The Power of the Church

“This is the church,

and here is the steeple;

open the door,

and see all the people”.

But It’s Not That Simple

Do they worship in a sanctuary or a Family Life Center? Small groups, or Sunday School?  Do they have a organ, or a live band? Are they pre or post tribulation? And who is this Calvin guy anyway? 

The Trip North

Joann lives in a charming mid-nineteenth century home, a few short miles from the Baptist-affiliated Christian school we attended in the early 1980s. With four years between us, it is unlikely that we would have even rubbed shoulders. But with a student population no bigger than a bowling league, it was hard not to know everybody’s business. We hadn’t spoken in 40 years, and yet, by God’s providence, her side hustle as a crafter, and social media, I drove 120 miles to not only see her, but to visit a personal landmark that I moved away from thirty years prior.

Let’s Go Back Even Further…

When I was nine years old, my dad, deaf at infancy, moved us from a hundred-acre farm, to a house on a lot no bigger than a postage stamp. In a city where Catholic churches outnumbered protestants ten to one, my dad, alongside a handful of other deaf Christians, pursued a calling to bring the deaf to Christ. The result was a tiny, all deaf, non-denominational church in the country where I never fit into that romanticized role of a preacher’s kid. I truly admired my dad and his obedience to ministering to the deaf community; the resentment took hold when I had kids of my own and I realized what I had been missing. Years later, after a long road to forgiveness, he became my favorite person to debate scripture with.

On Sunday mornings, the children of the deaf congregants would be driven to the “hearing” Baptist church that launched the school Joann and I attended. Through those pulpit-pounding sermons and flannelgraph Sunday School lessons, I came to believe that God’s love was earned, that it was impossible to “be in the world, but not of it,” and that the term “backsliding” encompassed everything from sneaking into a movie theater, to attending public schools, or perhaps even more scandalous, switching church denominations.

Frustrated that I would never live up to the standards of the Bible I thought I knew, I went my own way, putting God in the periphery of my mind, hoping that the “once saved always saved” theology was actually a thing. From there I piled on more sins, hurting not only myself, but people that I loved. Like the prodigal son too ashamed to come home, forgiveness seemed out of reach.

But then…

I moved out of my parents house, to our state capital, two hours away. In exploring my new environment. I discovered this church at a busy intersection. One Sunday morning, as if on auto-pilot, I drove myself to that church, and found my way back home. The years since then have been an often tennis match-like game of detoxifying myself from the lies I believed about who God was, and the unworthiness I felt under his authority.  

In our reunion that day, Joann’s kitchen made for a cozy confessional as we exchanged one story after another about how the church had failed us, but God had not. It was comforting to me that we landed on the same conclusions of God’s saving grace, and the redemptive work of the Cross. Given more time, we would have started our own Legalism Recovery Group.

But the sun was starting to set, and I had another stop to make before heading home.

An Abandoned Church

Like a familiar song that takes you back to a certain place and time, I was catapulted back to the 1970s as I turned into the dead-end street and saw the creek that ran behind the church property. That shallow sliver of water served as a makeshift playground during the countless picnics and endless revivals. My mind centered on the postcard-like photo of the church that our family had chosen for the front of my dad’s funeral program. Gone was the white clapboard siding, and neatly trimmed bushes that hugged the wooden church sign. The concrete steps where we waited for Mr. Anderson to take us to hearing church were crumbling, and the double doors leading into the sanctuary were blocked by two weather-beaten planks that could have been ripped from the siding.  I took few photos, talked out loud to my dad (I didn’t sign, because I knew that in heaven he could hear), and left enough tears in the dirt parking lot, for both of us.   

While a white steepled church in the countryside still delights my senses, I have since learned that it is the people inside that make all the difference, and not all churches are the same. There are churches that have harmed me, taught me, and like the one I attend now, embraces me. In the end, they all have had a shared purpose in shaping me into the Christian I am today. I am thankful for all of it.

Isaiah 43:1-2 ESV

“But now thus says the LORD, he who created you, O Jacob, he who formed you, O Israel: “Fear not, for I have redeemed you; I have called you by name, you are mine. When you pass through the waters, I will be with you; and through the rivers, they shall not overwhelm you; when you walk through the fire you shall not burned, and the fire shall not consume you.”

Take a Breath…

Let this sink in “…there is no condemnation for those who are in Christ Jesus” Romans 8:1. Focus on the promises taken straight from God’s Word. Let them drown out the voices of however well-intentioned people say otherwise. I believe God is waiting. We simply need to open our hearts and minds to embrace it.