Welcome to #ATLT, At the Lord’s Table: A Conversation, a series of over 50 posts from varying authors about the beautiful, mangled Church. Look for at least two new posts every Monday through Saturday between January 25th and February 22nd. Join us in the conversation? See you in the comments.

Here is the church, here is the steeple, open the doors and see all the people.

Ever since I was a child saying that little finger-animated rhyme, I instinctively understood that while “church” was a building, it was defined, more importantly, by the people. That’s why we could take those same people and deposit them at a picnic at a park, or a Rose Bowl party at someone’s house, and still connect those interactions to church.

The church my own children are growing up in is more complicated. First of all, it’s a building without anything close to a steeple (it once was a warehouse on the still-gritty edge of downtown). It’s also a community of people that avoids using the word “church” at all—we’re New Covenant Fellowship. But mostly, it’s complicated because of the collection of people you see when you open the doors—actually even before you open the doors.

If you drive by our church at 10am, rain, snow or shine, you see a small crowd of people gathered, waiting (often an hour or more) for the soup kitchen to open. Around 300 people eat lunch in our church every day, and leave with a sack lunch for later. Our kids have helped pack those sack lunches, and now know several of the Daily Bread guests by name because they worship with us on Sunday morning and join us for fellowship lunches after the service. We don’t just “feed” these people, we also eat with them. After all, we are all hungry, in many different ways.

*******

When I first stepped foot into the building where New Covenant Fellowship meets, back in 2005, I was wary—not just of this particular church, but of any church. Like so many people, I had been “hurt by the church.” Yes, I had recently veered down some wrong paths in my life and was in the process of finding my way, but the discipline handed down to me at my previous church felt anything but loving and compassionate. Not surprisingly, it was also far from effective. I was singled out, in a community full of people who were otherwise, apparently, on the right path. I shut down, sure I was done with church—and maybe even God—for good. It took stepping into a church building that was clearly full of broken people to soften my heart again toward God and his church.

This is what I love about church—not that it’s perfect and holy, righteous and good, but that it can be humble and broken, messy and compassionate. It can be a place that represents the true variety and condition of humanity, rather than just a tiny, well-polished cross-section.  It can be a place where all the mess comes together, as well as all the love. After all, if we are to practice love and grace—if we are to live out redemption stories that can be added to God’s master redemption story—we need to welcome, recognize, accept, and work together toward redeeming the messes in our lives, our world.

*******

There is a chair in our worship space that symbolizes, for me, this redeeming process and hope. Of course, there are lots of chairs in our worship space, most of them just your typical, stackable, metal-framed and cushioned seat variety. But there’s also Vernon’s chair. About a year ago, Vernon became a regular part of our worship services. He had been coming to the soup kitchen, and started making a point of joining us on Sunday mornings. Maybe he gravitated toward the music, or maybe the appeal was just being in a dry, temperature-controlled space. Whatever it was, Vernon was there most Sundays. The problem was, he was always exhausted from living on the streets. He was also usually a bit drunk, so nearly every Sunday, in the middle of the service, Vernon fell out of his regular, straight-backed, armless chair. Visitors worried, regulars rushed to help him get up. It was a scene we were used to, but not necessarily one of dignity.

One Sunday, when we gathered for worship, we were informed that a special chair had been purchased for Vernon. Even if it looked comfortable and inviting, we should make sure it was always available for him. It’s one of those camp chairs that fold up—the kind you can sink into, with arms and a drink holder. Vernon was pleased. It was a place where he could be accepted, and rest. It was a chair that held him up in God’s dignity and love, nurturing him toward a place where he could stand steadily, and walk with God and his church. The chair didn’t say, “Come back when you have your act together.” It said, “We are ready to love you here and now, as you are, for as long as it takes.”

