Bifurcations and Belonging

I worship at a mega church. I serve at a miniscule church. Both are dear to me.

Mega: I love the reverberating sound it is to be one of a throng of worshippers. One small amongst so many. To my imagination it is a taste of Heaven, where we humans purchased for God from every tribe and language and people and nation… made to be a kingdom and priests to serve our God and reign on the earth will join this chorus currently sung by the angelic choir:

Worthy is the Lamb, who was slain, to receive power and wealth and wisdom and strength and honor and glory and praise! (Revelation 5)

In this concert of praise I raise my hands to the Jesus we together worship. I sing loud and harm no one. I am one of hundreds.

It is here I feel small. Small is good, but not unknown. Unknown is dangerous. At my dear mega church, unknown, I am in danger.

The unknown scares me. It scares me for me, and it scares me for my church. How many other worshippers slide under the radar of healthy community?

But it mainly scares me for me. I fear my aloneness, the danger it is to my soul. What heart-foolishness hides, unexposed by my community-lessness? Who is discipling me? Who am I discipling? Who holds a mirror to my soul to expose the real Abbey? The Abbey who daily needs repentance and mind-renewal. To whom can I run for burden-bearing? Whose burdens do I bear? At my mega church, in this season the protection of community eludes me.

After worship, before the sermon is entirely over, I creep out, settle into my car, and drive. I drive out of Pleasantville through farmers’ enchanted lands. On the fringe of the city I climb a hill. Sometimes joggers and bicyclists are taking that hill and, excited, wanting to be them, wanting their sweat to be mine, I reply to these athletes’ exertions. They receive, unknowingly, hearty accolades and cheers from the car passing on their left. Through our proximity I exchange my enthusiasm for their endorphins. (So believes my imagination.)

Downhill ushers me into the country. When it was summer the sky would paint the fields and orchards in gold-dust. These golden lands through which I sped shone, pregnant with pastoral splendor, and to that the sky blushed blue. It was then that I would awe, the windows of my soul too small to drink it in entirely though, wide-eyed, I tried. And try still. On the edge of my seat through Winter weariness I labor to gather in line upon line of brown grasses, fallow fields, barren orchards. I strain to catch the song sung by thousands of December, January, and February stripped purple trees. They whisper truths only they now know (perhaps in May when I am among them their secret will be more of a shout). I stretch to imbibe the tall grey sky. It stands as a proud pillar supporting clouds whose names I don’t know. Clouds that frolic. Winter beauty, not unlike Summer, tempts my eyes with the deception that I may swallow it all. I try. But I come up short, always. This Heaven-craving soul that tells my body “I’m ALIVE!” shall always hunt for the beautiful remnants and shadows of it on earth while here I roam. However futile, the beauty-quest keeps me alive. Running keeps me alive.

The 45 minutes in my car between mega and miniscule are a temporary parade of what I shall forever enjoy once I finally find Home. For 45 minutes thanksgiving spills out, and laughter. I laugh at the wild beauty, the Creator’s mirth in sharing it all with me. My hands open to receive it.

Mini: Laughing, soul full, I arrive. It is a fellowship in the country, a church which has fed a flock since before worshippers began marking time within the century prior to our present one. The noses of a dozen parked cars stare sleepily at its relaxed, weathered grey walls. Children, many of whom are my little cousins, canvas yard and sanctuary. Very old folks sit inside on tired pews. Younger old folks congregate outside on cracked steps. From the doors, praise invites us inside. Gladly, I accept.

Here I will smile, sing, greet, teach, talk, pack, and away. I never earned entrance. I am “in” because my family is “in;” has been “in” for generations.

It is here I feel loved. Loved is comfortable, but dangerous: Missionary teacher. Can do no wrong. She must walk on water.

I fear. For myself, I fear my heart's propensity towards God-belittling self-worship: the parading of Abbey's righteousness. For my church, I fear their apprehension of the gospel message. Which do they believe? The Jesus-gospel? That we are completely helpless. We need a strong Savior to rescue us from our addictions, our idolatry, our morality. Or is their hope in a gospel of personal righteousness? Being present makes me good enough. My morality makes me acceptable to the King of the Heavens.

I shudder. All my righteousness is like crap. Isaiah 64:6. I think about that when I go to the bathroom: Abbey’s morality is like crap. Disgusting. Thank God for Jesus! The Lamb of God who takes away sin! At great expense to Himself, He cleans me. I get His righteousness.

I away. And as this week's Sunday morning gauntlet concludes I ponder these things on my drive out of the country. I ponder worship, and community, the gospel, and self-deception. I ponder my fears. I ponder Belonging, and I wonder, will in the next chapter of life I Belong? For in this one, I feel myself still searching for home.

Mega and miniscule. Dear to my heart, both. The dearness keeps me on my knees for big and for little. And that is a good place to be. The closest place to Home.