Faith: In spite of her flaws, I love the church

I love the church.

Not just (just?) the church universal, that marvelous, amazing, and miraculous Body of Christ composed of all of God’s children, everyone who ever has or ever will wear Christ’s name, all the sons and daughters of God.

Oh, I love “that” church, too.

But I also love the smaller local expressions of that Body, the little bands of disciples — all of them small indeed, whatever their size, compared to the grand Body from which they spring — working in thousands of thousands of places to share Christ’s love.

I love the church.

Oh, I know, loving the church is not always fashionable. Many of my generation who were sentenced to too much time in the ’60s and ’70s decided that all “institutions” are suspect. Many others of later generations — different views and different areas of blindness — have decided that the church is not “relevant.” Not enough of a social service agency? Not (lock)step enough with the latest opinion polls?

Oh, I do recognize some of the truth in the charge, but, still, I’m trying to understand how worshiping the One who gives us each breath could ever be anything other than intensely relevant to folks who enjoy breathing.

Some, also like me, grew up in “separatist” traditions or groups who tended to talk more about “the church” — meaning their little walled-off franchise of it — than they did about the Lord of the church. That sad mistake makes it easy to lose respect for the church as seen in the little all-too-human local expressions of Christ’s Body.

Yes, I know, when bad things happen in the church, the ugliness is even worse precisely because we know how beautiful the church can and should be. When a church gets caught up in power struggles disguised as pious piffle, dividing and walling itself off from the rest of the Body over molehills masquerading as mountains, prancing around like the old naked emperor parading “issues” that most sensible folks (in the church or outside it) recognize as no clothes at all, it looks really bad. It’s like a hairy wart on the nose of Miss America, or (and I could really cry a tear over this one) a cow patty dropped on top of a luscious cheesecake.

But, in spite of very real flaws, I still love the church. I’ve seen her beauty. I’ve felt her warmth and been embraced by her love, and the very best blessings of my life have been gifts from the Lord given through her hands.

I love the church, and I love the little church I’m a part of, and I hope you love “yours.” We’re family, you see.

Over the years in this little group, I’ve seen walking through our doors and worshiping in our pews folks as diverse and deeply loved as a Cornell-educated F-16 pilot and his sweet law-student wife, a child just born weighing in at less than 4 pounds, a frail (though gigantic in the faith) little widow well into her 90s struggling to church every Sunday on a walker while so many younger and healthier folks slept in unaware that the blessing she claimed while they slumbered was worth more than gold.

I love the church. Vertically and horizontally, all because of a cross, she and her King have my heart.

Curtis Shelburne writes about faith for The Eastern New Mexico News. Contact him at: [email protected]