That day seven years ago when I first walked into New Covenant Fellowship, I didn’t require a special chair, but I did need that same acceptance, dignity, and love. I needed to be held up as I found my way. And as it turns out, finding my way is a long process that can’t be rushed. Vernon is finding his way, too. For the first time in more than a decade, he now has a place to live, off the streets. He still sits in his chair on Sunday mornings, but he looks different—he hair is combed, his face shaven, his eyes open and alert. We are all trying, together, to see what heaven might look like on earth.

————

read the post before this one, here.

————

Kristin Tennant

Kristin Tennant has been a freelance writer for ten years. In 2007 she began blogging about family, faith, struggle and redemption at Halfway to Normal (www.halfwaytonormal.com), and she now also blogs for The Huffington Post. Her essays have been included in two anthologies: Not Alone: Stories of Living With Depression, and Ask Me About My Divorce: Women Open Up About Moving On.Kristin, her husband Jason, and their three daughters live in Urbana, Illinois, where they love cooking and sharing meals and conversation with friends. She tweets here: @kt_writes.

Welcome to #ATLT, At the Lord’s Table: A Conversation, a series of over 50 posts from varying authors about the beautiful, mangled Church. Look for at least two new posts every Monday through Saturday between January 25th and February 22nd. Join us in the conversation? See you in the comments.

One of the most unsettling discoveries I’ve made of young Christians in my generation is that we all, at one point or another, have felt the need to prove ourselves.

We have all been there. It’s ok to admit it.

We’ve gone to colleges we didn’t want to. We’ve said things we didn’t mean. We’ve accepted jobs that we had no interest in. And we’ve even married people we didn’t love.

And for what reason?

To prove to the world what we have to offer.

And the most disheartening fact in this epidemic, I believe, is that we’ve been taught to live this way by the Church.

I mean, take a look at most modern-day churches. Everything is bigger, louder, faster, brighter, watered down and more controversial. It’s like those of us that make up the local Church feel that the power and authority of the Gospel alone doesn’t do its job well enough.

Just like our generation of history makers and world changers, I fear the Church has felt an obligation to prove itself to the world.

The Church, much like our generation, has taken it upon itself to do the work. The Church has called the shots and begun to make the rules. The Church has decided that changing the world for the cause of Christ has become about what it has to offer.

Attendance low? Plan a super controversial series on sex and plaster signs and billboards all over your city to make sure people talk about it. Don’t worry about going into your community to serve people. Bored of traditions? Add a bunch of secular music to your service so that people want to hear your band play in a bar downtown. Don’t worry about showing respect to the fact that some people worship differently than you. Baptist church down the road doing a better Easter service than yours? Well, I’ll just stop while you’re all still reading…We strategize and plan and strategize and plan and we roll out systems and we strategize and on and on and on and on.

And why do we do this? To prove to our communities and to our friends with the same kind of churches in the next town over and to our buddies that follow us on twitter that we have what it takes to grow a church and change the world.

And this, my friends, is why we have Christian brothers and sisters who don’t “do church.” Because church has become all about what we can do and less about what has already been done.

In the same way it takes us young guns to recognize that the world doesn’t need what we have to offer, the Church needs to realize the same.

Changing the world for the cause and fame of Jesus Christ is not about what we have to offer, but about what we are willing to give.

The world doesn’t need more lights and bands and sleek graphics and topical sermons and controversies and great ideas. The world needs broken, yet hopeful individuals, united under the umbrella of Jesus Christ that are willing to invest, love and infiltrate their community.

When the Church decides to rebel against preference and man-made agendas that have to do with church-growth and the “keeping-up-with-the-Jones” mentality, then we will see revival and growth like we see in the book of Acts.

And what’s beautiful is that all of this is happening. People are getting it. Churches are taking hold of this and the Kingdom of God is growing. The Church that God intends for us to experience and encounter in our communities, is growing around the world. In spite of the dangers people face in China and Africa and other parts of the world, the cause of Christ is like a wave covering his children all across the globe.

