Sunday Mornings

As a bigger faith has started to be born, things seem possible that never were, mainly, the miracle of a life without guilt. I know, shocking, right?

I have not been able to find a church. And to make matters worse, the more I read from the authors that I most track with, the harder it is to feel comfortable in the culture that is predominate in the area I live in. I have always sort of kicked back, but now, I don't even want to do that, I just don't want to even be around it. I feel this desperate need to shed the old and continue to discover the new and what most places have to offer right now, actually feel as though they would only damage the work God is doing, rather than aid it.

That leaves me with a dilemma. What do I do with my Sunday mornings?
I mean, I have spent a lifetime telling people how important church is, but the more I think about it in context of the freedom I am feeling, the more I wonder. Why are Sunday mornings so important?

Community, right? It's not the teachings, it's not the lessons, or the worship, and we go for community. True, but what happens when you feel more connected to the people outside of church, than you do the people in church?

I convinced a coworker of mine to read a book I am reading. We discuss it often. I go to dinner with my friends, trivia on Tuesdays, lunches, long phone conversations with one of my best friends in Tampa, another good friend in Southern California. We talk about life, the good, the bad, the new things we are learning. They challenge me, they ask me questions, we live life together, through distance, different beliefs and opinions. I have learned their idiosyncrasies, their foibles, their strengths and their wisdom. In so may ways they are my heroes. They teach me the depth of grace and the freedom of thought, the boundaries I crave and so much of the heart of God.

I read books and blogs, listen to sermons by so many different people with distinct backgrounds and individual experiences. I have found kindred spirits across oceans, states and ages. In all of my struggles, the greatest peace I have found, has been hearing a perspective on Jesus that finally makes sense, and it didn't come from the churches I have attended for the last 20 years. In fact, the churches and schools and people that I have been influenced by for the last 20 years that have been doing the most damage. A square freaking peg, in a round freaking hole.

Back to the dilemma though, I mean, how Christian am I when I don't even go to church on Sunday?

And why would it matter? I love the community I have found. It doesn't meet in a building, and some of them don't know each other, but it's more real, stronger, deeper than anything I have known before. It's a community of those that I have met and kept with me for years, that I carry with me through every season, and they are treasured. And I like that its boundless.

The community isn't named, other than the Bride. It's separated by a million miles and connected by one Spirit. It's made up of the homeless, the gypsies, the politically motivated and the homemakers. It's anyone that will converse with me about the important things and anyone that wants to live a life built on truth and authenticity. It's for those that don't settle for just anything and that have an ache for the beauty that seems just beyond grasp. It's made up of every person that Jesus came to free and it doesn't need a building, or an opening prayer. It just is.
I sit at Pete's, watching the life around me, on a Sunday morning, drinking tea and reading my book. I listen to the laughter, watch the smiles and push the chair out in front of me as someone asks if they can use it. This is my church, ever person that has ever lived and ever will live. They are a part of the beautiful story of God's heart, and they are full of His promise, and His image. And I want to see Him in every one of them. And I do.

Paul said not to live in isolation, and I laugh as I think of John on Patmos, pastoring his church from such a distance. I think of people in South America, Asia, or Africa that may not be able to make the trek every week to gather and I know the same spirit connects us all, and whatever I can do to be a part of the community that wants more and more of Jesus, is the community I have a love for that grows a little every day. My world has at once grown infinitely and shrunk exponentially. Church is every moment of everyday and my community is as far as the last human breath.

Sunday mornings mean something different now. They mean a time to sit, listen to the voices around me, to bake for my nephews, to read the paper and pray, to reorganize my fantasy football team. Right now they are no different than any other morning. I carry Sunday mornings with me every day.

It may change again someday. I hope it will. I love investing in humanity, but there are some things I do appreciate about the containers of a typical church, but for now, I am comfortable to be uncomfortable. It's good for me to shed old ways, to reaffirm the basic tenants of my humanity without desensitizing myself to the gift of love and goodness of life. Gathering as a body, no matter what it looks like, should be a privilege, and until it is again, I don't mind letting the privilege of being a part of God's church without walls be enough. And maybe sleeping in an extra day.