I love my church.
But not because it’s perfect. Nothing made up of people ever is.
I love my church because its foundation is Christ. It is built not of cinder block or mud brick, not of cedar planks or sheetrock but of blood bought brothers and sisters. It is held together by the strongest mortar found on earth – love. Though its people may sometimes stumble and sin, the perfect and lovely foundation is what keeps us going. Not that we were good enough or loving enough or truthful enough but that we have a God who is bigger than our sinful selves. Who forgave us despite our deficiencies. Who redeemed us despite ourselves.
My church is bound fast. Though its face and walls may be battered by the storms of life, its light shines steadfast still. The lower lights are burning, lit by brave Christians who’ve gone before me. My church is not bound by human definition. It stretches beyond political lines, beyond country’s borders, beyond cultures. Because though we may look different or talk different, it is still the Savior Christ who saved us, who gave us His word to read and cherish and follow.
I love my church. Under a tree on a rock in the scorching African sun. Huddled close together singing quietly so they won’t be caught in China. Crammed on reed mats in India. People who could never all be bound together by anything less than the great God Himself.
And someday. Someday, though I may not meet half of them this side of eternity, I will be blessed to share an eternal home with my church. His church – Christ’s church.