Of Living Outside of Me

While singing a worship song in church this morning, I was praising God with the thought that He is the reason, not only that I was in church this morning, but that I even am at all.  He is the reason I live.  And He hit me back with the thought, "What in your life shows that?"

Uh oh.

Truth be told, as often as I have longed to reach out in more substantial ways, there is very little in my life that exists beyond me.  My every action influences little more than my tiny life and the lives of those in my home.  Not that I shouldn't be taking care of them, but shouldn't there be more - more that indicates that Jesus is Lord of my life?  And not the dishes.  Not the coupons.  Not the baths, the blogs, the babies.  Jesus.

As I contemplated this conviction, the man seated directly behind me, who was whole-heartedly in agreement with every word we sang and every point made by the preacher and said so vocally, was capturing my attention.  At first I was a little amused, but after awhile, I could tell it wasn't going to stop any time soon.  And before long I found myself feeling a little like Peppermint Fizz from yesterday morning's episode of Strawberry Shortcake who declared she did not like Rainbow Sherbet because Rainbow was different!

The man behind me surely was different.  He did not follow the understood rules of silent head-nodding (if any indication) to show approval of the message or quietly singing the words to yourself.  No, he was in love with Jesus and he wanted to make it known.  And I guarantee you someone who isn't quiet in church is definitely not quiet about their faith when they walk out those doors.  Whereas I tend to be silent in both areas - now who do you think is declaring Jesus with their lives?  I hate to say I don't think it's me.

At the end of the sermon the same man hobbled to the front of the stage with a noticeable limp.  I am not sure what caused is physical malady, but he definitely did not let it stop him from kneeling in honor to his Lord to lift up a word of prayer.  Rarely does anyone approach the altar for a simple prayer during the altar call in our church - most (myself included) are content to speak to God from the comfort of their cushy seat or, if they must, while standing with the crowd.  And here was this man, for whom it seemed difficult even to walk, lowering himself on his injured legs to speak to his Jesus.

I was instantly transported back five years to my first moment in a Russian Orthodox church service in which, in the absence of pews or anything (cozy or not) to rest one's rear during the service, those in attendance, primarily very aged and stooped over, stood the entire service - well, except for those moments when they slowly lowered to their knees to literally kiss the ground of this holy place.  Repeatedly in the 20 minutes during which I stayed, I watched these elderly worshipers kneel and then, with much difficulty, pull themselves to their feet once again, only to repeat the process a moment later.

What am I willing to do that will cause me discomfort for the name of my King?  Because I can tell you this much - it doesn't matter if these others were following the conventions of those around them or are even following the conventions of the precise denomination in which I was raised - they get it. 

They get that a Sunday morning church service is not about them or their comfort.  It is not about following the right rules - rules that are not found anywhere in church doctrine or (gasp!) even the Bible itself.  It is not about the frappuccinos after the service or the band on the stage (not that either of those things are wrong in themselves) - it is about God.

Always has been, always will be.

And I know I, for one, need to let this fact be reflected in every facet of my life.