On Sunday, we church-goers stayed home from church.
This was fine, I told myself. We need to keep germs at bay, and everyone and their mama knows ain’t nothing sanitary about little kids and well-used Sunday school and nursery toys.
We can still be the church, we said. The church isn’t a building–it’s people. We need to respect those in authority (Romans 13), need to put the needs of others above ourselves (Philippians 2).
I sat on the couch and doled out crayons and coloring books. We fiddled with the various video services, the volume, the odd camera angles–till we found what we came to see. It was almost church.
Greedy as I am, I watched other services, too. I’m curious about how friends are finagling, how this experiment will play out if we must gather in a virtual setting for very long. How are other church leaders trying to encourage the flock? If only the gift of preaching is being exercised, how much can flexing that muscle do for a broken body, the church? Is there a sense of worry and fear? Will this go on for weeks or months? What is our next step? Gathering without gathering doesn’t quite fill the void I have in my heart for God’s people.
I’m itching to make food for Wednesday night potluck; I miss those folks and our frequently interrupted Bible stories (raise your hands, guys, and don’t just yell out whatever you’re thinking). I miss our elderly brothers and sisters, warm pats on the back, hands raised in worship, eyes closed, hearts pressed into a holy place. I miss Luke belting out his made-up harmonies next to me while his annoyed big brother covertly jabs him in the ribs. I miss friends updating me on their weekly adventures as nurses, preschool teachers, musicians, entrepreneurs, students. I miss seeing how big all the babies have grown. I even miss the kids bouncing around with donuts and three cups worth of hot chocolate mixed to the brim of a styrafoam cup. There’s a reason the writer of Hebrews didn’t us to fall out of the habit of meeting with one another (10:25): we are a chosen people, a royal priesthood, a holy nation, a people belonging to God, so we might declare the praises of him who called us out of darkness into his wonderful light. (1 Peter 1:9)
We are His people, a messy bunch unified by our need to remember. And that’s why we gather–to remember. Jesus instituted the meeting to remember even before He went to the cross. It was highlighted by bread and wine, togetherness, friends squeezed in around a table. Physical distancing? No. It was cozy and close, laughing, crying. We can’t even try to replicate it when we are apart. This is why we are downhearted. We yearn to remember.
Church. It is sufficient stimulation for the introverted, sufficient celebration for the extroverted. We are raucous yet solemn, rejoicing yet orderly. Together we eat His body, we drink His blood. They are symbols that point us in the direction of the cross, even as we hiss to our loud, incessant coloring book scribblers to keep it down because people are trying to pray. Grape juice, crackers, our savior bled and died for us. And bless Him, He told us this was a sufficient way for our physical bodies and distracted minds to sit still and hold His memory. As often as we meet. He knew even before we showed up that one of my kids would need to go potty right in the middle of the passing of elements. He made her, after all. He made that lady over on the other pew–He knows she can’t carry a tune, but He sure made her voice one that carries. He made that man, who stutters nervously and can’t quite get the verse right, even though he’s said it outloud in the front a thousand times.
This pleases God. It is good enough, because He is good. Everything He made, everything He does–is good, and He asks us to remember Him. The dirty work, the sanctification, the fruit of the Spirit, every good gift–it is all His. The glory that splashes up, the grace in waves that washes over each one of us reflects a perfect Savior, even though we are imperfect.
And this is why we miss church–because it is hard to remember without reminders. We need to see and touch and hear the redeemed to remember we are also redeemed. We must bump against creation, let down our guard, cry out for His mercy, long for His Word. Each echoing the other, we agree He is holy; we are not. We crave togetherness; we desire the Body unified by the Spirit, not just bits of music and a sermon online.
Church, I miss you.
But Church-whom-I-love, I’m not sure Zoom is the answer. For some reason, we are held at arm’s length, wondering what God wants from us. I’m thinking we need some introspection while we navigate this new solitude and separation. We must contend with the world–the world outside of us that holds so much uncertainty. But maybe it’s a good time to also take a hard look at the worldliness that gnaws inside of us, in our hearts. What makes us church, the waiting Bride of Christ? What makes us something set apart from the world?
Paul frequently addressed his beloved churches while he was in prison or under house arrest (sounds familiar, yes?). His letters were punctuated with strong admonitions to be faithful, to be single-minded, to rid themselves of distractions, to hold to a higher standard of love. Paul lovingly pointed out blindspots in the church. It wasn’t a matter of nitpicking, rather, it was the work of a devoted gardener, weeding out intrusions and corruption.
Paul, previously a Torah-thumping Jew, reminded his children in the faith they had been set apart from the world, redeemed, forgiven. He spoke of a clear distinction between folks under the law (think ten commandments and thou shalt not…) and what we think of today as “born again” believers–we who are covered by the spilled blood of Jesus.
We know that the law is good if one uses it properly. We also know that the law is not made for the righteous but for lawbreakers and rebels, the ungodly and sinful, the unholy and irreligious, for those who kill their fathers or mothers, for murderers, for the sexually immoral, for those practicing homosexuality, for slave traders and liars and perjurers–and for whatever else is contrary to the sound doctrine that conforms to the gospel concerning the glory of the blessed God, which he entrusted to me.
