When Church is Supposed to Be Church."

Often I have sat there as someone poured out their hearts. "I can't go to church--the church won't accept me." He was gay. "I can't go to church--our son has been such an embarrassment I can't face anybody." The boy had struggled with drugs for years. "You couldn't catch me in church--the preacher and nobody else ever came around when my husband was so sick and finally died. I felt so alone." The young man said, "God, I've done awful things--I could never be forgiven . Church--hah!" "No, I couldn't  come," she said. "I don't have any money. The kids and I have no decent clothes--we wouldn't be comfortable there." Unfortunately she was right.

There are all sorts of reasons people stay away from church. Sometimes a church somewhere broke their hearts. Some times it is a petty reason that should never keep anyone away from anywhere. 

But after six church and eight interims--I still stay. Sometimes friends say: "Are you nuts?"  Maybe I am. 

Sure we've put up barriers and roadblocks through the years. Deacons standing at the back door shaking their heads when blacks came up the steps. Muslims wondering if those people that sneered at them at the mall were Christians. A Mama whose boy died of AIDS remembered some preacher saying he would burn I'm hell. 

But let's not get too gloomy. I remember a Habitat house we build for a family in Memphis. As the Mama was given the keys to there new home she said, "I've wanted me a house all my life. And when I thought I had just about enough for the down payment--something took the money. But after all these years--Today's the day!" I remember a women who had so very little taking her widow's mites and handing them to me for a semester's tuition. After every storm that had taken so much away--down the highway would come men and some women in trucks with hammers and nails. Their church sent them. And it mattered. The Churches in that town that banded together and brought a refugee family there and saved their lives. Sure--we have our barriers and roadblocks to the altar of every church. But don't forget that stream of those--and there are many--who have heard the " Whoever gives a cup of cold water in my name..." and follow through.

We have to keep pulling down the roadblocks and letting everybody know they can come in and they matter. Someone rightly said, "if any" is the most inclusive word in the gospel.

It all came back to me in a strange way. I was visiting Oxford in England when we walked into the Chapel at New College. In the narthex standing before us was this life-sized statue. It looked like a man--or a woman--wrapped in strips of cloth from head to foot. I told my wife, "Why, it's Lazarus." We moved on in to that beautiful chapel but I could not forget the wrapped Lazarus standing in the vestibule. 

Days later I was still thinking about our encounter in the New College chapel. I am told this was one of Jacob Epstein's last major works. How fitting to place this work in the entrance of that chapel. Lazarus stands there and looking closely I was not sure this was a man or a women. But his/her face was turned toward the doors of the chapel. 

Isn't this the task of the church--there at its entrance--to say to every Lazarus you can be unbound. The grave clothes of so much can slowly be unraveled. Jesus said: "Unbind him and let him go" and slowly the dead or sleeping Lazarus awakes and begins to walk. 

What a vision--to say to everyone--at the entrance of every church--like Lazarus you too can  be unbound ands released from all the trappings that have held you back. Slowly the gauze is unwound. Slowly and the dead Lazarus stirs and walks. 

And the promise of the vestibule is that all of all the cripples and hurts and culture that have bound us be stripped away and we can be set free. How far afield we have come to think the bindings of the so muchness is just who we are. That the dressings that binds are  just life itself. 

But if come Sunday those who come: little children...burdened parents...all the old man and women with watery eyes on walkers...and those who lean close to just try to hear what is going on. And what on Sundays all heard this word they never heard before And all their constrictions--and ours--could fall away and life could be different forever.

--Roger Lovette / rogerlovette.blogspot.com