Bible studies, and did all the things I thought I should.
Now as a woman in my mid-forties, I really don’t fit.
I’ve heard others talking as they walk away from you.
- “Church people are just awful.”
- “How can they claim to follow God when they act like that?”
- “A pastor is supposed to be a shepherd, not a wolf.”
- “I want nothing to do with organized religion. I can follow God on my own.”
I see the pain in her eyes as I’ve spoken these words. I’m not sure if it’s the ridiculously loyal oldest daughter in me, but I cannot walk away like others have. I might be holding on by my fingernails but I refuse to abandon her.
Now in my imagination, I see tears slide down her face as she looks down at her dingy robes. Her dark eyes plead with me. And suddenly John’s words in Revelation slam back in my mind about the pure white linen the Church clothes herself with being the righteous deeds of the saints. And the weight falls heavy on me.
I’m part of this. I lean over and peel off a star-spangled sticker and glimpse the widening tear underneath.
Caring for her is less about “making programs happen” and far more about showing The Real Jesus who touched the unclean and spent time with social pariahs.
It’s the preeminence of discipleship over sermons.
It’s inviting others over when your house isn’t cute or you don’t have a fancy meal planned because someone somewhere has to finally drop the mask so others can sigh “Oh yes. Me too.”
It’s saying “I don’t have all the answers, but I follow the One who does.”
It’s holding Yahweh’s words close and inviting others to join the journey.
It’s sitting with the disaster that is this world and lamenting together.
I reach out and take her calloused hands. I might never find my place, but because of the Bridegroom, she matters. She always has.
I simply know this is the next right step.