This gives me hope that the American Church is following. It’s a beautiful reminder that though some of us have been doing it wrong, God is still God and He is still sovereign. He still moves. He still saves. He still loves.

And HE does all of this through HIS Church.

————

read the post before this one, here.

————

Jacob Dudley

Jake writes once a week on his blog at: http://jakedudley.tumblr.com/ and he tweets over here: https://twitter.com/jakedudley. If you’d like him to guest post on your blog or speak at your next event, email him at dudley.jake@gmail.com.

Welcome to #ATLT, At the Lord’s Table: A Conversation, a series of over 50 posts from varying authors about the beautiful, mangled Church. Look for at least two new posts every Monday through Saturday between January 25th and February 22nd. Join us in the conversation? See you in the comments.

A deluge of tears streamed from my eyes and ran down my cheeks. It seemed there was no end to the fountain which poured, unbidden, from somewhere deep within. I felt neither grief, nor release of pent up emotion. I cried because of a stirring in my heart or mind (or spirit?) because I couldn’t not. Perhaps “weeping” is a more accurate word, as I don’t recall any sound. . . just a seemingly never-ending torrent of tears, that nevertheless was infused with gratitude for grace, and felt like spiritual trust.

Several years ago I arrived in a new town, and began the search for a church to attend. I had recently moved to The South, and was experiencing a bit of religious culture shock–okay, I admit it: a LOT of culture shock! I wasn’t used to the overt emotions of evangelical expression. My previous religious experience told me that my relationship with God was private–intimate, even, and the only public aspect was the choice of church or congregation. I hadn’t realized how culturally bound up I was, coming from a northeast background where the two choices in town were Episcopalian or Congregational, and sometimes people switched back and forth, depending on town politics or social dynamics. I needed that lesson, though. I needed to learn that it isn’t the locus that determines God’s presence.

So I found myself in a new town in an entirely new cultural milieu, looking for a church home, but unfortunately treating it–I admit it now–like a grocery list chore to check off. I fairly automatically chose the Episcopal church that used Rite I. Check: my task was complete.

Then, Sunday came along, and everything changed. What a wonderful experience, to walk into the narthex and be enveloped by warmth and cheer, then pass into the nave: quiet and serene, with faint sunbeams coming through the stained glass windows, highlighting the pews. I chose a seat next to the window depicting the Nativity, looked up and the Cross held my eye. That particular morning, it was like I blinked, and time had passed instantly: I was walking up to participate in the Eucharist. The familiar words of the liturgy, the Prayers, the hymns, and all the while: the Cross. All too soon the service was over, and I was walking out the door, feeling like the rays from the window followed me. I could feel the wafer, still.

As I walked to my car, I realized my cheeks were wet. Tears, unbidden and unexpected, flowed with no specific thoughts attached to them, but a profound sense of gratitude. My heart was light. The tears continued. Medieval pilgrims said that tears fell in response to sacred absence, yet helped create sacred presence. An “unbinding” occurred that in another day and time would be called Holy Weeping: an act of prayer in the form of tears, which can act as a conduit between the realms. I hope they could be seen, too as Ambrose of Milan stated, as acts of devotion.

————

read the post before this one, here.

————

Dr. Gabrielle Sutherland

Dr. Gabrielle Sutherland is a Full-time lecturer at Baylor University in the History department, specializing in Medieval Mediterranean Political History.  She loves to spend her time visiting her grown children, spoiling her grandchildren, romping with her dog, and being allowed to pet her cat.  She likes to dream about being best friends with Francis and Clare of Assisi.

Welcome to #ATLT, At the Lord’s Table: A Conversation, a series of over 50 posts from varying authors about the beautiful, mangled Church. Look for at least two new posts every Monday through Saturday between January 25th and February 22nd. Join us in the conversation? See you in the comments.

