Two scandals rocked my little corner of the big-C universal Church recently, both involving affairs and high-profile senior leaders removed from leadership. While neither directly impacted the church I serve, the ripples of grief and pain and anger have reached our shores.
Much has been written and will continue to be written about Christian leadership, about trust and betrayal and our human propensity to make colossal mistakes, especially when bearing the weight of power and popularity on our shoulders. I have no wish to contribute to that particular conversation at this particular time, though I know it is the direction most conversations veer once these sorts of scandals are uncovered. While such conversations are important, it’s simply not where my attention is being drawn these days as I look for the beauty of the Church amid its scandals.
Rather, I’ve been thinking about Dalia1, who comes to church every Monday morning to claim the altar flowers left over from Sunday’s worship. She takes apart the gorgeous arrangements and rearranges them into lovely, personal-sized replicas in vases she’s collected over the years. She then hand-delivers these flowers to anybody in the church needing cheer. A recently bereaved family. A widow on her birthday. A friend in the hospital, or one recovering from surgery, or another just because.
Thinking about Dalia makes me think about Juliette, who washes all the linens we use on Communion Sundays. She buys the bread and stocks the fridge with juice and makes sure there are gluten-free wafers aplenty so all can partake.
Thinking about Juliette makes me think about Sarah and Dominic, who decorate the worship space week in and week out to make it feel welcoming and vibrant.
Thinking about Sarah and Dominic makes me think about Jerrold, who stands at the front door on Sunday mornings to ensure every individual who enters our space is treated as the most honored of guests, VIPs he is delighted to see, whether he knows them or not.
Thinking about all these incredible people - the quiet witness of the Church being the Church - makes me think about you. And I’ve been thinking about you, dear readers, quite a bit over the last couple of weeks. You, who have been disappointed by the Church, no doubt. You, who might have once experienced the shock and dismay and anger that some in my circles are feeling in the wake of scandal. What balm might I offer for our collective heartache? How might I help you remember the Church’s worthiness amid its messiness?
I have been scanning the tapestry of my ministry for a larger-than-life picture that might indisputably defend the Church’s beauty, despite its obvious and painful shortcomings. But I’ve realized there is no such thing. There is no single image that can capture the resilient beauty of the Church.
Instead, there are only snapshots of beauty, flashes of glory. And my mind has lingered upon them, beholding a myriad of people whose labors on behalf of the Church are nearly invisible, yet whose devotion and love and dedication are like pieces of a puzzle. When fit together just so they become the most breathtaking of masterpieces. They become the beauty that inspires me to write. They become the movement I love to lead.
It’s the Reggies, who sit with a grieving friend week after week so he doesn’t grieve alone. It’s the Natalies, who pray for any and every need brought to her attention. It’s the Kamilas, who deliver meals to new moms and post-surgery widowers and families needing an extra layer of support. It’s in their lives and their ministry and their steady faithfulness that I find the breathtaking beauty of the Church.
For when the leaders fail - and we always do, on some level or another - it’s the collective witness of the people that tells the real story, the story of Christ’s hands and feet and knees and elbows and eyes and ears loving the world with transformative grace, being the Church that we leaders long for and desperately need.
My mind was swirling with the faces and stories of the ordinary saints in my life when I stepped onto the prayer labyrinth tucked beside our historic sanctuary. The church I serve has been on our property for over 100 years, and while the prayer labyrinth is a new addition, it sits upon a sacred space where Christians have gathered to meet God for generations.
I slipped off my shoes and stepped barefoot onto the winding path before me, looking for a connection with God, looking for a glimmer of the Church’s beauty amid my disappointment. Around the third or fourth curve, my awareness shifted from the warmth of the tiles under my bare feet and the cold ache in my heart to something else. It wasn’t the presence of the Holy Spirit that grabbed my attention, though I’m confident the Spirit was swirling around me, guiding my steps. This was a different kind of presence, a presence of memory. A collective memory of people I’ve never met. People who have walked this sacred swath of earth for decades before me, who hallowed this particular patch of ground upon which I stood.
In my mind’s eye, I saw a great many faithful feet walking the way of prayer with me. In my imagination, I wondered at the disappointment they surely carried in the Church, and I marveled at their determination to be faithful to its call, despite it all. I felt the love with which they lived and ministered, the hope they passed on through the generations, heart to heart to heart, resting now in the hearts of the people I know and love in these pews.
Leaving the prayer labyrinth that afternoon, I was certain of one thing. The church I serve has not been here for more than a century because of its leaders’ successes or failures; it’s here because Jesus is living in and working through its people.
The truth is, we’re all faulty vessels through which God shares light and love with the world. Sometimes we crack, and some cracks are bigger than others, some are more public, and when leaders are involved, some are devastating. But I do not despair.
Because Dalia will keep delivering her flowers.
Kamila will keep sharing nutritious meals full of love.
Gus will keep facilitating the support group for folks struggling with mental health.
The choir will keep singing.
Juliette will keep washing the linens, and Natalie will keep praying.
Melody will keep raising awareness about social injustices.
Tony will keep shepherding his aging Sunday School class, and Alice will keep growing produce to provide fresh vegetables for local food banks.
These ordinary Holy Spirit-inspired people remind me that, even when we leaders stumble, God is quietly, faithfully, unwaveringly carrying on the ministry of Jesus through the imperfect, humble offerings of Christ’s body, the Church, whom I can’t help but love.
As always, each and every name I use in this essay is completely made up, but they represent very real, very wonderful people.
Beautiful reflection❤️
Absolutely beautiful and a needed reminder. Thank you, Laura.