Don’t let your church become your religion

By Tonya Domokos

Black, White, Hispanic, old, young and all ages in between. The room is filled with a smorgasbord of culture. The tension is as bitter as the cold air that whips through the room every time the double door open.

Tension, boredom, anger and sorrow all of these emotions can be easily felt among the people that have gathered here as family.

An elderly woman walks determinedly to her seat, it’s the same seat she has had for years. There is even a small square pillow with her name on it lying on the seat and an opened roll of lifesavers in the holder of the seat in front of her. They must be hers for she reaches for one and pops into her mouth. She settles down in her familiar corner and gets out her finger nail file and begins her weekly manicure.

A muted roar is heard in the back of the room as the teens of the family begin to fill the back rows. Giggling and note passing begin almost immediately as do the glares from parents.

Halfway down the aisle in the middle of the row sits a family of stone. They appear unable to look left or right only straight ahead. They sit so straight and rigid, lips pressed firmly together, arms crossed, quite the formable family.

But in the last row there sits a lone woman her head is hanging forward, her straight fine hair hides her face. She is slightly built; delicate is the word, which comes to mind. She could easily pass for a child. Her posture gives the impression she is engrossed in the open book on her lap, but on a closer look there are tears falling freely to the pages below and her shoulders are shaking ever so slightly under the impact of her silent sobs. Her arms are wrapped around her waist as if to contain the sorrow or pain within.

Life goes on around her, everyone engrossed in their own dramas, no one even notices her.

Time passes on, more notes, more glares, manicure is finished and the rigid family has not moved.

People begin to stir, packing away their things. Shoulders shrug as people arise from a sleepy haze.

Finally, the call has to come. The service is over. The silent, lone weeping woman has vanished and no one even noticed her.

It was just another morning of church service

Has going to church become a habit? It is more a chore than a pleasure?

Be mindful of the reasons you go to church. I heard a pastor this last Sunday tell his flock why you should go to church and I realized how right he was. He told them going to church should be a joy, not a chore. It should be to give and receive encouragement, not to get the latest gossip or to tear someone down. Your church should be an extension of your family.

People you turn to when you need guidance or just an unjudgmental shoulder to cry on. You should never fear your church family.

I got my weekly email from Max Lucado yesterday and one of the things he said in it struck the very center of my heart. He said, you should love Jesus more than you fear Hell. Think about it. Do you think of Jesus as fire insurance?