my heart swelled with joys and sorrows

a juxtaposition familiar i suppose

as hope streamed from my eyes

grief stained my cheeks

choirs sing praise in the halls

preachers spew blaspheme in the sanctuary

laymen advocate, priests conquest

his bride so pure, yet so stained

her vail washed with his blood as her train is stained with evil’s corruption

how might we muster the courage
to stand with the saints, while our faith is lampooned

where is our Lord, as injustice claims his name and revolution is sidelined?

and yet, the saints sing and hope flows from weary eyes

From weary eyes, hope flows | Isaac Overton

I’ve had a peculiar relationship with Christ’s bride lately. In the reckoning of various personal experiences of abuse and mistreatment from those who claim Christ, I have spent the last few years in search of something more. A search for the so-called “ecclesia” spoken of in the book of acts and seemingly abandoned in modern western civilization.

And I have no doubt found it.

I have found it in communion, in the holy eucharist that somehow equalizes us all with its mystical presence.

I have found it in inter-denominational worship services. Through ecumenical practices that somehow bring together people with vastly differing theology under the banner of Christ.

I have found it in the prophets of old, calling out injustice through absurd yet righteous protests. In voices like Amos and Malachi, in the cries of Jeremiah and Micah, in the absurdities of Isaiah’s disruptive nudity, and in Ezekiel’s 390-day demonstration of Israel’s sin.

I have found it in modern prophets, whose voices echo that of scripture. In Shane Claiborne’s call for a divorce of the Bride and the Empire. In Tish Harrison Warren’s call for a return to the ordinary and the embrace of liturgical practice. In Jackie Hill Perry’s call to deeper holiness, for God himself is holy. In Jemar Tisby’s call for a church whose gospel is not one of oppression, but of justice. And in Preston Sprinkle’s call for a theology of nuance and excellence.

I have found it through traditions different than my own. In the Anglican’s careful attention to Church tradition and steadfastness amidst cultural swirling. In the Catholic’s reverence for communion and practice of confession. In the Anabaptist’s unwavering nonviolence, and dedication to ecclesiastical purity in the midst of violent empires.

I found it on Thursday nights in my small apartment. Where we practice a faith that has been laid before us for centuries. Where we gather around the table and join in sorrowful woes and joyous celebrations all as we look to a man whose life was broken for our feasting.

Yet, just as I have found the beauty of the bride my savior so cherishes, I have also seen more of her wickedness. So my heart swells with both joys and sorrows. For I know the beauty the bride holds, yet I see all too often she wears imposters clothes. Her splendor is shrouded by wickedness. I live in a tension of here and not yet, and I think there is a holiness found in that. So although my eyes may be weary, hope flows from them as I hear the saints sing.