Unchurch Me Please

It is in the holy call that I find Him. The passion inside is like a burning wildfire unable to contain. This burden gift given from Divine to share in suffering, just a small heart inside; expanded by His call. The vision is in motion and momentum is gained and feet walk in. Into the suffering. With good intention. Best intention. Holy intention. To end exploitation for one more girl. What I find is I am incapable. Inadequate. Preparation of church and knowing the right thing and having the right answer and knowing how to pray the prayer, and check the box, and walk to the altar, and relate the parable becomes irrelevant to a life unfamiliar. Unfamiliar to the language of Christianese.  Unfamiliar to the protocols of church life. Unfamiliar to the stories in the book and the words in the book that have founded and grounded belief. 

 

And yet she cries out.

Unscripted. That is what life becomes.  When you are face to face with a heart beat in front of you whose consistent companion has been trauma, violence, coercion, and abuse, so much so that it is the natural, known, and comfortable. And what I offer brings apprehension.  What I offer from my lens is peace, safety, love, joy, hope, purpose, fulfillment, protection, possibility, healing; newness. Yet breath across the table calls it square life. It is here that I see not with eyes, but with the spirit. See the battle. See the reality of the intangible. See that best laid, holy intentions get lost in translation when you walk into suffering and you don’t speak the language.

And yet she cries out.

It is here that I find I am not just peeling away at layers of trauma with the heart beat in front of me. But equally so, He is peeling away in me anything that is irrelevant Christianity.  Anything in me that is… Ritual. Routine. Religious.  And thankfully so because flesh and bone in front of me can spot it in milliseconds; and what a gift these moments become. As mind becomes the seeing sense and desperate dependence on Him, just Him, to be given the gift of “tongues” that I may lose my Christianese and learn to speak “the game”, “In the life”, and “ghetto” languages.  What eclectic conversations are had. I hope it puts a smile on His face, when those moments erupt of pure dependence and wall crumbling down talk, where two hearts on opposite worlds collide and glimmers of understanding come to both. With a serious look of here is a fragment of the real me, “Are you going to jump ship?”, the real heart on the other end of the conversation, bursting out laughter that as different as brokenness is, it is so differently the same. Similar. Common after all. It truly is “dope.” And the precious wet eye that eeks out an inkling of trust that, maybe I can allow you to bear the burden with me someday…

Because she cried out.

Long before she was placed in the Wings of Refuge Family. “What?” This is the beauty. The beauty that no one and nothing can deny.  She cried out. To God. In her need. Without knowing how to pray the prayer and check the box or walk down an isle to an altar, thank God. Without knowing all the parables and the words in the great book.  Without knowing Christianese and that; that language calls her; a seeker, unchurched, one of the lost.  All the strategic plans of forming opportunities and concocting right moments to present salvation are thrown out the window. It didn’t really matter.  What mattered is she cried out. Because deep in her soul she knew there was more. Her spirit told her there was a God.  A God who knows her name and cares and gave her the courage and the brave heart to get out.

And yet she cries out.

To now know this one who heard her cry. Not a fabricated program created by man. Not a conformity of Christianity. Not a, we can contain and make Jesus our happy clappy god that we need him to be, mentality. She cries out for the real deal. Whole. True. Pure. Relationship based. Not rules based.  Authentic.  Raw. Willing to be messy and undone Jesus.  Holy over evil Jesus. Able to make the most hideous painful past new Jesus. Not coping Jesus or behavior modification Jesus. But majesty Jesus. Right hand rescue Jesus.  I’m cleansing you and making you white Jesus. A bride. Redeemed. From all of the horror that happened. Every single memory. Every single moment.  Unending Jesus.  Can handle a pimp Jesus. Can handle my grief Jesus. Can handle my trauma Jesus. Can handle my language Jesus. Can handle my doubt Jesus.  Can handle my anger Jesus. Can handle my unbelief Jesus. Can handle my confusion Jesus. Can handle my lack of trust Jesus. Can handle my doubt over people keeping me safe Jesus. Can handle my triggers Jesus. Can handle my grief and sorrow of wanting to run back to it Jesus.

And yet she cries out.

To know Him. Even when we are recommended to be very careful because “men of the cloth” have confused the view. Which is truth in its’ rawest; pastors, priests, men of the church daily pay for sex in America and don’t even get me started on that raging rant.  But so do educators in America, so do we not educate? Law enforcers pay for sex, so do we not enforce the law? Construction workers and landscapers pay for sex, so do we not maintain the home? Medical professionals pay for sex, so do we not provide healthcare? Business men and women and professionals of every level in the retail and service world are paying for sex, so do we seclude from business and service providers as well? By no means so.  It is so interesting to me that the offensiveness of Jesus to the world propels more belief than I could imagine in my heart.  Because we are not promoting a man with a name who hurt as a form of belief, we are not promoting a horizontal belief, we are offering an invitation to a vertical relationship with God himself…and so we must ourselves be only vertical with Him.

And so I cry out.

And realize our cries are “dolo”…in harmony.  Hers and mine. It is a powerful song of broken as we sing the same song to the King. Verse changing to belief. Chorus raging to The Unseen. And it is there that I learn the song of unchurch, unrehearsed, unprepared feeling more prepared than I could ever be; rolled up sleeves ready to dig into the layers of broken in the dark to see the Perfect Love of Perfection shine in.

Will you cry out?  Will you be unchurched?

IF it was all taken away today..your Christianese language, your social media bible verse scrolls, Pinterest Jesus, missional blog posts, the printed word of God, church and doctrine, and worship music and small group and community group, prayer service, Wednesday night fellowship, your favorite sermon on pod-casts, decorative signs in your home promoting faith, jewelry around your neck stamping you as Christian, tattoos on your skin staking belief, billboard t-shirts as your wardrobe of belief, hail Marys’ and holy water, and first communions, and confirmation classes, sprinkles and dunks in the water through baptism, altars, and bible camp, revival services, hymnals; crusades and conferences in stadiums, your sponsored child programs and short term mission trips, feeding the hungry at the shelter and giving your used stuff to the poor.  If you could have or do none of that what would be left?

 

Would you hear Him crying out then?

For we are the product of His hand, heaven’s poetry etched on lives, created in the anointed, Jesus, to accomplish good works God arranged long ago.” –Ephesians 2:10 

Lord Jesus tattoo my life up with Heaven’s poetry……that the majestic reality of only you may been seen in me. Amen.