It has been a year since I first decided to step out of traditional church and spend my Sunday mornings with Jesus at Starbucks. Over that year, “church” has had to move out of Starbucks for financial reasons and has often happened on the beach or my back porch. Another surprising turn of events was a Sunday in October when I woke up really missing traditional church and wanting to sit in a pew and sing old hymns with people around me who were also trying to love Jesus and be like him. I wanted to sit and listen to a preacher who had spent time the week before asking God what he should say. I wanted to walk out of church and see familiar faces and hear a sweet southern voice say, “Hello darlin’”. :) So, I went to church. And I have been going almost every week since then. And I love it.
The interesting thing is, my church is hundreds of years old. It has not really changed in the past few hundred years. So, since I decided church wasn’t for me, not much has changed either. They still sing the same songs, the same men preach on Sundays, and the same people sit in the same pews. The same old ladies wear their hats and the same old man in the third row falls asleep at 10:35 every week. The same people give me funny looks when I walk in wearing jeans. The same old lady grabs my hand and looks into my eyes in a way that makes me think she can see my soul and tells me it’s good to see me. Nothing about church has changed.
Imagine my dismay when I found that the thing that needed to change about church was...me. I shouldn’t have been surprised. There is no doubt in my mind that I am a colossal failure when it comes to living life the way it should be lived. I make a mistake on average about every 20 minutes...on a good day. I am not condemned by this inadequacy. On the contrary, it is this very inadequacy that makes me need Jesus and as long as he can handle it, so can I. But it was incredibly humbling to realize that the months that I spent complaining about and missing out on the gift of church were due to my own immaturity and not to any significant inadequacy or failure on the part of the group of people that call themselves “the church”. At 23, my regret over not having learned my lessons sooner grows stronger each year. As I look back over the last 5 years of my life, however, I can’t help but notice that it looks to me like a very well-written story. There are certainly chapters of peril, of near-death experiences, of heart break, frustration, and wanting to quit. But, like any good story, it is those very chapters that make the arrival, the very existence, of Prince Charming so necessary. I am grateful for the way my story is being written, even if I sometimes wonder at the author’s reasoning, because it is being written by someone I can trust. And so it is not with regret, but with gratefulness that I look back and realize that the lesson was worth the loss.
I still skip church on occasion and enjoy a quiet Sunday at the beach or in a coffee shop. The last year of seeking Jesus wherever I happened to be on a Sunday morning has taught me to be prepared to find him everywhere and I want to stay in shape. This is probably a good discipline, as I imagine his story may lead me to places where a traditional church has never existed and where community may be scarce. But, the absence of corporate worship in my life has also taught me its value and the privilege that is ours in being able to enjoy each other’s company on a Sunday morning, regardless of our various shortcomings. So, this Sunday will find me sitting on a red velvet pew, singing old hymns, and basking in the presence of Jesus and other people who love him. The story is still being written, the lessons are still being learned, but for now, this is where I am content.
My life is but a weaving between my God and me,
I do not choose the colors. He’s working steadily.
Often he weaves in sorrow and I in foolish pride
forget he sees the upper, and I the underside.
Not ‘til the loom is silent and shuttles cease to fly
will God unroll the canvas and explain the reason why
the dark threads are as needful in the skillful Master’s hand
as the threads of gold and silver in the pattern he has planned.
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