Happy Thanksgiving

You know who you are. Let these words grasp a stranglehold on that numb, mindless pain, that which you have lived with for so long now. It really has been that long, hasn't it? Like a finger, dipped into the dish, into the stew that lay undisturbed, forgotten in the rear of the fridge, for a few too many days. On the surface it appears much like it did the day it went in. It has a crusty layer, glazed over and hardened. But underneath, oh wow, the stink and the rot that lies within. It is blocked from the air, the cool preservation that is openness. But within the heart that is the fridge, it festers, until one day you dip a spoon in, to see what kind of stew it is. Were you surprised at what you found? It is not the yummy recipe it was long ago. I don't think you want it in your fridge any longer. Will you not take it out? It is so repulsive that great effort is needed even to reach in, stick your nose in there, to smell the rot and get near it. Grasp a hold of it, draw it out, take it to the counter, and prepare that pain for burial. I know you don't want to, but now that the reminder has been delivered, now that you know about the rotting stew, how can you leave it back there? Reach out. It is not very far away. It lies just beneath the surface. We are broken vessels. To say it is very cliché, but to know it, as Adam knew Eve, is ever evasive. We wake up Sunday mornings and go to our closet. We take our clothes, all carefully folded and creased, and dress them upon our unflattering bodies. We hide our skin because our skin hides the rotten stew in our tummies. And we put our game face on, grab our keys, ride our plastic toys to the Steeple, and enter in. We sit in rows, lined up like toy soldiers, with pasted smiles on our faces. Stand up now, sit down now, sing it now, hear it now. And then we go. We wander home, regretfully leaving the chit-chat of the lobby, the spiffy clothes, the glib compliments. What were we looking for back there? Did we find it? On the drive home, like an uncomfortable little splinter, we remember the fridge of our heart that we return to. Yes, there will be hot, steamy turkey on the table, but in the fridge there is rotting stew. Are you tired of the pretentious religion? You want to throw it out, as do we all. But something keeps drawing us back, like a creature-instinct for survival, we draw near to the Steeple time and again. We are searching. We are reaching. Maybe the church isn't the place for all the plastic toys and the spiffy clothes. Maybe the church is the place where we should bring our rotting stew. Perhaps we all should just coordinate one day, you know? We'll all show up with our stew in our hands, and we'll have a good old cremation, right there, before the alter. We know we are full of brokenness. We grow, in the Spirit of Jesus Christ, and we find peace in the changing of our hearts. We like to talk about that. We like to pretend it is the end of the story. I fear sometimes we believe the illusion that there is no other reality. We ought to cease the pretending. The stew won't go away. We think that being "Saved" is like a bank-account that Jesus took out in our name. Grace is a currency deposited within us in staggering amounts. However, we believe there is interest attached. We think that our bad dept, if not managed by us, will accumulate against the capital of Grace. We fear that one day we'll find our bank account depleted by the dept. The fridge is empty of anything but stew, and we're terrified. How broken are we? Does He know? Does Jesus know about my rotting stew? It went into the fridge, even after we met. It has been rotting there ever since. What will he do when he finds out? What will the people of my church do when they find out? Surely I can't bring my stew to church - but I don't know where else to throw it out.
The Apostle Paul says we have treasures in our hearts, and we “have this treasure in jars of clay” (1 Cor.4:7). In other words, it is ok to be cracked, dry pottery. It is ok. The bank account is full of Grace. The one who made us and loves us has no illusions. He is not uncomfortable with us. He will still come near.
The church is the place for a broken people. It is for the hurting to experience love. They come broken, no matter what shrink-wrap they come packaged in. If they are rich, then they are broken. If they are poor, they are broken. If they smile, they hurt inside. Jesus has his dinner plate. He sits there, in the church, eyes wide, in anticipation of a meal. He is so beautiful. He smiles. He has a spoon in his hand and he is hungry. Bring Him your stew. He is in the church. Bring Him your stew. While you eat turkey, He'll eat your stew. Happy thanksgiving. "The mass of men live lives of quiet desperation." – Thoreau