Welcome to our Church if__?

Do the doors of your church swing wide for all?

I park, grab my Bible, jaunt down the sidewalk, excited for Sunday’s service. A woman is pacing in front of the stairs that lead to the towering doors of our 110-year-old church.

“Good morning,” I say, ignoring her body language, begging to be left unseen.

She nods.

“Are you thinking about coming inside?”

“I’m not dressed properly.”

“We’re a come as you are church, so you’re dressed perfectly. Come on in, it’s hot out.”

Red-faced from heat and anxiety, she follows me through the doors. I wink at my husband, who knows the signal for just ignore that I am not sitting with you. He’s our Sunday guy, arriving hours ago. The one who opens the doors, turns on the essence of air conditioning, doing whatever behind-the-scenes stuff needs to be done.

I learn my new friend’s name is Dahlia, she likes extra cream and Splenda in her coffee and my red hair. During worship, she apes my every move.

I stand, and she stands. I sit, she sits, my hands raise, and so do hers. I hate that she believes we have rules or standards she must abide by to be accepted. When the sermon begins, she hands me a small plastic crucifix looking as if an 18-wheeler ran over it twice.

Sipping her coffee, she asks, “Is this Catholic?”

Quiet as possible, I explain that the cross is for everyone. She asks more questions, the kind you’d travel across the world to answer. A well-known local homeless fellow to my left shushes us.

Before my apology nod is complete, Dahlia yells, “shut-up!”

Then he calls her a nasty name.

Eyes shift from the Pastor to our side of the congregation. I laugh, rather loud, partly from anxiety but also because I admit the messy situation amused me. Granted, I’d rather be viewing than performing the scene.

The good news is, we all survived, together as the church; a building packed with all types of people, each with their own flavor of imperfection, seeking a common goal — God.

You see, Dahlia is not that odd.

I know because years ago, I walked through the doors of this same church. I sat in the balcony, staring down at the seemingly angelic beings. One woman, a good friend today, swayed and raised her arms with such joy. I was certain she was void of any crust or stain, raised with parents who spoke volumes of kind words derived out of pure thoughts. I later learned she’d struggled with addictions and brokenness — like me.

Truth be told, a lack of church upbringing is more normal than we’d like to think. In my family, there were occasions of church, like funerals, weddings, sporadic Easter Sundays, and even a season of church camp.

My childhood Sunday ritual began with closing the drapes, followed by the explanation, “We don’t want Aunt Betty and Uncle Arthur to think we are home if they stop by after church.”

It’s not that they were disliked. They were highly respected as kind, loving and dear. Still, we walked stooped over, hiding our silhouettes behind the drapes simply because we were not prepared to be perfect today. At least, that’s the impression it left on me. Betty and Arthur might be good folk, but they would never accept us as is. Since those days, I’ve met scores of people, young, old and in-between who believe they are not good enough for church. They believe, as did I, that God doesn’t want them until they get their perfect groove on.

I was shocked when I read the Bible. Did you know it is full of stories about imperfect people that God liked — a bunch. How could I have been so wrong? And, churches are full of people like me; broken, hurting, needy. Maybe there’s a few leaning toward angelic, but it’s highly unlikely. The best part is, they took me in, loved me into believing God loves me even more.

Not everyone knows God. There are many like Dahlia, hanging outside, afraid to enter fearing they’re not spiffed up enough for God to welcome them. Even sadder are those who believe they know God’s character based on tainted information and misconstrued ideals. Oh dear God help those who seek to know you via social media.

My heart cries for those who feel they are unlovable. I get it. My hope, my prayer, is for those sitting in the balconies, back pews or hanging outside afraid to enter. This strange, ever-changing world is full of hurting people, each from a special cookie cutter. What makes a widowed social bee feel welcome may scare away a newly sober lone wolf. I’m grateful for those who swung open the doors, and allowed me entrance, right where I stood. Let’s pray for each other that we will be granted wisdom for each soul knocking at the doors of our church.

I am grateful for the gifts of grace shown to me by many.

• Willingness to listen. This helped me trust others more than anything else. If they were willing to hear my views, I could hear and give credibility to them, as well.

My dear brothers and sisters, take note of this: Everyone should be quick to listen, slow to speak, and slow to become angry, (James 1:19, NIV) Kindness and compassion. Show don’t tell, put feet to your faith. Don’t make grandiose statements of intended prayers when what’s needed is a drink of water, a meal, a friend, or a place to rest.

“Come to me, all you who are weary and burdened, and I will give you rest. (Matthew 11:28, NIV)

• Acceptance and love for me right where I stood.

Accept one another, then, just as Christ accepted you, in order to bring praise to God. (Romans 15:7, NIV)

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