A Hurting Congregation

Hurting people are here this morning. Arriving in droves to their Sunday home, they have shown up indeed.
This attractive, youthful woman, with hair the color of summer baked mud and eyes the color of hazelnut, arrives today.
She wears a favorite, light summer dress and just the slightest hint of makeup to suggest that she didn’t just roll out of bed. 
She sits in her regular pew, somewhere in its middle, near the back of the room, and opens the weekly bulletin.
She scans it spiritlessly, eyes darting from one item to the next, setting it to her side after a cursory look.  
She waits patiently for the service to start, hands-on lap, staring towards nothing, her thoughts elsewhere.
Some weeks she expresses joy, singing and clapping during worship, hands often stretching towards the heavens. 
Other times, she hasn’t the energy to even stand; her body instead slumped over during these same songs, looking lifeless.  
Wondering the whole while why her guilt consumes her, why she can’t forgive herself for her past misdeeds.
But he was pierced for our rebellion, crushed for our sins. He was beaten so we could be whole. He was whipped so we could be healed.
And upon hearing this single fortifying verse, her head turns towards the pulpit, a heightened sense of awareness sets in. 

Hurting people are here this morning. Arriving in droves to their Sunday home, they have shown up indeed.
This skinny, grim woman with bronzed, wrinkled skin arrives today; her oversized purse dropped to the floor as soon as she sits. 
Years of unprotected sun exposure, smoking, and excessive drug use make her look much older than her forty-eight years suggest. 
Sitting on the far end of a row, she softly chews on a piece of gum, sunglasses resting on her head, right hand draped over the arm. 
Her stare fixated on the glass window next to her, her bleak expression letting everyone know she’d rather be anywhere else.
Her church briefing rests unopened, just as it does every week, accepting it from the usher merely because it’s the polite thing to do.
Each week she stands when it’s time to stand, sits when it’s time to sit, and bows her head when it’s time to bow.
While her presence is physical, she is spiritually unmoved and simply goes through the motions during the service until it’s time to leave.
Wondering the whole while why her guilt consumes her, why she can’t forgive herself for her past misdeeds.
But he was pierced for our rebellion, crushed for our sins. He was beaten so we could be whole. He was whipped so we could be healed.
And upon hearing this single fortifying verse, her glance turns away from the distractions outside the window and focuses on the pulpit.

Hurting people are here this morning. Arriving in droves to their Sunday home, they have shown up indeed.
With his paunch hanging over his belt, this middle-aged, balding man arrives today in his worn blue jeans and all too recognizable t-shirt.
Perched in the exact first seat week after week, month after month, year after year, never does he even grin, but, oh, how he scowls.
There have been entire services where his sin has depleted him so entirely that he cannot even raise his head, let alone participate. 
Dejected, he listens but isn’t afraid to volunteer a snarl when he hears something from the pastor that he isn’t interested in hearing. 
He shakes his head, disagreeing with the Lord’s Word, not because he wants to, but because it feels so foreign to his particular situation. 
The weekly anger he brings into the sanctuary is not groundless, but he often won’t even try to let the Word try to restore him.
In a continual struggle with his faith, it’s his one desire to be filled with a miracle that can free him of the rage that he can’t rid himself.
Wondering the whole while why his guilt consumes him, why he can’t forgive himself for his past misdeeds.
But he was pierced for our rebellion, crushed for our sins. He was beaten so we could be whole. He was whipped so we could be healed.
And upon hearing this single fortifying verse, he lifts his chin and remembers once again what Christ did for him on the cross.

Hurting people are here this morning. Arriving in droves to their Sunday home, they have shown up indeed.
This beautiful young woman, dressed to the nines, arrives today, looking like a model from head to toe; the only thing missing is her smile.
She sits towards the front on an inner aisle, in a spot that offers more visibility than any other location in the congregation.
Inwardly miserable, she hides her grief behind a perfectly constructed mask of moisturizers, primers, blushers, bronzers, and concealers. 
She can feel the eyes of so many, yet she’ll never turn her gaze from the pulpit and worship stage.
Far too young to feel so joyless, as if her entire self-worth has been stolen by the cruel, flawed persons God has placed on her path.
So wronged she feels by humanity and those who she feels have gone out of the way to hurt her, she prays for a way to absolve.
It’s an ire that manifests itself as sorrow, knowing others are so intentionally unkind, she lacks the ability to acquit.
Wondering the whole while why her guilt consumes her, why she can’t forgive herself for her past misdeeds.
But he was pierced for our rebellion, crushed for our sins. He was beaten so we could be whole. He was whipped so we could be healed.
And upon hearing this single fortifying verse, her grimace began to release, and the opportunity of telling a new story presented itself.

Despondent people from all walks of life looking for a flickering of hope and finding it.

Written in 2018

Copyright, The Poetry of Bryan Buser