I sat in that church sanctuary again last Sunday evening.  You know—the one I had never been to before.  I never expected to go there again.  But the Lovely Lady needed to make a return visit.  I needed to be with her.

What I didn’t know was that I also needed to be with that group of people.  It wasn’t just the choir this time.  The sanctuary was filled with bodies.  Old ones.  Young adult ones.  Little children’s bodies.

These weren’t my people.  I worship in a building filled with chairs instead of pews, where a church calendar is barely acknowledged (I remember Christmas Sundays when the pastor carried on with his expository series in Romans, just as if it were any other Sunday), and where the impact of items in the sanctuary is more functional than symbolic.

The service was all symbolism.  All of it.  Even the music.  There was a lot of that.  The Lovely Lady played her flute with the choir.  Her brother played the pipe organ.  There were guitars and drums.  And an accordion.  Along with the piano, they all combined to draw us into worship.

Did I say these weren’t my people? 

They were. They are.

How have we decided we are not related?  When did we begin to determine our relationships by differences in style?  In doctrinal differences?  In musical preferences?

I sat in that sanctuary, a stranger surrounded by family members long estranged.

And we worshipped together.

Together.

If Jesus does not bring us together, pushing aside our differences, are we truly following Him?

If love and kinship in Him do not still draw us to each other, how will we ever worship together in eternity, in that great gathering around His throne?

“Oh come let us adore Him.
Worship Christ the Lord.”

Adore.

Do we?

Will we?

 

 

© Paul Phillips. He’s Taken Leave. 2021. All Rights Reserved.