We Got to Church Early
Beating the Odds
Despite a 10:30 start time, being early to church isn’t as easy as you may think. There’s the end-of-week sleepies that make your bed seem more comfy than ever before. Plus the social burnout — going early means talking to people, and I’ve been talking to people all week. And don’t even get me started on the all-too-enticing lure of a Starbucks line, which cures not only the sleepies, but also gets me out of that dreaded socializing. Besides, pumpkin spice season doesn’t last forever.
Somehow, despite all the odds and obstacles, we got to church early. Home-brewed Folgers in hand instead of that coveted cold brew. Diaper bag, Bible bag, and belt bag are slung over one shoulder, while my opposing forearm juggles four sets of Tupperware that need to be returned to various church members. Clamped under my arm are a book I borrowed, cookies for the hospitality table, a sweater in case the AC is pumpin’, a tank top because it never is, and my tattered printout of the morning’s Scripture reading. Oh, and the hungry baby.
Seeing God in People
Needless to say, Sunday morning is a marathon. That’s true when I roll in right on time, let alone early enough to bear the burdens of other believers, mingle with members, and greet new guests. But again, I got to church early, so we might as well make the most of it. What I give up is an extra twenty minutes on the sunrise side of Sunday morning, and what I gain is a glimpse of earth as it is in Heaven.
I arrived to see students of all ages engaging some of our older members. Sharing wins and woes of the week at school, spurred on by saints sixty years their senior. I watched a wall of women wrap around a sister stunned by sickness. Weeping as she wept, their cascade of tears combined with the current of her own. I bore witness to a brother’s return after many weeks away. His shoulders slumped, sheepish and afraid of what we’d say, but the eyes of many men lit up as they finally understood how it felt to be the father when his prodigal son came home. Hug after hug after hug, and he never stood alone.
I beheld the bustle of selfless servants — the Kids Ministry army assembling for another week of waging war against worldliness as they teach the Bible to toddlers. Hospitality hustlers carting coffee carafes across the cafeteria floor — sacrificing skin to scalding water that will waken and warm weary worshipers. The set-up squad placing stools and speakers on a schoolroom stage where we’ll soon assemble. Smiling as they’re sweating, that long-forsaken air conditioner not working once again. And despite being there since 8 AM, I hear their plea: “Put me to work!” and “God, use me.”
Taste of Heaven
The clock counts down to start time and I see the stack of bulletins shrink. I watch the urgency of long-attending members race to embrace someone they haven’t met before, understanding the call that a person sitting alone is an emergency. The two-minute warning hits and babies are returned to their rightful parents after being passed around like a plate at a potluck — the youngest among us growing unable to tell the difference between blood relatives and church family. Bibles are brought out of bags and laid in laps, souls quieted as the Lord calls us into worship through his Word.
The service host begins his welcome as a collective sigh courses through the room. “We made it,” everyone seems to be saying. Through all the trials and triumphs, hurts and hang-ups, grief and gore of the week before, it’s Sunday morning. We’re gathered with God’s people. The passage hits home once again, and because I got to church early, I know how uplifting the truth of his Word must be for them, and for her, and for him. It’s not Heaven yet, but a foretaste of the future we see unfolding. A glimpse of the glory we will one day feast on in fullness. It makes our forever home seem a little more near, and I wouldn’t want to be anywhere but here.