It was a day when winter was trying to be pushed out by the warmer weather of an early Spring. We had arrived at church in time to get settled in our usual seats. The music of praise and worship swelled, boasting voices singing to an audience of One. Each carrying parts of their wounded or joyous hearts to present to God as a sacrifice of praise. Sitting in church surrounded by those whom God has sent to this body, all of a sudden, tears welled up in my eyes and spilled onto my blouse. I was overwhelmed with the goodness of God and the miraculous work he was doing at Christ First Church which had started years before prior to its even being planted.
My church caters to those whom other churches time and again have shown they don’t want or can’t take the time to minister to. Perhaps they don’t look far enough into the community to recognize the need even being there. It’s easy to miss or ignore the people on the fringes. Their voices have been silenced by our idea of what acceptable humanity looks like. Often, these are viewed as the throw-aways. The weak. The unlovely. Those who can be difficult to love. Those who bring odd noises and obsessive movements. Those whose dress is unexpected or messy. Those who may bring an unpleasant odor. Those who may not understand “proper etiquette” at church. Those who talk loudly or who rock back and forth for seemingly no reason. Sometimes their brokenness is difficult to face. What we fail to want to admit is that we are all broken, theirs is just more visible.
Sitting among the pews is my son. He has Down syndrome. Others have autism. There are some with sensory issues who struggle to participate. Some have difficulty focusing. Still others have seizure disorders. Some are in wheelchairs. There are others who are challenged with mental health issues.
It is these voices that are raised in song. It is these souls that are embraced and loved well. It is these who worship together sprinkled among the whole congregation.
Belonging.
It was an ordinary Sunday.
