Broken
"This is my body, broken for you."
I stared at the tiny, perfectly square piece of bread in my hand. The exuberant jeans-clad youth pastor leading the service went on about unity and urged us to join hands with those around us and pray together over the bread and wine. I couldn't think of anything I less wanted to do at that moment.
It was the week after my previously-described visit to St. John's Anglican Catholic Church, I was visiting another new church, The Community Church of West Bend (yes, that was its complete name; I don't know what I was thinking). So far, several praise choruses, among the more inane examples of the genre, had been sung with no more enthusiasm than they deserved, and the congregation had been treated to zippy video clips and mini-motivational speeches from the worship leader. An advent wreath had been lit, but, after telling us what a powerful symbol the wreath was, the aforementioned youth pastor had gone on to say that the candles symbolized : whatever one wished them to. As the only woman in the large auditorium wearing a skirt, and certainly the only one wearing a lace cap atop her head, I felt exceedingly out-of-place. Not that anyone looked at me strangely; indeed, no one looked at me at all. I was alone.
"This is my body, broken for you."
I have never been able to believe, despite my firm Protestantism, that there isn't something magical in those words: all the hope and mystery in the world compressed into nine syllables. That day, however, my repetition of the words in my mind became a taunt. As I shifted the bread from finger to finger to prevent its getting sticky, and glanced warily at my fellow worshippers, I began to feel that the Church of God was reduced to a collection of places like these: sincere in their desire to worship God, but having no connection to one another or to those who have gone before. Despite the joining of hands, we were all eating alone.
"This is my body, broken for you."
The words took on a double meaning that hadn't occurred to me before. I knew, of course, that the church, as well as the bread, is His body. But I had never applied the second part to the church. The death of Christ was the breaking of what ought to be one, yet that brokenness resulted in redemption. Christ prayed that the church might be one as He and His Father were one; yet he knew that, a few hours later, the Father would have to turn His face away from the Son. If the church, which is His body, is also broken, how will that further our redemption? I don't quite understand it; but we are His Body, and we are broken. And we believe that this brokenness, even if it was caused by man's sin, will result in God's glory.
But that still doesn't help me find a church, does it?
I stared at the tiny, perfectly square piece of bread in my hand. The exuberant jeans-clad youth pastor leading the service went on about unity and urged us to join hands with those around us and pray together over the bread and wine. I couldn't think of anything I less wanted to do at that moment.
It was the week after my previously-described visit to St. John's Anglican Catholic Church, I was visiting another new church, The Community Church of West Bend (yes, that was its complete name; I don't know what I was thinking). So far, several praise choruses, among the more inane examples of the genre, had been sung with no more enthusiasm than they deserved, and the congregation had been treated to zippy video clips and mini-motivational speeches from the worship leader. An advent wreath had been lit, but, after telling us what a powerful symbol the wreath was, the aforementioned youth pastor had gone on to say that the candles symbolized : whatever one wished them to. As the only woman in the large auditorium wearing a skirt, and certainly the only one wearing a lace cap atop her head, I felt exceedingly out-of-place. Not that anyone looked at me strangely; indeed, no one looked at me at all. I was alone.
"This is my body, broken for you."
I have never been able to believe, despite my firm Protestantism, that there isn't something magical in those words: all the hope and mystery in the world compressed into nine syllables. That day, however, my repetition of the words in my mind became a taunt. As I shifted the bread from finger to finger to prevent its getting sticky, and glanced warily at my fellow worshippers, I began to feel that the Church of God was reduced to a collection of places like these: sincere in their desire to worship God, but having no connection to one another or to those who have gone before. Despite the joining of hands, we were all eating alone.
"This is my body, broken for you."
The words took on a double meaning that hadn't occurred to me before. I knew, of course, that the church, as well as the bread, is His body. But I had never applied the second part to the church. The death of Christ was the breaking of what ought to be one, yet that brokenness resulted in redemption. Christ prayed that the church might be one as He and His Father were one; yet he knew that, a few hours later, the Father would have to turn His face away from the Son. If the church, which is His body, is also broken, how will that further our redemption? I don't quite understand it; but we are His Body, and we are broken. And we believe that this brokenness, even if it was caused by man's sin, will result in God's glory.
But that still doesn't help me find a church, does it?
posted by Deborah | 3:22 PM
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