I love Thy kingdom, Lord, The house of Thine abode, The Church our blest Redeemer bought With His own precious blood. I love the Church, O God! Her walls before Thee stand, Dear as the apple of Thine eye And graven on Thy hand.
“What if we have to cancel church?” we asked in disbelieving tones, watching things develop last Thursday. This was of course closely followed by, “Why oh why didn’t we ever buy stock in toilet paper?!” No one else in America came up with that humorless quip, I’ll bet.
We didn’t – cancel church, that is. Not at first anyway. But I imagine that none of the decisions made have been easy for our elders.
We have a certain combination of demographics in our church: a seasoned and wise elderly group, together with about a zillion kids. Those of us in the middle often glance from side to side with a little prayer of thanksgiving that God in His wisdom mixed us so well. Warbled voices from the most mature of us mingle beautifully with the clear high notes of youth during our music time. Throw in some accompaniment: an ace of a fiddle player, drums, the perfect harmonizing of our worship leader and his soprano wife. And what is the result? Our humble congregation, joined together in song every week, is a genuine foretaste of heaven. I say ‘humble’ because we’re not great at clapping in time, and we know it. Perhaps I will miss our singing the most.
The Husband came home from his elder meeting last week to type out a long-winded email warning anyone to stay home if they had any symptoms or if it might be dangerous for them, along with all the other precautions being taken. We took guesses as to how many would show up. I wondered if it would seem quiet and sad with such reduced numbers on Sunday. It’ll be okay.
I walked into our auditorium late, during our first worship song, which I noticed was a very robust In Christ Alone, especially for how lightly attended it should be. Walking around the back, I was stunned to see so many present. More were coming in. We covered our usual age range. We are not a people that forsake church easily, I thought.
My heart absolutely swelled, and then a moment later, sank. Our perfect mix of old and young has been continuously warned against by media pundits, medical honchos, and heads of state alike. I knew at that moment we might be looking at our last in-person church service for a while. I tried to swallow the lump in my throat as I scanned the room. There really is nothing that can replace being in the presence of the body of Christ. These are my people, and I love them.
The ones who march into the building every week with eager grins and impossibly firm handshakes. There’s no more fortifying a sight than two Christian fathers – families milling around them – greeting each other on a Sunday with a hearty handshake, perhaps followed by a loud clap on the back. It’s the Lord’s day, and we’re here to encourage!
The ones who fill the building with angelic laughter, and those who appear next to you with a quieter smile and a wink.
The teachers who settle into their classrooms, turning to greet Sunday School students with delight as they trickle in.
The women who pause in their bustle through coffee set-up for a quick hug.
There are a lot of hugs on Sunday morning.
The parents who come in late, attempting stealth, only to have their toddler run to the auditorium entrance and yell, “Hi!!!”
The people who start singing too early during a hymn. Truly, nothing blesses me more than an enthusiastic voice that comes in on A Mighty Fortress a full measure ahead of the congregation! The only danger is being a little too overcome with the humor of the situation.
And then there are the dear souls who trudge in with heavy sighs, seeking friendly faces and a few hours of gospel solace from their brothers and sisters.
The people who perhaps face trials or tough decisions, and sit, quiet and apart, staring intensely at a page in their Bible.
The ones who put on a brave face, and then cannot stem the tears when the congregation sings the last verse to an old familiar hymn.
The occasional person who weeps after service in a corner, surrounded by comforting fellow saints, hands laid on stooped shoulders.
Those who whisper desperate prayer requests to a brother or sister, while the listener squeezes a hand and promises to intercede for them.
We mourn with those who mourn.
For her my tears shall fall, For her my prayers ascend; To her my cares and toils be given Till toils and cares shall end.
I can barely think about how much I’ll miss the men who get unexpectedly choked up while reading the Psalm aloud.
The listeners who “Amen!” the sermon, and the ones who nod affirmation through the whole thing.
The Bereans who sit forward, elbows on knees, squinting at the preacher as if weighing every single word.
The people who look positively dead-eyed, and yet ask an alarmingly insightful question later in the week about what was said on Sunday.
Those who shut their Bibles in the last few minutes of the sermon, close their eyes, and simply listen to the preacher bring it home, worshiping the God who brings lost people home.
The encouragers who squeeze my husband’s shoulder as they shuffle by him in the communion line.
And the kids! Oh the kids. Little ones running and playing hide and seek in the rows of chairs. Giving out hugs and high fives, showing off their new Bibles and Sunday clothes. Wailing and giggling and answering those rhetorical questions during the sermon, turning around and waving at people behind them, asking dad loudly when lunch is, and crawling ever closer, ever closer to the pulpit until mom finally notices there is an escapee from her row! Actually that particular phenomenon might be what blesses me the most.
And oh, how I’m going to miss it.
These are my people. We are the church. We should be together. It should grieve us when we are unable to be. An online service is a pale shadow of what we should be. But COVID-19 lurks like a hungry wolf, and our shepherds are diligent in seeking the safety of the flock, as well as the good of the community beyond our church walls.
And yet light peeks out from a not-too-distant horizon. In a matter of weeks perhaps, we know we will be together again. When we are physically present with our church once more, I will look on our motley crew with a stronger affection than ever. We’ll worship as we are meant to again. Oh the joy of that day! It’s wonderful to have that to look forward to.
But even then, we will soon start to sigh. There will be tears. We’ll sin and grow tired of each other’s eccentricities and weaknesses. We are, after all, a people in need of a Savior. Sin is our greater pandemic, and Jesus is our only Healer. This pale shadow of a world waits to be made new. Until we are with Christ in glory, we look ahead to the full consummation of our future hope in him. And that is our real day to look forward to. There will be no need for tears or desperate prayers on that day, and in that place. Our laughter will be a hundred times louder and more joyful. We will hug with gusto, and no fear of germs. Fear itself, hungry wolves, and death do not exist there. Instead we’ll finally look on the Bright Morning Star who has defeated all that, and shines brighter than the sun.
And the embarrassed church member who comes in too early in the hymn? His voice will mingle in perfect time with the angels.
Beyond my highest joy I prize her heavenly ways, Her sweet communion, solemn vows, Her hymns of love and praise. Sure as Thy truth shall last, To Zion shall be given The brightest glories earth can yield, And brighter bliss of heaven. hymn by Timothy Dwight (1797)
The Type B Mom 