A love letter to the church

This letter started in a Hinge chat.

The dude in question was talking about food. It is one of my favorite subjects. One of the gifts I held onto from my many years in food service was a deep love for food and for the experience of eating (especially eating with others).

This gentleman went from talking about the kinds of food he likes to saying that he critiques food a lot. As if nothing would ever measure up or be good enough.

This is a fine enough position. It’s not the kind of person I love to share a meal with. She said having never met this person, and possibly projecting some of her trauma from working in the industry onto him.

As I read the messages he sent, a thought occurred to me. It was a thought that made me feel very clever and smug, so I wrote it down. I am skeptical of a person who spends more time critiquing something they love than delighting in it. What a wordsmith I am. The wisdom. The profundity.

But as I started at the words that came out of my head and onto the page, they stared back at me. As is often the case when I am confronted with a quality that rubs me the wrong way, I turn it back on myself. This habit does not come from the most healed part of me. But as I sat there and let my own words examine me, I thought about this work I do.

The reason I do this is because I love single folks. And on an even deeper level, I love the church. It is one of the more compelling and beautiful things that God gave us. Each other. It’s also a bit of a cluster. Because humans contain multitudes. A massive capacity for harm and for beauty. Therefore, any body made up of us is going to be those things as well. Structurally and individually.

There is, of course, room for both critique and delight. If we look at the words of Isaiah and Paul, to name a couple, it’s not exactly all sunshine and rainbows. Even Jesus had moments where he’d had it with the derpiness.

What is the place of critique? There is certainly a ton we are whiffing. Including agreeing on what it is we are whiffing. There’s a whole slice of the church that would look at my life, and the nicest thing they would have to say is that I’m not a real Christian. A stranger on the internet has said that, by the way. And the trolls haven’t even found me yet. As part of the church and a leader, that’s the gig.

In the live show we did for Unsuitable, there was a moment when I mentioned a particular Christian leader and said, “eff that guy.” Not my most eloquent moment, but it got the point across. There are times when I read about all the things members of the church have done to singles, and I have to take a walk because I get so irate. I use singles as an example here because it is my niche. The fact is the Western church, and in particular, the white Western church has done a lot of messed up stuff to a lot of people. There is a ton to lament and call out. There is a ton about which we need to repent.

In my love for the church, for what I believe the church was created to be, the anger comes quick and hot. I think that’s probably ok. At least, it is what it is. As Dr. Therapist says, it’s information. He has this whole thing about getting more comfortable with my anger rather than turning that energy back on myself (as I described doing in the beginning of this letter).

You see, the tricky thing about the church is we often attribute the voice and will of God to what we say and do. In our derpiness, we are more than a little prone to putting our value system onto the words we read in the Bible. Yes, we have the Holy Spirit, whom I trust. But we also have our limited brains and our implicit biases. We have our emotions and our cultural context. I don’t think that’s always a bad thing. But it is a thing.

So, church, here’s where I’m at with all this. You’ve largely been good to me. Granted, I don’t know how much I’ve tested your love and loyalty. While there’s been hurt, there has also been healing. I’ve found safety in you over the years. Again, I’m not sure how much of that was due to my ability to assimilate. We’ll never really know, I guess.

At your best, however, you’re pretty dang good. God has met me so profoundly through you. You’ve been my primary source of community. You’ve even been family in many ways. I’ve loved serving you in little and large ways. I’ve loved encountering God through you.

Perhaps it is for this reason that the ruptures hit the way they do. Church, our call is high. We get to be part of God’s promise to each other. Pretty sure I took that from Sam Allberry, who probably said it way better.

I don’t know that there’s an algorithm for how much critique and how much delight equals love. Perhaps it’s more a question of generative anger versus anger that keeps me mired in the seeming impossibility of cultural change. Outrage feels good to a certain extent. But I’m not sure it can be my main fuel. I need to let myself feel it, but I cannot become addicted to it. Otherwise, I might decide it’s better to destroy this thing I purport to love.

It seems to me that it comes down to a question of hope. Is my hope in me–in my ability to create the exact right words to get the church to be what I think you are supposed to be? That’s a bit much. I mean, I’m pretty good, but I’m not that good. Also, pretty sure that’s not my job.

No, my hope is in the fact that no matter how you or I derp things up, I believe that God’s gonna do God’s thing. The little bit of vision I have for what the church could and one day will be is just that. A dim picture, a sliver of what’s coming. I get to be part of that. You get to be part of it, too.

I still think about those clever words I wrote. I still let them examine me. Critique will always be an important part of what I do. I’ll continue to cut it with humor, but it’s still critique. Perhaps it’s time to start dreaming about how to work in more delight as well.