These are my people...

True Confessions (anybody else remember that magazine version of the Maury Povich show?)... I am a country music fan. If there is war talk on NPR, I switch to the local country music station and it never fails me. A song will come on that starts me to thinking. This morning on the way to get paint for mama I heard, “These are my people. It ain’t always purty but it’s real.” This is a wonderful description of my love affair with churches and church people.
I’ve belonged to all sizes of churches. Some had forty people in worship on a good Sunday and others routinely had over a thousand. The larger churches offered multiple programs for us and our children... choirs, youth groups, mission trips, many choices for adult programs, libraries. You could always find a small group within the large group. Worship that fed my soul with beautiful music and thoughtful proclamation was on the menu at these larger churches and our family flourished in these communities. The smaller churches, while not a cafeteria of options for the practice of my faith, provided a different way to live in community.
The smallest church I have belonged to was Pauline Baptist Church. The small, austere white frame no nonsense sanctuary with pine floors and pews that would break your back was crisscrossed with a framework on which curtains could be drawn to create Sunday School classrooms. The preacher, who belonged to the suck and blow school of proclamation, was a long lanky old man who still wore a black frock coat and string tie on Sunday.
We joined that church when I was a teenager who was sick at heart leaving the church and friends of my childhood. Only one other teen girl attended Pauline and I felt lost. Sunday mornings, once full of anticipation, now lay heavy on my heart. Slowly, a place was made for me in that small kinfolk congregation. I began to play the piano in worship, sing in a girl’s trio (another girl was imported for this group), listen to the stories told by Miss Flossie and Mr. Jess, visited the Rizer family and others who were our neighbors, and began to become a part of that church family. My first wedding was there and I was surrounded by those who had loved me through to young adulthood. I no longer saw what wasn’t there but celebrated what was there... kinship, community, a family of Christians who knew how to stick around for the long haul, unimpressed by fancy trappings(a good thing since we had none), straight talking plain Baptists.
The largest church I ever belonged to was in a growth spurt when we came. A charismatic preacher was pulling them in on Sunday mornings and the church was full of energy and excitement. Morning worship would have over a thousand souls sitting in the beautiful sanctuary. When we first joined, I would take our children on Wednesday nights for the evening meal and activities. Michael was often working and could seldom attend. Many nights in the beginning, I sat alone and left to go to the church library to read until prayer meeting began. I began teaching one of the children’s groups as a way to be useful.
Gradually we began to find community. We helped found a Sunday School class that used literature along with the Bible to hear the voice of God speaking. Sitting in the same place for worship every Sunday, we began to meet those who sat around us. I took organ lessons from the church organist and reclaimed a talent that had been neglected since college. I joined an exercise class that met in the church gym and brought my youngest with me to the childcare that was provided. There I met other young mothers who became part of my church family. A small church within a larger church...
Regardless of the size or theology or worship style, each community was chock full of people who were real, pretty or not. And, that included me. That is the gift and the curse of organized local churches... a place where folks are real like the Velveteen Rabbit, rough and worn out and angry and sad and happy and smart and dumb as a post. In other institutions where our livelihood or our public character needs protection, we play nicely. The church, however, is one place where most of us let it all hang out on the community clothesline to dry. To my mind, that is one very good reason for being a part of a faith community. Like home, most churches will take you whatever shape you are in. Alcoholic? Come on down. Nag? We have a seat saved for you. Single parent hanging on by your toenails? Sit by me. Upper middle class white male? Junior League soccer mom? Illiterate young adult? We have a spot for you. Come rub shoulders with the rest of us works in progress and lets be real together. Not purty, but real.
As I embark on a new church journey, I give thanks for all the real people who have been my faith family through the years. I am looking forward to being initiated into this new family of mixed up folks who are my travel companions on this trip. We are red and yellow, black and white, precious in the sight of the One who holds us together with the love that transforms the rough places into pearls of great price. Traveling mercies for us all, Lord, as we make our way home to you.