These Are My People

They stood before us in complete brokenness. Their souls were anguished and what they shared was crushing. We were a room filled with salty tears and heavy hearts. They had pulled back their shroud of mourning and palpable grief spilled onto people eager to bear the burden with them. Eager to carry even an ounce of their pain. With news such as theirs, judgement could have proven swift and tongues could have been ablaze with harsh speculation.

I reached a hand for her during prayer. We fervently sought the Lord. When words were spent, we both eyed her nail indents in my palm.  I tried to recall a time when I felt so wholly needed during a prayer that the physical proof lasted longer than the prayer itself. 

I've seen people tenaciously cling to Jesus. I've heard the confessions of the saints. I've looked on as the young wash the feet of the wise. I've listened to prayers soothe anxious minds. I've watched them crisscross the room to pray with him. To edify her. At first I was shocked by the gentle admonitions peppered throughout conversation. Now the shock would be to not hear it. 

We've found our tribe. It's messy and transparent. It requires each one doing their work, and isn't that how it should be? For us, it happens to be a more organic tribe. However, I'm a firm believer that any Jesus-lovin' people can fit the bill whether they meet at a park or in the pews, submerge or sprinkle, are liturgical or non-denominational. While those details (and scores of other churchy topics) are of incredible import, all the theology in the world can offer nothing more than a framework for beliefs. Heart work is developed in the grittiness of relationship. Discipleship, true discipleship, challenges your weaknesses, calls upon your strengths, and rubs you raw. And just as raw flesh will blister, sometimes a raw faith will do the same. That broken family? They were blistered. They knew they needed the healing salve of their tribe. They came with wounds exposed. We listened with bandages in hand.

I don't share to self-congratulate. Our tribe is a hot mess. I share because I know these people deeply enough to know we're all a hot mess. We see each others' faults, because we push beyond Sunday greetings and polite prayer requests. All the programs and curriculum in the catalog can't buy that kind of authenticity. 

Can I suggest something? Trade in the brittle facade. Replace it with a robust desire to truly love Jesus and His people. Carve out time. Ask hard questions. Tell hard stories. Break bread. Reach far. Call. Write. Pray. Repent. Fast. Confess. Worship. Repeat.

Learning to Repeat,

Cynthia