The Heart of the Matter

I love Sunday mornings at my church. People are happy to be there--they call out greetings and dispense hugs like candy that is too good not to share (chocolate with gooey caramel centers), and most everyone wears a smile. I can count on my pastor speaking the solid truth from God's Word, and it's a given that our singing will exalt the name of Christ.

I love Sunday mornings because of the warmth of the place and because I have confidence in my church. With Scripture as the plumb line, our beliefs, goals, and activities square off nicely. That may sound clinical, but it is only true because of the healthy faith and prayers of my church's leaders, and because God's Spirit is at work in individuals, bringing unity to the body.

Whenever I happen to visit a different church, it's hard not to keep thinking of my own. It's not that God can't be worshiped elsewhere, but a little church-homesickness just naturally tugs at my heart when I'm away from the brothers and sisters I've been growing up with over the past several years.

But, delightfully, I found myself entirely engaged in and committed to yesterday's worship service at our son Robert's church in Waco. The moment we stepped out of the car, spirited organ sounds welcomed and engulfed us. Not the formal, heavy-handed rumblings you might hear in a centuries-old stone cathedral in Europe, but more like the rollicky trills and chords that entertain fans during the seventh inning stretch at Yankee Stadium--but with reverence.

The entire age-worn building seemed to breathe glory to God in the highest. As though inhaling, it took in rich dancing rays of sunlight through tall painted panels of glass. Vibrant colors skittered and hopped across the pews, illuminating dimpled smiles of children and highlighting with dignity the creased faces of the aged. The merry light worked itself in and around the plumage of the reverend's wife's glorious head piece, giving her crown the iridescent quality of a raven in flight.

Exhaling, the lively church released non-stop praise and adoration to the King. The organist's fingers rarely stopped moving, and the choir gave more than just their voices to every hymn. The soloist's beautiful proclamation of gospel truth pierced my soul and brought me up out of the pew and onto my feet. In the end, the reverend himself tacked on the exclamation point with an animated delivery of a simple yet apt biblical message.

I loved being in a church so different than what I was used to that it never ceased feeling novel. Yet at the same time, feeling right at home because at the heart of the matter it wasn't so different after all: both churches worship God the Father by the power of the same Holy Spirit. I have confidence in this church led by a reverend who lavished love, prayer, and attention on my son for no other reason than because that is what Jesus would have done.

Far down the road, when most of the particulars of our visit have faded from my memory, I know I will still remember the warm greetings and hugs bathed in dancing sunlight, the soloist's song,...and the magnificent feathered hat.