Somewhere in the distance, I heard her beckoning, come home.
I don’t have a distinct moment that I can recount, but if there was just one carefully constructed memory of her, it would be seeing her standing tall and lavish as I crunched across the snow-packed ground that lay like a sheet of white paper beneath me. The moonlight dangled in the starry sky while the cold air lingered on my cheeks. My mom walked my two sisters and me across the way from our parsonage in the nearly empty, rural countryside of western Nebraska to our little sanctuary, I called, church.
There she stood. A building encased by glass windows whispering hope and salvation.
It was our weekly Bible study night with the added perk of aerobics with some Christian version of Jane Fonda on the VCR. I was five-years-old wearing a black leotard with tights, pink leg warmers sinking down to my ankles, and much-too-big snow boots that I drug through the thick snow.
There was one dim bulb outside the building. It was a dingy little excuse for a light as it reluctantly flickered above the door of the church eaves. But as blackness was encircling us, it was technically my only beacon of hope.
Just a few more steps, I’d whisper to myself.
We were almost there—the invitation to warmth, cookies, hot chocolate, and friends.
Although I was just a little kindergartner, the church was my first love and, honestly, my second home. Every day I pedaled my bike along the curvy little sidewalk around the church, telling stories. Preaching across the stage while healing the masses to an audience of none was a typical Saturday. I played games and memorized Bible scripture from down in the basement with other kids. I would often watch old men fall into a deep slumber on Sunday mornings somewhere during the ten-point message from my dad. Then, late in the evenings, I would sneak into my father’s office and stare at his Hebrew and Greek books, pretending I could read each ancient word. I touched the painting on the wall that showed the cross and heaven and imagined myself walking the narrow path. I stood in the long line for Sunday potlucks, stuffed bulletins early Sunday mornings, listened to Bible stories told using flannelgraph, sang songs like "He is a peach of a Savior, He's the apple of my eye..." and ate Nilla wafers like every little Awana Cubbie did. It was all so enchanting.
The church was home; she was my sanctuary.
However, the church was not perfect. In fact, it was never taught to me in that way. My parents did not pretend anything of the sort—they knew it was messy, and that was to be expected. They allowed me to stir and even tantrum my way through the rough edges of church life. Interestingly, it was the church where my life got honest. It’s where I often found my doubts and resentments. It’s where I saw the worst in me and even in others. It was also where I found answers and hope, reconciliation and healing.
Even though I accepted Christ during nearly every altar call because I was afraid of going to hell, the church received me and allowed me to sort through those fears together. Uncertainty was okay. Confusion was anticipated. Mistakes were expected. People from church walked with me through my sins and weights. They prayed me through the hard places and phases where I looked like I was probably struggling. They taught me what grace was, and they showed me what forgiveness looked like. They loved me despite it all. They didn't put me on a platform making all my sins and secrets known. Instead, they stood by me and continued to push me to become what God had called me into.
But this wasn't just my story. I watched others be held close, too.
It was here that a new post-partum mom who was still hardly sleeping at night brought her newborn for the first ceremonial act of welcoming them into our church family. Unkempt and matted hair fell on her brow as we promised to stand close to her in this sometimes unrelenting season.
It was here where tears were shed from women as my mom would pull them into her embrace. The pain was deep, but there was something in that hot crumb cake and loose-leaf tea that allowed hope to stay a bit longer.
It was here that my parents brought in teenagers and college students (often times ended up living with us) who had been abused, who found themselves pregnant, who seemed lost, or who had no place to go.
It was also here that people came as their final resting stop before being placed into the ground.
It was all mysteriously beautiful, complicated, and gritty.
The church was also difficult, sometimes hurtful, and even offensive.
However, the church didn’t promise to never hurt my feelings; it never vowed to coddle my ego; it certainly didn’t guarantee to rid me of my own pain. Although I’m almost sure that she made her attempts with at least trying. But, nevertheless, even in her lack of meeting all my expectations (legitimate or ridiculous), there was something utterly unbridled and gracious in this sanctuary I called the church, making it home.
Although the churches I have worked in and encountered throughout my 20+ years of local church ministry have changed, I can still feel the snow and the bitter chill like when I was five-years-old. I can feel the grit; the sting of the unrelenting blustery wind still cuts across my face as I sense another upset or heartache. But then it comes as it always does—the flickering light, the warmth, and the glow from beyond the door—the bride.
She is beholding. She is still my family.
Having faced heartache from the church, I’ve also been nurtured in the quiet embrace of her arms. Even though I’ve felt her abandonment, I’ve also felt the pursuit of her welcoming me home. Even when I’ve experienced her slam the door behind me, I’ve also been ushered into another. I’ve been stepped on by the church, but I’ve also been pulled out from under the trampling. It’s safe to say that I’ve also expressed my share of unkind words, and they’ve had theirs. I’ve done hurtful plays as I’ve felt the sting of theirs. I've had some questionable behavior and they've had theirs.
At times, it was a slow death of sorts, yet I marched the gravel road like it was my victory chant because this was where real life was happening. What else was I expecting here other than to encounter imperfect people and at the same time deal with my own issues? She never promised me a painless or unwounded life with her (this side of heaven), did she?
Through it all, I keep coming home to this tired cathedral—a bit worn down from the last, yet glorious all the same. Every story wielded by a hint of pain, a cup of healing, a balm of restoration, a tender embrace. It all makes us the bride. We bring our burdens to the altar, our weights at the feet of the cross, and we raise our feeble hands of desperation towards the heavens.
I still find myself here in the sometimes uncomfortable pew and yet recognize in the same breath that I have been seated in the most merciful place of all—the church—the bride of Christ.
As I recounted those many years ago, I can still sense her presence ever so clear on that cold and blustery night as I stood outside the church building. Finally, my mother opened the front wooden doors, and the soft glow from the room poured out and cascaded itself onto the snow, cutting right through the dark shadows and blackness of the night. I eagerly welcomed her warm and hospitable embrace.
I think you might have been here too. You’ve felt the coldness of her presence, and at the same time, you’ve also felt her warmth.
So it’s complicated, but it’s also the most honest place to be as we face our flaws and offenses and wade in all of this together.
Maybe it’s time to re-enter once more. It could be that it's time to peel back the pages of Scripture and learn what God intended for the church. It's possible that this is the time to lay down the hurts, the cynicism, and frustration that you have experienced with the church. It could also be a time to re-engage in a way that uplifts, leads, and even challenges the church to be what God desires for his bride. Perhaps it’s time to remember why you fell in love with her, to begin with.
Maybe it’s time to come home.
Scripture says,
"Let us rejoice and be glad and give him glory! For the wedding of the Lamb has come, and his bride has made herself ready." – Revelation 19:7
There she goes, making herself ready. Some parts of her look a bit rushed, somewhat out of place, maybe even thrown together, but the other parts of her are sheer perfection, beauty beyond words. She is preparing and awaiting her groom.
She is the bride. She is the church.
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