should be.

The church should be like…a hospital room. I’m sitting in my mother-in-law’s room now; the glow of the computer screen fits right in with the IV machine, the lights on the bed, and the cars going by outside. Ruth has broken her back, and for the last week her children have taken turns staying the night with her in this hospital that’s 90 minutes away from home…tonight it’s Patrick’s shift, and I’m here too. For the last week she has never once been alone, save a quick run across the street to get food while she’s asleep. I am amazed at the instantaneous acceptance of roles and responsibilities by her children and am happy to see her finally sleeping peacefully here across the room. Listening to her breathe, I’ve tried to come up with more than the normal cliches of spiritual associations and analogies with hospitals. Because that’s not what I’m thinking. This blog is supposed to be (mostly) about the church, and I’m thinking it should be like a hospital room. Not because of the care or the sympathy or the love, but because of the reality. The reality that hospital rooms force us to recognize and to respectfully nod toward is what drives us to this level of care, compassion, and dignity, drawing upon reserves of selflessness like almost nothing else can. We don’t conjure these things up; anyone who’s tried to “be nice” for long could tell you. Lauren Winner talks about Christians being called to live in the “really real”. Because we hold and adhere to the ultimate truth. It’s the realization of this truth – and sometimes it takes a hospital room and all that goes on in it to remind us – that drives us to say things we never would have said, to do things we never would have done, and to reprioritize on the drive home…if you’re the one that gets to go home.

The church should be like…a manhunt. The good kind of manhunt. Where you’re looking for someone who is lost. A local elderly pastor had gone out on horseback and not returned, so one Sunday afternoon I found myself in a line of people I didn’t know, hacking my way through 98 degrees and the thickest brush I’ve seen since I lived in the islands. And as I sweated and yelled and spat bugs out of my mouth, I thought about the people I was with…Even in the most tragic, scary and urgent of circumstances, Oklahomans go about things like they always do. In a way it’s yet another tribute to the fact that bigger and louder isn’t always better. They move about slowly, methodically, exchanging handshakes and “how are ye”s like normal, never forgetting anyone. And it’s the strangest thing – just when you think that they’re taking up way too much time, or that they have little concern for the situation at hand…everything is finished, and in plenty of time, and when you look back on it you wonder if really it could be done any better way. They move about ina unit, in an organism almost, with individuals exiting out every once in a while. But never should there be any misjudgment about their seriousness or sincerity in times of trouble. One look at anyone’s eyes will tell you almost instantly their level of concern – and will leave little doubt as to their commitment to someone else’s well-being. These are good people…who buy and bring excessive amounts of food unbelievably quickly and without questions, who know their place and, mostly, how to use it well. They live apart from each other, tucked in the trees and hills and creeks, and venture out to get groceries and the mail – their two staples. But when they need each other…well, a 400 square-foot stone church in the middle of nowhere is overridden with more than 200 people in a matter of an hour to look for a missing man. I think Someone else said something once about leaving the masses to search for the one. Identify what you have in common, get on the same page, and Go.

The church should be like…a new house. A house and the things in it are supposed to be…used. Used hard. Sure, there’s a certain amount of responsibility that goes with keeping and caring for your possessions, but really the purpose of a house is to be used. Especially a house with a man and a 16-year old boy live. And especially when juice carton tops get left on the counter. And when shoes forgot to be taken off. Again. And when the laundry piles up – in three hours. And especially, especially when I forget that I live with a man and a half. A house is meant to be used, or it doesn’t become a home. The other day we walked in from being gone for a couple days, and I was tickled to find out that our family and our house is beginning to have a “smell”. You know…the kind where you can tell who’s lost and found garment it is by smelling it -smell. The church should be like that. Used and smelly.

The church should be like…a wedding. The kind where grace and love meet, where emotions are off the chart in all directions, where somehow we stumble around and in the chaos give it to God, and where all of it is against the stunning backdrop of silent, wise mountains…who probably have seen all this before.

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