Letter: To the Church

Fight the good fight of faith...

1 Timothy 6:12 

Dear storm-weatherers.

I want to encourage you, but before I begin, a story.

There was once a small woman. Young, restless, brimming + full of hope. She was a potpourri of sorts. Full of vanilla and lavender and rose oils and bergamot and almond and nutmeg and cinnamon. Nothing about her made very much sense.

She thought she was happy. She wasn't.

The fact was, she called herself delivered + saved + cherished, but woke up every morning and did the same thing. She locked the door of the house she was in. This was not a good house; it was the barracks of a regiment of rulers + dictators with no presence of mind to care. It was full of people—soldiers—who were determined that everyone had to reach a higher standard, everyone should only smell like carnations, because the best warriors are all the same. That was the one scent she did not have. And so she would lock the door and buy their lies and douse herself with the scent of small pink-petaled flowers in a meaningless effort to be more like them. And if she ever smelled of any other scent—which was often—then they hit her. In the gut. Or kicked her. In the ribs. Or brought a leather belt down on her arms. Or shot her in the back. Or knifed her forehead. Or whipped her. And burned her. And cut the tips of her fingers with razor blades. And broke her bones. And slapped her. Again and again and again.

The saddest part of it all was, sometimes she did those things to herself.

Every night she would go to sleep, bloody + worn down + sorrowful, and every morning she would wake up and lock the door and let it all begin again.

All because she didn't smell like carnations, and the commanding officer said this was the only way.

One day her older sister left, simply because she was too tired. And our young woman, our bruised + beaten warrior, she followed her sister. Crawled after her really, because by that time her knees were the only way she could stand.

They went to another house, the camp of a band of warriors, a brotherhood.

Our woman barely even made it there. She might not have, if not for the one man who came alongside them and supported her. He was tall + familiar + kind, a carpenter not a soldier, but she didn't recognize him.

He smelled of the sun.

He offered to carry her, but in her foolish pride + ignorance, she refused him and held her bloody self together with her own two hands. He looked so sad about it all and wouldn't leave her, that near the end she at least let him press down on the hole in her shoulder. She didn't want to get her blood all over the dark wooden floors of the house they had arrived at.

She did anyway. Even with his hands putting pressure on her wounds and trying to stop the bleeding. The floorboards ran red with her that morning. The harm done to her was that life-threatening, that grievous, that abusive. 

They forgave her of the stains though. There were already some there, from those before her. The hurt came here always. This house that was a safe place, a solace, a steeple.

A haven. 

Even though she was rescued, for two more years she continued to wound herself daily. She subjected herself to the same tortures that the first regiment she had been a part of had. She rubbed the carnations all over herself till her skin was raw.

But at night, she could swear the carpenter was there in her room, pressing his large hands onto her injuries, changing her, growing her, healing her.

And he was.

It was a strange place, this new regiment. They all smelled differently + they were all under the impression that it was okay for it to be that way. Sometimes they bickered, but most often they got along and loved each other in a way she could have never imagined. They were willing to lay down their lives for one another. This was more than a soldier's camp, an army post, a place for warriors. This was a community, a band of brothers + sisters, a family. The camaraderie they had was undeniable, and it was something to be jealous for. They were fierce + ready + sure. They were being led, but she didn't really know who it was that was leading. She thought she'd never find him.

She finally saw him for who he really was, two years later after she realized what she was doing was wrong + that she needed to stop. He was the king, the greatest of all, the gentlest of every man, the savior. The captain. The other fighters didn't laugh at her for her stupidity. They didn't call her an idiot. They simply gently supported her discovery with extended arms of friendship + great joy + they celebrated with her as she grasped with fluttering hands at her gorgeousness that he had created and she finally realized he had made her—fearfully and wonderfully—and all her flavors + smells + oils + scents.

The carpenter was their leader.

And suddenly everything about her made sense, and she was happy. 

The woman was me.  

We live in a tragic and brutal time. I am sure you know that. The storm we are facing is huge; it takes up the entire sky. And I am afraid, as I'm sure you are. Because though we are warriors, though we are fighting the fight + waging the war + battling the battle, we are still only human.
We are still small.
The storm we must weather sometimes looks too big.
But please take heart, please step into your armor daily. Because our leader is larger and fiercer than any other. Do not shirk your calling, do not strip yourself of your protection, do not shrink from the front-lines.

Do not be a coward.

I know it is hard. I am there too.  I am frustrated too. I am frightened too. I am quaking too. But we must man-up. We must overcome. We must hold our swords tighter.
There are too many of us leaving.
I am sure you know my friends, some of us are walking away. They are leaving the church, the band of warriors, the body. And they are doing it of their own accord + justifying it with romantic notions of global love and a greater purpose. They compare themselves to abolitionists and peaceful warriors and great men + women. But they are not. Do not listen to them. Do not be fooled. I have been there, to a similar place such as that. And it will not end well for you. I promise you that. If you go, it will not end well for you. It will not be the fairytale you are hoping for.

