The Church

I've been thinking lately about the Church and what we're made of. Christ calls us His bride, which is a lovely analogy. I think there are places when it falls short, though. On my wedding day, I worked hard to be certain that I wore a beautiful dress and my hair and makeup were lovely. My bridesmaids, my mother, and Mom's Mary Kay lady worked for hours to get my eyebrows, bangs, cheeks, ear lobes, and lips exactly right. This was after we worked to decorate the church and order the best food for the reception and perform any number of other tasks to be sure the day was perfect.

On most wedding days, the bride wouldn't dream of being 100% real and authentic. I'm a jeans and t-shirt kind of girl--give me a hoodie sweatshirt, and I'm a happy girl. I didn't walk down the aisle in my Notre Dame football hoodie, though. Weddings reflect different parts of different women's personalities, but I challenge you to find me a single bride who marched into her "happily ever after" with all of her flaws exposed.

Yet with God, with Christ, they are all laid out. Bare. It's rather like the nightmare I had shortly before our wedding day . . . I stood in front of the congregation--in front of our friends and family--naked. Exposed. Visible. Vulnerable. There. With nothing to protect me from being seen by everyone for exactly who I was, including my love of food and distaste for exercise.

In my church there are divorced men and women. There is a couple--both parties divorced--who have married each other and blended five children into one family. There are several couples married for fewer years than their oldest children have been alive. We have at least three alcoholics, one of whom is in the hospital suffering from the effects of his most recent detox. We have men who verbally abuse their wives, women who suffer from eating disorders, and couples married but living separate lives. We are a mess. And it's so, so lovely.

Nowhere in the world can I be completely myself and know that I will be embraced, save for in the arms of my Beloved. How sad, then, that we march into church each Sunday pretending that we are beautiful and perfect. We do it because we feel like we need to, like we need to put on our best for a God who couldn't possibly accept us in our weakness. Or maybe we feel we need to put on our best for a family who couldn't possibly accept us in our weakness. In doing that, we likely sell each other short and put endless pressure on those who share our pews so that they march on in the endless pursuit of perfection. In doing that, we certainly sell our God short. He doesn't expect perfection from us, He expects brokenness. And He makes that beautiful.