As I look around my house early on Monday morning and I see dishes piled up, things in funny places, and all the signs of company over last night, I’m thankful for the ordinary, local, particular church that I’m a member of. I’m thankful for this body of believers that I’m a part of.
We’re not perfect. We get on each other’s nerves. We’re families, singles, young couples, older couples, and generational. Some of us have been working on loving each other for a very long long time. We’ve been filling in for each other’s weaknesses. We’ve seen each other at our worst. We’ve hurt each other and had to forgive.
But over and over, Sunday after Sunday, we gather together to hear the preaching, to again rest from the fight. We soak in the blessed Means of Grace. We rub shoulders with these same ordinary sinners.
I love it.
I love each and every one of you at Heritage. I miss you when you’re gone. I ache when you struggle. I pray for you and each of the ordinary struggles you have: raising children, the failing of the body, growing up and figuring life out, marriage, money, life and death.
Each Sunday I’m reminded that no matter how dark my week may seem, or how loud this world may be, that the gathering on Sunday is eternal. It is the point. All the rest is a temporary, failing world that’s already lost the battle. Sunday is real. My church body is real.
Today, I’m thankful for my Church and for each and every saint in it.