“But if I’ve learned anything in this journey…it’s that Sunday morning sneaks up on us–like dawn, like resurrection, like the sun that rises a ribbon at a time… Church isn’t some community you join or some place you arrive. Church is what happens when someone taps you on the shoulder and whispers in your ear, Pay attention, this is holy ground. God is here.Even here, in the dark, God is busy making all things new. So show up. Open every door…anticipate resurrection.” -Rachel Held Evan, Searching for Sunday
I imagine if our lives had ever crossed, Rachel Held Evans and I would have resonated with each other. The faith/spiritual journey she shares in her book Searching for Sunday parallels my own in many ways.
After a healthy dose of critique and concern about institutional religion, where she lands is where I have landed. Church is not exclusively the community you join or the place you go. But there’s something about it that she and I are both unable to fully walk away from. There’s something about church that is still important. But it’s not the structure and rules and moral guidelines. It’s definitely not that the church is always right or that the church always gets it right. What is important is that somehow, through the ordinary and imperfect STUFF of church–relationships, rituals, sacraments, shared life, gathered community, words, songs, prayers, classes and discussions–something happens. The story of Jesus and God’s faithful and relentless commitment to humanity gets told. And then told again. And then told again. Messages and signs of grace, love, and forgiveness get shared and embodied through action and people. Even when we don’t feel it. Even when we don’t reciprocate. Even when we might not always believe it. Physical and spiritual needs get tended. And, yes…somehow when we’re not looking and in ways we don’t often notice, Kingdom comes and Resurrection happens.
It’s true–sometimes (maybe most times) it feels like we’re sitting inside looking out through a window to catch a glimpse of the sunrise, but that we have become totally consumed by the window (whether it’s clean enough, who gets to sit with us, which window we had growing up and how sad we are that the window today is different, how to get the streaks out, whether it needs to be replaced, whether we have the best model for our weather patterns). Meanwhile, we’re totally missing the sun rising.
But the sun still rises. The SON still rises.
And that risen Son still has something to say about the experience of being human. Communities and leaders are finding new ways of telling the story…new ways of sharing the message…new ways of gathering, praying, and serving. There’s something about the Son-rise and the people who witness to it that still has the potential to transform lives and communities. The window might need some attention. But the Son still rises.
This Holy Week, we as “church” are not able to DO CHURCH or GO TO CHURCH the way we are used to–and I, for one, am deeply grieving that. We won’t be gathering in sanctuaries, gyms, auditoriums, community centers or event halls to sing, read, pray, stand, clap, or sit in silence the way we are used to. The youth won’t be doing a pancake breakfast to raise funds for the summer mission trip. The music director probably won’t be hiring extra brass players for the hymns. Children and youth leaders won’t be staying up late stuffing plastic eggs or tying gift bags. We probably won’t be gathering in the fellowship hall with people we barely know to eat our way through an Agape Feast or a Maundy Thursday liturgy, or sit in silence between songs in the Good Friday Tenebrae service. The pastor and men’s group probably won’t be dressing up as Jesus, disciples or Roman soldiers for the Good Friday drama. The sound of the organ playing “Were You There” on Friday and then “Christ the Lord is Risen Today” on Sunday probably won’t move us to tears. We can’t GO TO church in the way we might be used to on Easter Sunday. And I’m missing that. I love this week in the gathered community. It’s always been a week full of all the layers of what it means to be church…and it’s different this year.
But we can still witness to the Son-rise. We can still whisper to each other, pay attention, this is holy ground; God is here. Even here, in the dark, God is busy making all things new.
And that still matters. In fact, that’s what the rest of it is really all about. That’s the thing that compels us to join a community or go to a particular place. That’s the thing that our traditions, rituals, and rhythms are holding. When this season of separation is over and we are once again able to come together and church (as a verb) in the ways we are yearning to, maybe we’ll be ready to church just a bit differently than we have in the past. Maybe we’ll open our doors a bit wider. Maybe we’ll raise our arms a bit higher. Maybe we’ll extend our hands out a bit more broadly. Maybe we’ll lift our voices up a bit more boldly. Maybe our hold on personal experience and self-interest will be a bit lighter. Maybe we’ll be just a bit more attentive to the ways Sunday morning still sneaks up on us.