“Now we see but a poor reflection as in a mirror; then we shall see face to face. Now I know in part; then I shall know fully, even as I am fully known.” 1 Cor. 13:12

I grew up in a mega-church in a mega city. Throughout my time there, I built the church up in my head as quickly as it built new campuses. I saw it as this gigantic tool that would change my friends into Christ followers and therefore make my life a little happier, make my big city a little more pleasant to live in. Its leaders emphasized the importance of getting all my non-Christian friends to church. “Look!” they’d say, “We have free food. We have loud music and shiny lights and funny games. We’ve done the work for you. You just have to bring them.” But what they used to entice new comers was exactly what those new comers received: a show. And the moment the show was over and the altar call had promised new youth group members, they were encouraging us to bring a fresh set of visitors to the next event. It was all about growing our numbers, not growing our faith. So for most of my pre-college life, I felt like my identity in Christ failed to be determined by His promises, His commands, His grace. It was determined by how well I could play hostess at church.

One can imagine that after “being a Martha” for so many years, the estranged feelings college often brings hit me hard. My loneliness led to a deep depression and an even stronger sense of anxiety. And though I felt the church should be my refuge, I had no clue how to interact with it anymore. I was now the new comer… and the shows and altar calls and pretty lights didn’t offer me the community I desperately needed. I grew bitter and more isolated.

Then, I stumbled across a group of people very different than me. They were Christians devoted to the Lord. But they didn’t love Him loudly with cutting edge technology and pizza. They loved Him somberly, through the words of tradition and the taking of the Eucharist.

Anyone who knows me could tell you that I am not naturally a disciplined person. The idea of spiritual discipline was nonexistent (in my mind) until college, and when this changed, I wasn’t exactly thrilled. In fact, I was downright resistant. But I was also sick of myself and of my isolation. I needed to know that my relationship with God did not depend on my broken soul’s ability to be a recruiter for His church. The spiritual disciplines encouraged by this new church seemed to connect it to something much larger than myself, and somehow even larger than my old church’s 5 bursting campuses. Slowly but surely, I am learning how to indulge in these disciplines the church offers; I am learning how to be a Mary. Now I can see how the church, through spiritual discipline, holds me accountable to grow in my own faith. In short, it enables me to undergo and endure the Refiner’s fire.

The Bible talks a lot about God’s refining fire. If you know anything about purifying gold, you know this is an extremely difficult process- from the blasting the gold from the depths of the earth, to the adding acids to break away the impurities, to the patiently waiting for it all to melt, to molding it into something useful. Every piece of gold is different, and that’s part of what makes being a goldsmith so difficult. You don’t need me to explain the obvious points of this metaphor. However, I will leave you with this true little story:

A man once asked a goldsmith, “If every piece is different, then how do you know when the gold is done, when its ready to be pulled from the fire?”  The goldsmith said, “Well, every good goldsmith knows that the gold is done when he can see his reflection in it.”

Perhaps then church and its spiritual disciplines exist to not only point us to our mighty, graceful God, but also as a tool to mold us into a people that reflect the image of our God unto the world. That kind of growth is what truly matters. And if we (empowered by the Holy Spirit) reflect the love and goodness of Christ in such a dark place, what better recruitment could the church possibly ask for?

————

read the post before this one, here.

————

Jaclyn Drake

Jaclyn Drake is from the middle of Houston, Texas, though she currently resides in Waco as a senior at Baylor University. She is a University Scholar major studying English and dramatic literature. Her biggest passions include photography, telling stories, traveling, hammocking, and a wonderful thing called dramaturgy. Jaclyn takes any excuse to drink hot chocolate and eat popcorn with friends. Oxford, the ocean, and the Rodin Sculpture Gardens in Paris are amongst her favorite places in the world. She hopes to one day be a teacher or professor in Houston, though her journey there is still a mystery and sure to be an adventure.

Welcome to #ATLT, At the Lord’s Table: A Conversation, a series of over 50 posts from varying authors about the beautiful, mangled Church. Look for at least two new posts every Monday through Saturday between January 25th and February 22nd. Join us in the conversation? See you in the comments.