They will only shoot you in the back with their lukewarmness.

When I walked in through the doors of the place I now call my home, I was black + blue and a hypocrite. My blood ran all over the floors each Sunday as I condemned myself even after those who had done it before were out of my life. I was hurting myself spiritually in ways you can't imagine. But then you were there, all of you were there. And over time, I learned to love with abandon.
I learned that I would die for you.

It is up to us to fix things if they are broken. We are soldiers and fighters, but the simple truth of the matter is, we are also sons + daughters of the carpenter. And he will teach us to build and repair and make and create. He will lay a sure foundation, he will hide us in the cleft of the rock, he will prepare us. Because "the harvest truly is great, but the labourers are few."

We need to be the few.

Anchor yourselves, for the biggest waves of this raging storm have yet to come. Do not be unmoored + discouraged by those walking out the doors. See, it is that fact alone that proves it to me, that they are doing something wrong.

They are walking out the doors, whereas I crawled in them.

Wounded soldiers do not strip off their armor and hide in the warmth of an enemy's camp while licking their scratches and pretending to be pilgrims on an epic journey for truth and love, unsure of whether truth is a revelation they can find in a poem or if no one actually knows it and everything is right. Wounded soldiers lay in the dirt, gripping the earth and holding onto their dear lives with rattled breathing and pulsing blood because they know that any moment now their friend, their comrade, will come dashing across in the midst of the flying bullets to pick them up over his shoulders and he will carry you to safety on his strong back even if it means he dies for you.

Wounded soldiers do not walk out. They cannot walk. Cowards can though.

You have become my family. With your vanilla and pine and citrus and every other beautiful scent you can think of. You are fearfully + wonderfully made, and helped to show me that I am too. I have learned so much with you and from you. I have been healed and renewed and transformed. I have been loved and loved and loved. All of that, by you, the church.

Jesus saved my soul, but in a way, it was you all who saved my life.

I cannot be sure that all of you will weather this storm with me. The Bible does demand it of us though, to fight this good fight. Some of you will continue to leave your cohorts established by the builder and led by him too. Some of you will not stand. But I want to encourage those who will, those who are, those who do. You are good and righteous and beautiful. You were created in the likeness + image of a great king, and he instilled in you the spirit of a warrior, because he knew—even before you were born—that you would fight for him. You know the truth. It's written on the palm of your hands and in the creases of your elbows and behind your knees. And you may doubt, but hold fast + with courage to the promises that are hidden in your heart. The wind will moan and whip. The thunder will roll. The lightning will strike. The rain will pour, it will pelt, it will hurt. But this is more important than a journey for something that satisfies your flesh or fills your human desires. This is not brief + earthly. This storm is about eternity.

What you decide here and now, impacts your forever.

The weight of that sentence is something you need to carry with you. The gravity of this situation, this problem my generation—we—are facing, it has everlasting and permanent consequences. Whether or not you choose to stand and fight for what we've built and defend what we believe, or if you decide to walk away and desert your cohort while barely harmed and in search of a silver lining that doesn't exist will determine the everlasting future that is inevitable for each human.

Heaven or hell is a choice you make.

Church, you are able + capable. You are full of fire and passion and light and salt. You are ready.
And I need you to know, I am sorry.
I am sorry for the foolish youth and young ones walking away. I am sorry they are believing the enemy's lies. I am sorry they are abandoning ship when their arms were the ones needed to man the mainsail. I am sorry they are not brave. I am sorry they no longer want to be soldiers.

I am sorry that my generation is not a generation of storm-weatherers.

We are not only failing you, but we are failing the greatest commission and denying ourselves the imperative calling. But please do not lose heart.
Do not lose heart.
Do not lose heart.
Do not lose heart.
There are some of us who see that the fields are white + ripe + ready for the harvest. We are small in number, but equipped with hope. So don't give up. Keep extending your hands. Keep mopping the blood up from your floors. Keep singing. Keep assuring those who crawl through the oak doors. Keep embracing. Keep loving.

Continue battling.

I will meet you there, in the field. I promise. I vow. I swear. And I will bring with me the few who are willing. I will continue the work you have continued. I will board the ship with you. I will ride into the thick of things. I will carry you to the infirmary. I am determined that my generation will not rob you of seeing the finish line. We will drag you across it, even if the bullets hit us harder and it seems like there are not enough of us. We will go back for you. Again and again and again. We will forge ahead of you, and discover and cut trails and make paths. We will run our forces into the most dangerous forest with you, and you will be stunned at our ferocity and perseverance and boldness.
We may be the smallest warriors that you have ever seen, but we will have the biggest hearts.

You have saved me. I will save you too.

We will not leave the church. I will not leave you church. I will fight the good fight and wage the war. I will build onto what you have already built onto.
This will be the fiercest generation you have ever laid eyes on.
Fear not.

I am coming. 

We are coming. 

From a daughter of the carpenter, a storm-weatherer.