Church—Where Is She? | A Poem on the lost of the real Church in North America
"She,” not an “it.” Living people, joined as one, sharing one life, one mission. She—not a place to go, not an event to attend, not an institution to recognize, not merely a block of time in our week. She. They. Not "it." Not "where." But who?
Though at times ineffable, we can sense Her, see Her, know when she is there. But is She here? Have we made do with scarcely a trace of her presence, with her adulterated substitute: have we accepted merely an "it," a place, a program?
The godless, the goats, and many misled sheep may be content with “it.” Yet for that very reason they suffer because it is only an “it,” never a “them”; never truly a family, never truly a home.
Why are the saints content to sit rather than worship, to nod rather than obey, to listen rather than pray, to leave rather than stay? The church is not the Church unless we become the Church. We—yes, we. Not merely I, or he, or she.
Not merely one, or two. We. Us.
Now all we have is church, but not Church—a place, but no soul; sheep, but no flock; "community," but no family.
Is it any wonder that we are still strangers? Is it a surprise that our hearts grow cold yet burn for what this world offers?
Is it any wonder they will not listen?
They scorn us, mock us, and mostly ignore us.
Church—where is she? Is she everywhere else but here? Where this once was the land that God kept glorious and free, must people go elsewhere to see that light, to hear that gospel?
Church, O Church, where are you?