How Can We Pray for the Church Amidst Brokenness?

This post is an excerpt from Confessions of an Amateur Saint by Mandy Smith. Published with permission from NavPress.

I saw the headline last week that a large, wealthy congregation split from its denomination. And the headline the week before about Christians publicly making outrageous claims in Jesus’ name. This week there are two news stories about Christian leaders abusing power and being asked to step down, leaving their organizations in a tailspin (two more to add to a long list). And this morning before church I heard the whispers about several key members being upset about changes in the congregation. I heard about the heated discussion in the hallway after church between two people with very different perspectives on sexuality.

My own body is woven into a global Body that’s in a paroxysm. The spasming across denominations and congregations is felt by us all. When I pay attention, I’m aware of a subtle kind of trauma, like someone has shaken me, hard. And although a good shaking doesn’t leave you bruised, it sets up a persistent tremor in places no one can see. If we’re honest, we’ll admit we all feel the shaking.

And still it’s our role to represent this disrupted and disrupting Body. This week there’s still a sermon to be written, a Bible study to be prepared, and a church retreat to be planned. It’s still my job to cast vision for what a church (the church?) can be, even as I’m traumatized by what the church can be. As I plan this retreat, I read Dietrich Bonhoeffer’s Life Together, hoping for help casting a vision of Christian community for this little congregation, daring to imagine—together—that we can be transformed into the likeness of Christ, even more so because we’re together.

But within the first four sentences, Bonhoeffer confronts me with this: “Jesus Christ lived in the midst of his enemies. At the end all his disciples deserted him. On the Cross he was utterly alone, surrounded by evildoers and mockers.” Before I’ve finished the first page, my anxieties rise to the surface in tears. I lament that this was the case for Jesus and that it’s the case for all who follow him. We are drawn into Christian community because of all it promises. The joy of what we hope it can be leads us into pain after pain after pain.

I close the book around my pencil and set it aside (my tears have long since blurred the words) to ask the Lord, Why does this thing that you promise will be the hope of the world so often break our hearts? How can I keep hoping for it to be what I hope it can be? How can I keep proclaiming this promise to people when I’m still waiting to see it? I know that the proclamation of what church can be helps it become what it can be. I know what it can be even though I’ve only experienced it in snatches. Hope is a discipline. I choose it today.

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A PRAYER OF CONFESSION

God,

I know you see all the brokenness I see in your church.

You see it and more.

I know your heart breaks more than mine does.

You love the church more than I do.

I know that this is not the first time your church has been through upheaval.

I know you are not surprised, not anxious, not despairing.

I know that even as you grieve you have a greater joy.

The story would be a tragedy if it finished here.

But it’s not yet finished.

Give me faith to see what you see, all the possibilities hidden in the brokenness.

Give me courage to proclaim it even though it makes me sound delusional.

Give me hope that makes no human sense.

May I trust that the tiny seeds in your Body can still spring into life.

May I trust in the power of compost, the life that comes from all that’s dying.

When I see only seeds, may I speak of gardens.

Amen