is your church safe?

Yesterday one of the associate pastors (Pastor Tom) said this: “Confession always begins in a safe place and leads us to freedom.” Those weren’t his exact words. But that’s the gist of the quote.

Can I admit something? It might shock a few of you. Heck, it might even disappoint one or two of you. But here it goes…

I really like my church.

Seriously, I like it. If you knew me, you’d appreciate that sentiment a lot more. I don’t say those words lightly. But it’s true: I like my church. For the first time in I don’t know how long, I look forward to Sunday mornings. And when I’m not able to be there, I feel like I miss something.

(A part of me doesn’t believe I just wrote that.)

It’s not because Cross Point is perfect. Because it’s not. Far from it. There are things about it that actually annoy the hell out of me. But I won’t list them here. (Read churched when it releases.)

But one of the reasons I like my church is because it’s a safe place. Or it’s attempting to be a safe place. Maybe it’s not entirely safe. I mean, I’m sure somebody who goes to church there finds it unsafe or whatever. But still, that’s it goal–to be a place where people can be real. Now, I don’t mean “safe,” as in fear-filled and protective, but safe as in “you can be you without fearing judgment or condemnation.”

Sick people come to my church. And when I first started attending, I’ll be honest, I was prideful in thinking that I wasn’t one of them, that somehow I was better than all of them. (It’s embarrassing to even admit that, but it’s true.) There was a part of me who couldn’t or didn’t want to identify with the idea of being “sick.” Not because I was well or even close to it, but because I pretended to be well. Since I was a little boy, I have gone to the kinds of churches where I was taught how to pretend NOT to be sick. At those churches I didn’t really need Jesus; I needed acting lessons.

Recently, a few people at my church have gotten to know me. The real me. The “me” that only a few people in the world know. The “me” that is sick and is beginning to recognize my real need for the gospel. The “me” that is prideful and broken and cynical and dirty. The “me” that has acted like a Christian his entire life.

But here’s the thing… Even after knowing “me,” not once has anybody made me feel unsafe or insecure or unworthy. (It sounds almost weird, doesn’t it? It does to me.) But it’s for that reason, I can confess to being who I am without fear and condemnation.

And that’s like an I.V. for somebody who is sick.

(Sorry. Cheesy line, I know. But you’ll live.)

I don’t write this post to gloat. I just write it because I’m thankful.

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