The Staggering Beauty and Burden of Church Life

We are partway through a song. I am standing, along with everyone else, on an utterly normal Sunday morning church service. As I glance around the room, I am struck by a peculiar feeling that I will call the staggering beauty and burden of church life.

In that moment, I glimpse just how meaningful an ordinary worship gathering is.

I see that dear old saint, crowned with white hair, frail but faithfully there. The years of cares and sorrows crease his face. He built a good portion of this building with his own two hands when they were strong and calloused, though hardly anyone here knows that. Still, he comes every week on weakening legs and encourages those around him with his good cheer and gratitude, always thanking me if I happen to have led some good old hymns that morning.

Another old man sits in the corner. I like talking to him. One time he told me he read one of my articles, and that he really didn’t agree with it at all. So we had a discussion about it, and he raised some good points, though we agreed to disagree in the end. He carries a burden, however. His son, who used to attend, no longer does. There is some estrangement within the family. He tells me he regrets the way he let his children choose for themselves whether they wanted to come to church with him or not when they were young. It seemed like the right approach at the time, but it didn’t bear good fruit. And so he prays, and I pray with him, for God to work in their lives.

Then I see the teenage girl who had been losing her way. The usual story—she’d been increasingly withdrawn and sullen, choosing the wrong friends, drifting from family and faith. Not that she and I talk, but you could sense it just from observing how she interacted with her family; plus her father had mentioned to me that things had been pretty challenging at home. The trajectory did not look good. But then something had changed, a blessed rekindling. Suddenly her countenance was bright and friendly again, and I heard she was getting together with other teens to study the Bible. And a deep joy came over my heart as suddenly the whole colour palette of her future went from darkening gray to bright and beautiful.

I look over and see a man, about my age, whom I know is facing a mountain. A few years ago his spouse embraced a hard progressivism, including the full gamut of gender ideology. She filed for divorce and started transitioning their son. Add to that a years-long custody battle in family court, with seemingly endless twists and turns. The situation is messy and stressful, the burden heavy. He goes home to an empty apartment most nights.

In front of him are two of the most recent trophies of God’s grace. He showed up one Sunday, looking a little out of place in our quiet suburban church with his tattoo-covered arms. (“I think I saw my old drug dealer in church this morning,” a friend remarked to me, referring to him.) Then he came back the next week, and the one after that, and then his girlfriend started coming with him. Before we knew it, they had embraced Christ and were getting married in a few days, spilling over with a joy that was contagious.

Nearer the front is a dear sister, a single mother. Her husband abandoned the family years ago now. He had been a member, though he was removed through the process of church discipline. She was left raising four children by herself. She is a rock of faith, a strong woman who holds on to the promises of Scripture with tenacity. After a few hard years, she’s still there, still holding on, and still using her voice to worship her faithful heavenly Father.

On the other side is a young-ish couple with a gaggle of kids. I know that not too long ago they went through a terrifying ordeal as the wife was severely afflicted by demonic forces for some months. That’s not something we see a lot of in our church. And though we don’t have all the answers, she was delivered and is doing so much better, reinvigorated in her faith. Her husband, I am told, was a rock for her through it all. They are holding each other affectionately as they sing worship to our God with their whole hearts. It’s such a beautiful sight that I have to look away if I’m going to keep my composure.

Near the back is the mother with her now-healthy little baby girl who was born dangerously premature. It was touch and go for a while, but slowly she gained strength and eventually made it home from the hospital. Now she coos and babbles during announcements and the sermon and it’s a most beautiful sound. Life unto life.

Gathered here are young and old, rich and poor, black and white; notorious sinners and sweet old ladies and everything in between. All of these lives, these burdens, joys, and journeys, flash through my mind as I glance around for a few seconds during a song. And it hits me again, what a wonder the church of God is, just the sheer beauty and burden of church life. And this is just one little church. To think that this panoply of beauty and burdens is multiplied hundreds and thousands of times across our nation; it’s astonishing.

But of course, it’s not just our nation, but every nation, tribe, and people; and not just today, but across all time. Perhaps some day we’ll get to hear all these stories, and if so, I know the telling of them will never grow old because God will be at the center of them.