There are two versions of me. I walk up to those big double doors on a Sunday morning and suddenly, I change.
I push down all those things that I’ve carried all week hiding them under a bright smile and purposeful walk. I act as if I know where I’m going and what I’m doing. How I wish that were true.
I stand and sing perfect faith and hallelujah, all the while hoping no one can see those things I’ve carried all week, those real things, those things of my truest self. I sing praise and nod my amens for my allotted time. Then I walk out and put my Sunday best away like a nice pair of shoes.
We can sing and praise and it is beautiful and tidy. We leave our mess at the door pretending we weren’t screaming at our kids only 20 minutes earlier. We hide our unbelief and bring our spit shined selves to the pew, all the while thinking that’s what God wants.
God never asked for our masks or our problem free versions of who we think we should be.
We drop it at the door thinking that’s what everyone wants, so it must be what God wants. We think this is what He expects. But the only thing it does is save face. We play church like kids playing dress-up, and we do it so well. But what if we were never meant to drop our stuff at those big double doors? What if we were meant to bring it in unashamed and praise uncertain? What if we came and sang, “God I want to believe” instead of kidding ourselves? What if we came honest and real and approached the throne?
Maybe then we would see that our praise was never expected to be perfect, it was only meant to be genuine. And in that genuine place, when we are honest, we can merge those two versions of ourselves until we are left with one.
One person honestly, imperfectly seeking a God that never asked for anything more than who we truly are.