I'm back at church for the first time in over a month. The worship team is playing one of those songs that put a lump in my throat and little Kathleen, who is usually running wild, is resting in my arms with her head on my shoulder. The air in the room is heavy with grief. We are saying goodbye to sweet Elinore. I am crying too, but not for Elinore. I am crying for us. We are a motley crew of lost and broken-hearted. We sit alone together: an adulteress, an alcoholic, a rape victim, a man so lonely his pain is palpable. The body of Christ is still bleeding.
Not one of us gets through life unscathed. For some the pain comes early, for others it will be much later, but misery will find us all -if only because we have decided to take up the cross of our brother who can no longer carry it himself. If we are living safe, comfortable lives and belong to a church filled with good, happy people then we are either delusional, in denial, or lazy. The harvest is plentiful but the workers are few.
Across this broken body of Christ a new vision is formed and hope springs from bended knees. Our wounds mark our brotherhood and surrender becomes our salvation.
We are one. We are one. We are all one.