To be part of the church is to enter a complicated relationship. So many of us want unwavering affection for the community Christ left behind. We want a place to belong and to feel safe. But too often, our greatest wounds have happened within the folds. We’ve seen the ugliness. Heard the gossip. Been left out or avoided. We feel pressure to clean up before we show up. Bruised and perhaps a little bitter, we wonder: Can we love God without loving his church?

***

Just over a year ago, I asked this question on flight back from Dallas.

I tapped away on my computer when suddenly the woman in the aisle seat leaned closer and asked what I did for a living. I responded, knowing the question that would inevitably follow: “Oh! What do you write?”

A little bile gathered in my throat. I hated this question. The instant I said the words Christian, God, or faith, her buttocks would clinch tight. She’d mutter an “Oh. That’s nice…” and fall silent for the remainder of our four-hour flight.

Maybe not, I thought. Maybe this time will be different. And yet, there I was, struggling to get the words out and invite all the cultural connotations that came with being a thirty-something, suburban, church-going white woman in the United States. Part of me wanted to lead with a litany of disclaimers.

But my failure to answer was starting to get awkward. I needed to say something, so I smiled and replied, “I write about life and faith.”

“Oh.”

She shifted her body to the other arm rest, the distance palpable. Sure enough, silence filled the space between us.

I stared at my computer screen, pretending to go back to work, but my mind and emotions had caught fire. I fumed at myself for my floundering and hesitancy, for my vanilla response about the work and the God I love. But even more so, a deeper battle burned in my veins: my complicated feelings toward the church. Why did I hesitate to call myself a Christian?

***

In recent years, I have found myself pushing away from what I see in the modern church.

Away from the body who justifies sharp words and exclusivity at the expense of human dignity.
Away from the factions who prioritize being right over being kind.
Away from the ones who make assumptions about a person’s love for God based on political affiliation.
Away from the loudmouths who fill the void with absolutes instead of humility or peaceful silence.

So often, the church is like the drunk uncle at family gatherings—the one who makes you cringe at his embarrassing antics, at the way he tries to kiss you on the lips, his putrid breath too warm and too close for your liking. And while he’s the one you never look forward to seeing, he’s the one you keep inviting back. Because at the end of the day, he’s family.

But is it that same with the family of God? Do we have to stay committed to our connections, to our history, or is there a point at which we can we keep our distance? Once again, it’s complicated.

Multiple times throughout the Bible, God makes it clear that he wants nothing to do with that which doesn’t promote love. We’re told to stand up for justice, walk away from divisive people, and distance ourselves from depravity. God doesn’t want us to turn a blind eye to bad behavior. There’s a time to stand up and to speak out—but never without love as the motivation.

And here’s where we so often get it wrong.

The moment we begin to think we’re better than “those people,” we join the ranks of finger pointers and naysayers. When we do not lead with love, pursue justice through gentleness, or speak truth only after we’ve listened, we add to the problem. We become the thing we hate. We become the drunk uncle—the stain on the family’s reputation.

For all the ways we get it wrong, only together can we get it right. Isolation was never God’s intent. Humanity was birthed out of unity and wired for connectedness—first to God and then to each other. The story of earth is the story of our longing to return to Eden, to a place where we walk intimately with God and each other. A place where heaven meets earth in the person of Jesus and the presence of each other. It’s no coincidence than that in the last hours Jesus was physically here on earth that he not only introduced the sacred act of communion (Mark 14:22-25), but also charged the disciples with going across cultural barriers to invite people into the community of God (Mt. 28:16-20).

Our shared presence is the best chance we have to know God in full, to put aside a monochromatic lens so that Light can burst forth in prisms—in Divine colors we didn’t even know existed. Love is a package deal (Mt. 22:37-40).

So dear church, let me be first to say I’m sorry. To beg forgiveness for all the ways I’ve hoarded grace, looked at you as less, and wanted to disown you. Because I want to love you. I choose to love you. I don’t have a perfect formula to solve our neuroses, except to stay. To call you my own. To believe that God and his vision for us are greater than the things that divide us.

feature image: John Cafazza via unsplash