5:58 pm.

I take my last breath of cool air in the cavernous lobby and lean into one of its gold revolving doors. They spin me round and spit me out into the city, transporting me from one world to another. I slide on my sunglasses and speed up to a run-walk pace through the downtown streets—5 blocks to the bus stop—in the hazy, humid 90-degree heat.

It’s my first time outdoors in 9 hours, and the air is barely breathable. After a few yards, I cock my head back and look up. The mile-long wall of high-rises on either side of me leaves only a narrow strip of sky visible above. Concrete and metal have crowded the heavens out.

I’m late for the 6:08 bus, as usual.

Every time my feet touch the concrete, they stick to the black dots of hot, softened chewing gum that stipple the sidewalk. A dried stain of urine ghosts the front of a building, which now pools across my path. I glide over it, holding my breath. A cocktail of stenches—garbage bins, body odor and stale beer—fills my nostrils and seeps into my now sticky wet clothes.

Up ahead, a dirty man with an empty stare sits silently huddled on a small stoop. He’s cradling a brown cardboard sign with Sharpie scribbles: VIETMAM VET PLEASE HELP GOD BLESS. I hurry my late self past him, just like the priest and Levite in the parable of the Good Samaritan. “Tomorrow,” I think to myself.

I look ahead. On one street corner, a banker in a shiny gray suit is reading someone the riot act into his Bluetooth headset. On the other corner, an African American girl, not a day over 18, holds a car seat with a newborn in one hand, and a fussy toddler’s hand with the other.

No one is smiling. No one is laughing. No one welcomes another. No one cares. Sadly, on this day, not even me.

6:00 pm.

The church clock tower a few blocks behind me on 6^th and Sycamore starts to play the Westminster Quarter. I count them in my head as they toll: one … two … three … four … five … six. I know what comes next.

After a brief silence, its bells start to flood the streets with a beautiful hymn that drowns out even the most deafening diesel:

Of the Father’s love begotten

Ere the worlds began to be,

He is Alpha and Omega,

He the Source, the Ending He,

Of the things that are, that have been,

And that future years shall see

Evermore and evermore.

 

Oh, that birth forever blessed


When the Virgin, full of grace,


By the Holy Ghost conceiving,


Bare the Savior of our race,


And the Babe, the world’s Redeemer,


First revealed His sacred face


Evermore and evermore.

I sing what words I know, and light begins to flood my heart. I remember. Though I have never stepped foot in that downtown church, her message of hope has penetrated me in this place. She takes her stand in a twisted jungle of metal and madness—heralding wisdom to the fool, hope to the hopeless, and reminders to the forgetful.

Wisdom cries aloud in the street,

in the markets she raises her voice;

at the head of the noisy streets she cries out;

at the entrance of the city gates she speaks:

“How long, O simple ones, will you love being simple?

How long will scoffers delight in their scoffing

and fools hate knowledge?

If you turn at my reproof,

behold, I will pour out my spirit to you;

I will make my words known to you.

—Proverbs 1:20-23

She stands as a strong pillar of the truth, in a time when truth is so often suppressed, denied—and in my case, momentarily forgotten.

She reminds all within the sound of her voice that a loving Father has set the heavens in place, even when it seems this city has crowded them out.

She proclaims that her Groom is eternal and unfading, ruling over all that is temporal and fading. He is the Savior of our race, the World’s Redeemer, by Whose stripes no one need ever be beyond the hope of healing.

Yet, in all her beauty, the bell tower is but a shadow of the living stones that teem below—beautiful feet called to carry good news of grace to the ends of the alleys, and the earth. We are the church, truth on two legs.

O Great God, may we, Christ’s bride, walk in a manner worthy of this calling. And may all glory go to the One who gave Himself up for us.

Amen.

————

read the post before this one, here.

————