I thank Christ Jesus our Lord, who has given me strength, that he considered me faithful, appointing me to his service. Even though I was once a blasphemer and a persecutor and a violent man, I was shown mercy because I acted in ignorance and unbelief. The grace of our Lord was poured out on me abundantly, along with the faith and love that are in Christ Jesus.
1 Timothy 1:8-14
Paul was no saint, you see. Like the rest of us, he also was formerly a slave to sin. He was simply transformed by forgiveness and the love of Jesus. This is the earmark of God’s people–a new heart. Of course, we church people like to think of ourselves as righteous. With our human minds and faulty reasoning we often forget we’ve been made righteous only by belief in Jesus, and not because of any good thing we have done. Our freedom came at a price. Our righteousness was imparted to us by Jesus. His death brought us life.
We can all be Pauls of a sort, exhorting one another as brothers and sisters to holy higher living. We are all instructed to remind one another what is true (1 Tim. 4:6). We can also serve as examples to folks who have not made Jesus the Lord of their life–people who know in their hearts it is wrong to murder, lie, envy, hate–people under the law.
Christ Jesus came into the world to save sinners–of whom I am the worst. But for that very reason I was shown mercy so that in me, the worst of sinners, Christ Jesus might display his unlimited patience as an example for those who would believe on him and receive eternal life.
1 Timothy 1:15-16
Immense patience?! Ha! We are living proof. The harder we are, the more rigid our insolent disdain of things beyond our comprehension–the sweeter the mercy when we finally are reconciled to our Creator. I hit my knees at night, blown away by His goodness toward me. Right now, in this pressure cooker, the wrecked world spinning around us, we display the glory of the Father simply by letting Him take the reins. We are proof of God’s patience, proof He will hold out His arms to the very end, waiting for us to run home.
So we know our daily lives, our feet-on-the-ground cotidian affairs are the truest evidence of God-in-me. But what about when we are stuck in our houses, solitarily confined? Church, how in this moment can we show the world we are His?
After my Sunday sermon marathon last weekend, I spent another hour that afternoon watching a prayer vigil via the internet. It was led by Greg Pruett, the leader of Pioneer Bible Translators, well known for his prayer-centered management style. It was a call to be diligent in asking the Lord to help us in this time. I sat. I listened. I wanted to be a part of this calling, this scooting into the presence and begging God to make things right for the world, to make the virus go away, to protect the sick, to bolster our economy. Isn’t this what the church needs to do, to ask God to heal on behalf of the rest of humanity?
But as I jotted down the key prayer points (a comprehensive list you can find here) I noticed there was something missing. Curiously, Pruett made no mention of repentance.
Obviously, I know it isn’t popular. We don’t like looking too closely in the mirror or, ahem, at the Old Testament.
But if we flip back in our Bibles, we find that God’s people, the whole Jewish nation, were unconfessed, unrepentant. In Leviticus God addresses what the Israelites must do once they realize they’ve committed an unintentional sin: Place your hands on the head of the animal, his heart pumping blood, his warm body wriggling. Kill it. It must die to buy your pardon, even if you don’t know exactly what law you broke.
This was the daily blood bath in the tabernacle. Your sin separates you from God.
Like George Strait says, it just comes natural.
On into history, the Lord sent judges, kings, and prophets to turn his people back to Him. Even though they were God’s people, even though they had the glory of God in their temple, they continually strayed. To King Solomon, the Lord said, “if my people, who are called by my name, will humble themselves and pray and seek my face and turn from their wicked ways, then I will hear from heaven, and I will forgive their sin and will heal their land.”
“Do not run until your feet are bare and your throat is dry,” He urges His people in the day of Jeremiah, the people He had made a covenant with. “But you said, ‘it’s no use! I love foreign gods, and I must go after them.’” (Jeremiah 2:25)
Are we really that different from the Israelites? I feel it in my bones, the urge to put my security in my relationships, to trust my bank account, to be distracted by what entertains but doesn’t satisfy. I’m proud; I often think I have the right answers. I’m guilty of feel-good worship and do-good service. I want to come out unscathed, so I let myself remain ignorant of people who are suffering. I need the Pauls in my life to admonish me, to encourage me to keep my eyes on Jesus.
So I’m left wondering, as God’s people, the ones we declare we are–what if our utter depravity–morally, socially, physically, spiritually– is God’s idea of leading us back to him? What if finding ourselves at the end of ourselves, stuck at home, economically ruined and socially distant–is actually God’s way of tilling parched ground to return in repentance to Him? This was the bullhorn of every prophet in Israel’s history, depravity leading to repentance.
Come, let us return to the Lord. He has torn us to pieces but he will heal us; he has injured us but he will bind up our wounds. (Hosea 6:1)
Rend your heart and not your garments. Return to the Lord your God, for He is gracious and compassionate, slow to anger and abounding in love, and he relents from sending calamity. (Joel 2:12-13)
Come, let us reason: though your sins be as crimson, they shall be white as snow. (Isaiah 1:18)
Maybe, Church, this is where we can begin. Perhaps this is how we return. Not together–but in unison, on our knees.
