The Saturday Journal: What My Church Means to Me. A Message for Homecoming

Homecoming Sundays are treasures of my childhood where the crowds at worship seemed a little larger in number and the Homecoming meal tables would stretch for miles. Fried chicken, meatloaf, deviled eggs, fresh green beans, pound cake, peach cobbler, coconut cake---the women folk sure brought out their best cooking and baking. People were joyful in the moment and also in the memories. The same will be true this Sunday--at my church's Homecoming. Members and visitors will come dressed in ole timey dresses and bonnets--many of our menfolk will wear their overalls and boots. And there will be an abundance of food and desserts and at least six plates of deviled eggs--you can never have too many of them. Homecoming is a time to reflect and give gratitude to God, first and foremost, to our church families and to those who long ago--those faithful servants who built a strong foundation grounded in faith and truth--in which many churches still stand on today. Six years ago our pastor asked us to share what our church meant to us. And this Sunday we are to share a special moment or moments we have had since coming to our church. I'm anxious and excited to hear what our church family will share. I've shared "What My Church Means to Me" before and with each passing day I feel an even deeper love for my church family. And I continue to be at a lost for words for God's kindness and grace and the gift of my church.

What My Church Means to Me

August 13, 2017

Almost a stranger, known by only a few—a little over thirteen years ago and you--the church welcomed me, and then you loved me. Despite my scars.

You are my haven--worshipping in gratitude, in faith, in unity as a circle of love. Where knees are pressed solid in prayer and tears stain the sacred altar floor.

I watched on this particular Sabbath morning two sisters mourning together. And when they broke away from their long embrace their watery eyes told the story of love and hurt. Of one sister’s loss and one sister’s Christ-like compassion. This is my church where hugs are sometimes tighter--where a dear sister will reach for your hand during an altar of prayer--where handshakes are sometimes longer and words are not spoken. Where needs and heartbreaks are often left unsaid, but are known to the hearts of the church. And you, my church are a praying church. We are woven together and when one of us hurts--we all hurt.

My church is voices lifted high in song--a precious baby cry--church bells ringing--testimonies of thanksgiving and praise, and the true word of God preached by a man who was never a stranger to us, nor was his wife. Their obedience and service to God’s calling is one of my church’s greatest blessings.

My church is the quietness of listening and soaking in God’s word in Sunday School, during revival meetings, and squeals of children’s laughter during Vacation Bible School. And the splash of living water can be heard--another new soul rising from the cleansing—washed in the blood—in faith believing--baptism.

Photo courtesy of Jill Miller Woodie

My church is voices of the past, those who built the church on strong beliefs, faith, and hope. And their widows, children, grandchildren, great grandchildren--they continue to remain steadfast in the Word--running their own race of faith.

My church is the humble reverence of communion. Breaking bread together. Partaking of His body. Drinking of the cup, together—His blood. Remembering what Jesus did for us. Remembering together.

My church is filled with lighthouses that welcome strangers, orphans, believers--the lost.

And on this summer Sunday morning, I sat in awe of his courage--for him, a stranger to walk through the doors and worship with my church. I watched him as he stood and sang during the offering song. He didn’t need a song book. He knew the words by heart. I saw a Deacon and others in my church welcome him--reaching out a hand in fellowship. He was one of those who never returned. Could it be, we as a church have entertained angels as the Bible speaks? In my heart—I believe.

And my church extends outside the four walls of our gathering place, the sanctuary. To those who are no longer able to come and worship, to strangers in need. They are not forgotten.

My church. Are we flawless people?

No.

My church is simply filled with imperfects holding on to the only perfect One.

My church. My undeserved grace.

A humble thank you for reading The Saturday Journal.

My prayer is to share The Saturday Journal every Saturday or at least bi-weekly--

but always on Saturdays. If you would like to have The Saturday Journal come to your email box, please subscribe to A Beautiful Grace blog and newsletter at

http://www.tathelmiller.com

All photos @copyright Tathel Miller, unless otherwise credited to another photographer.