Messy Sunday Mornings

Our Sundays mornings can often be messy. I'm not referring to schedules, attitudes or general household clutter (although I'm sure sometimes the adjective may apply.) Rather, I'm picturing in my mind's eye scenarios like the one I encountered with our nine-year old son Silas today on the street outside FLORECE, the pregnancy center where our Sunday church services are held.

We always aim to arrive an hour early to review songs for the service, and a tradition we've started is walking half a block to the corner bakery for a dollar and a half well spent per fresh empanada for each of us. Today Silas and I drove separately from Pedro and Ian, in preparation for carpooling guests to our home for lunch after church. We arrived first, grateful to find on-street parking with no humans or dogs having made their beds in that particular spot overnight. Unfortunately, rarely can the same be said of not having made the street a bathroom. We've learned to look before stepping and to not take deep breaths while exiting the car and crossing the road!

A loud voice rang out as we stepped hand-in-hand towards the bakery. I surmised it was a street preacher yelling out hellfire and damnation towards sleeping houses, as we've occasionally witnessed before. To my surprise, I realized the bellowing belonged to a wild-looking woman with unkempt, stringy hair who was walking barefoot on the filthy pavement under the streetlight. Her short shorts and cropped top were out of place for September's cooler weather. Beneath her arm was tucked what appeared to be a beat-up Bible, and smoke was circling her from whatever substance she was at that moment ingesting.

"Mom, I'm kind of scared," Silas admitted nervously. 

Even as I reassured him that he was safe and took the opportunity for a brief "say no to drugs" speech, inwardly I couldn't help reflecting on what strange and gritty realities he observes on a regular basis. It is not unusual for our messy Sunday mornings to include walking past men and women shooting up on drugs right out in the open, or being badgered by hungover self-appointed parking attendants seeking a few coins for their next fix. Once as we were walking into our building, a drunk couple staggered out of the building next door and lost their balance, landing in an awkward heap on the dirty curb. Another time we witnessed the bloody consequences of a street fight, with one man's bruised and bleeding face blurring past our car window as we drove by.

I have to admit that sometimes I long for the neat and clean and welcoming spaces of church in the United States. Of pulling into carefully lined parking lots with room for everyone. Of stepping up to a kiosk or podium to receive my child's sticker label to attend the appropriate Sunday School class. Of walking on carpet, in air conditioning, down hallways lined with classrooms to spare. Of opening the door to large, clean, women's bathroom with multiple sinks and stalls. (True confessions, I have actually taken pictures of at least one beautiful church bathroom to send to my friends back in Chile before!)

But then I think that maybe our messy Sunday mornings carry an unexpected blessing. Maybe they grant us just the faintest glimpse of what it was like for Jesus to leave the glories of Heaven to be born among animals in a smelly stable. Maybe the brokenness all around us makes us feel just a touch of His heartbreak and compassion for a wounded world. Maybe gingerly side stepping the filth on our street provokes astonishment that He didn't avoid our mess but embraced us while we were still in it.

And maybe our nine-year old son seeing it all is preparing his heart to hold gratitude and understanding in ways we don't yet comprehend. Because Sunday mornings may be messy, but nonetheless they are good.

“I have told you these things, so that in me you may have peace. 

In this world you will have trouble. But take heart! 

I have overcome the world.” 

(John 16:33)