I love my church. I love it so much I wrote a poem about it. Couldn’t help myself. I feel that strongly.
The House of God
I was glad when they said to me,
“Let us go to the house of the Lord!”
— Psalm 122:1
They come filing in,
the pull of the world dragging at their feet;
trailing thoughts of tasks left undone, expectations unmet,
stepping out of the fog of materialism and greed
and the pervasive fear of inadequacy —
willingly or begrudgingly, they come.
The air is different here, slipping easily into the lungs,
fresh with possibility and renewed hope.
There is no undertow to hamper movement,
just open space, unclaimed, available,
welcoming the seekers, the doubters
and those whose minds whirl with unasked questions.
The cross hangs in the sanctuary,
made of wood, simple, unadorned –
a quiet reminder of what God did for us long ago,
a sign of how deeply and fully we are loved,
and the lengths to which God was willing to go
to get through to us, to save us from ourselves,
and to draw close.
God is everywhere here.
God can be heard in the music and singing,
seen in the smiles, felt in the silence,
met at the altar in prayer.
God is visible in the leaders,
on the faces of those who have answered the call, who have dedicated their lives
to helping all people know God, experience God’s love,
and live in response to that love and unearned grace.
This place, this oasis,
this touchstone reminds us who we are in the eyes of God who made us –
beloved children, washed clean,
well-loved, tucked in.
The doors are flung open, the circle drawn wide,
and there is room for all in this place of light and learning, of love and thankfulness,
of grace freely given and gratefully received –
in this, the house of God.
Lindy Thompson 