Stepping Stones to Grace: There Are No Wasted Church Experiences

October 12, 2014

I’m wearing blue jeans. To church. On a Sunday morning. For the first time ever, I think.

And it’s not that I couldn’t before…at our church. Plenty of other people do it. But I couldn’t. Because I didn’t feel safe.

This feeling, of not feeling safe, has been growing steadily over the last year. I wish I could pinpoint why. Exactly who. Exactly what.

All I know is that it still feels too much like the past. The way the halls smell like 50,000 Sundays worth of old, stale coffee. At first it was comforting because it’s what I had always known. It smelled Baptist, like the halls of the church I walked through on the way to chapel at Christian school. But then, in time, it wasn’t so comforting anymore.

The way the floors creak, the way the pew feels hard on my back and there’s no where to put my feet up…

The way we sing Blessed Be The Name of the Lord and I want to dance or raise my hand, but feel like an invisible straight jacket is holding me still.

It’s not for lack of trying. This place, a compromise for us, seemed to be the answer to years worth of church pain.

There were moments when it felt safe. Like when they hosted Zumba in the fellowship hall and the church women danced to the YMCA. Or when the contemporary Christian radio station brought their van out to VBS and broadcasted from the church parking lot.

But then there were the moments when it didn’t feel safe anymore. When I knew the choir was on camera, and I had to grin and bear it. They wanted people to look happy for the internet live stream, but I wasn’t feeling it. Or when the missionaries got up to speak, and it felt like I was just back in college all over again. Or when I tried to be vulnerable in a women’s group and I came away feeling misunderstood at best – attacked at worst.

Or when our small group – the one we were “hosting” but not leading – got disbanded without anyone discussing it with us, and instead of being incensed, I was relieved. Because even there, in my own living room, I hadn’t felt safe.

But there’s a place across town I feel safe. I felt safe from the moment I walked in after being invited by a near stranger. The way they embraced me into a group for MOMS. The way the coffee wasn’t stale, the topics were fresh, and the smiles were real.

I wanted to visit MOMS-group-church, but Russ wasn’t ready.

So we went to the compromise church because that’s where God led us – as a couple – because it’s not all about me.

Every week in MOMS I looked up to the windows where there was a blue sign in the window…a circle…God does BIG things in small groups. Join in. Get connected.

And I told Russ, but he wasn’t ready. So I waited. And when he was lonely, I would mention it again, but he still wasn’t ready.

Finally, a year and a half later, I’m sitting there again, staring at the sign while the “Discipleship Pastor” shares the church’s vision for small groups. I text him and this time he says that he’s ready for me to get more information. Three days later we are walking into the home of strangers, and when we leave we feel like we have gained friends. He says, “This was awesome,” and I want to say, “I told you so.” But I know that, somehow, God’s timing is perfect. Even in this. Because a year and a half ago, this group wasn’t this group.

And so every Wednesday we go. And while I hate going out at night, I look forward to this. We sit on comfy couches in a warm room, and I tell them that I don’t really pray for people because I have a hard time reconciling intercessory prayer with the sovereignty of God. And they get it. They encourage me.

My vulnerability didn’t come back to bite me. I feel safe.

A month goes by, and I tell him that, because he works this Sunday, I’m going to visit. He says, “Yeah, definitely do that!” and I am surprised.

This morning, I’m driving there in the rain, in my jeans and boots. I am late. I have felt guilty and shameful all morning, because I’m cheating on my church again and what would they think if they knew?

I ask myself, “Why does this continue to be so hard?”

The clock in my car hits 9:15. I say dammit under my breath. Then I realized I’ve just cursed about being late for church. How ironic.

I enter the childcare area, and I hear the music. It is loud. For an instant I’m scared. What if I can’t do this? Russ would be anxious because the music is so loud.

I drop Ezra off in childcare, hit the bathroom (even though I’m late), and enter the sanctuary. It’s dark and modern. I don’t know where to sit, but then I see a couple from our small group with an empty seat behind them. I slip in and try to sing along to  a song I don’t know. I feel awkward and out of place.

But then the song is over and another begins. This time, the rhythm and chords are familiar.

Oh no. He couldn’t have. He can’t be this good to me. 

I had wondered a few times over the past week, even on the way to church that morning, if this would happen. If God would make His presence known to me, again, in such a specific way. I mean, of all the modern praise and worship songs that could be sung – for this one to be picked on my first Sunday there – that would have to be Him.

While the drums continue with their steady, familiar rhythm, before any singing has happened, the words pop up on the screen, and I am already coming undone.

You are good, you are good, when there’s nothing good in me. 

And just like at the PWOCI conference, and just like at Allume, I try to sing, but can’t – because I’m crying too hard. The notes and words that do make it out of my mouth sound like that of a dying goat. I bow my head and just keep crying.

You are here, you are here, in your presence I’m made whole…

I know that He is here. Even though I’m in jeans. Even though I’m cheating on my church (again). Even though I cursed on the way to church. And even though I’m a complete wreck of a Christian, He is here. He loves me. And I’m exactly where He wants me to be.

Somehow I regain composure, and I start singing again for the second chorus. This time my body is moving and my right hand is raised. It feels both foreign and right all at the same time.

Here I feel safe. I feel safe to cry. Safe to dance. Safe to worship in whatever way feels right at the time. Even writing that sentence terrifies me because I wonder if it’s wrong.

The preaching begins. I put my booted feet up on the chair in front of me. I settle in with the Bible on my iPhone resting on my jeans, and I enjoy feeling safe here in this moment.