Searching for Sunday: Loving, Leaving, and Finding the Church

by Rachel Held Evans

  —Isaiah 35:10

  SHE MAY WEAR RED, THE SILK FALLING IN A SOFT CASCADE over her shoulder and shimmering with golden embroidery, her neck adorned with gold and pearls, her arms filigreed with henna patterns as old as the oldest woman’s memory. When she drapes the garland of roses and jasmine over her beloved’s head, the guests catch it in her eyes—a glimpse of the mystery, if only for a moment.

  Or there may be chairs, hoisted over the shoulders of a raucous crowd and bobbed up and down, two nervous passengers gripping their seats and laughing over the folksy music of the horah. When the guests link arms and circle around, they catch it in the joy of one another’s faces—a glimpse of the mystery, if only for a moment.

  Or there may be bagpipes punctuating every step of the recessional with cacophonous formality, as a cavalcade of tartan marches down the grassy aisle. When the couple, decked with thistles and roses, stops midway for another long kiss, the guests whistle and shout and catch it in the sudden fire in her cheeks—a glimpse of the mystery, if only for a moment.

  They may wear black-and-white formal attire saved for this day when the champagne cork finally flies and the cameras flash around them. When the signing is finished, the clerk will catch it in the joyous tears that river down their faces—a glimpse of the mystery, if only for a moment.

  There may be a crowning, traditional to an Orthodox ceremony, where two gold crowns are placed on their heads, symbols that “here is the beginning of a small kingdom which can be something like the true Kingdom.”85 When the priest declares, “O Lord and God, crown them with glory and honor,” the guests in the cathedral catch it in a glint of light against the gold—a glimpse of kingdom come, if only for a moment.

  THIRTY-FIVE

  Mystery

  This is a profound mystery—but I am talking about Christ and the church.

  —Ephesians 5:32

  DAN AND I WERE MARRIED IN THE FALL, AT A BAPTIST church called New Union. We chose the church for practical reasons, as the sanctuary was big enough to house all our guests and was close to the reception venue, but I always take pleasure in seeing the church’s name embossed in crimson on the framed invitation in our hallway. I wonder how many other couples marked the start of their new unions in that auspicious place.

  When I reached the end of the aisle that day, my feet already aching from the ill-advised white and taupe heals that so perfectly matched the dress, Pastor Doug read from Revelation 19 and 21:

  Hallelujah!

  For our Lord God Almighty reigns.

  Let us rejoice and be glad

  and give him glory!

  For the wedding of the Lamb has come,

  and his bride has made herself ready . . .

  Blessed are those who are invited to the wedding supper of

  the Lamb!

  Then I saw “a new heaven and a new earth . . . I saw the Holy City, the new Jerusalem, coming down out of heaven from God, prepared as a bride beautifully dressed for her husband. And I heard a loud voice from the throne saying, “Look! God’s dwelling place is now among the people, and he will dwell with them. They will be his people, and God himself will be with them and be their God. ‘He will wipe every tear from their eyes. There will be no more death’ or mourning or crying or pain, for the old order of things has passed away.” He who was seated on the throne said, “I am making everything new!”

  And for a moment, we glimpsed the Great Mystery.

  We married before Pinterest, so there were no photo booths or mason jars or mustaches-on-sticks at the reception. Back in those days, the photographer just lined everybody up at the front of the church sanctuary like it was a firing range and took the shot. We didn’t even think to pose inside a vintage mirror frame or sit on a rusty pickup truck. But even though we started out young and poor and Republican, our marriage has been a happy one, and has made the meandering journey in and out of church a less lonely one for sure.

  Like most Christian couples, our engagement and first year brought on an avalanche of Christian marriage books, some more helpful than others. Of the unhelpful ones, the worst were those that began with sweeping generalizations about the differences between men and women, then prescribed strict, gender-based roles based on those generalizations. This was usually followed by an appeal to Scripture to support patriarchy, but of the “softer” type, in which the husband does not own the wife per se, but does in fact get to choose the restaurants they eat at and the churches they attend. According to these books, if everyone follows the rules and plays their roles—if the right person leads (the man) and the right person follows (the woman), if one person makes the money (the man) and the other person keeps the home (the woman), if there is one protector (the man) and one nurturer (the woman)—then everything will work out.

  But what Dan and I found within just a few months of living together is that marriage isn’t about sticking to a script; it’s about making a life together. It’s not a choreographed cha-cha, it’s an intimate slow dance. It isn’t a formula, it’s a mystery. Few of these Christian marriage books prepared us for the actual adventure of marriage, which involves improvisation, compromise, and learning as you go.

  Even the apostle Paul, himself single and an enthusiastic proponent of singleness, said as much in his letter to the Ephesians. “Husbands ought to love their wives as their own bodies,” he wrote. “He who loves his wife loves himself. After all, no one ever hated their own body, but they feed and care for their body, just as Christ does the church—for we are members of his body . . . This is a profound mystery—but I am talking about Christ and the church” (Ephesians 5:28–30, 32).

  Ironically, this very letter is often invoked to support hierarchal gender roles in marriage, because earlier, in urging all members of a household to “submit to one another out of reverence for Christ,” Paul describes a typical first-century Greco-Roman household, complete with a male head-of-house who has authority over his wives, slaves, and children. In the past, some Christians referred to this passage to argue that the hierarchy between master and slave is God-ordained, and in the present, some continue to use it to argue that hierarchy between men and women is God-ordained.

  But the point of this passage, and of the other New Testament household codes, is not to emphasize the holiness of a single household structure, but rather to admonish Christians to imitate Jesus, no matter where they stand in the sociological pecking order. So men are told to be kind to their slaves, gentle with their children, and loving with their wives (Ephesians 5:25–28; 6:4, 9). Slaves are admonished to work well, with ultimate allegiance to God and with the suffering of Christ as a comfort in their affliction (6:5). Wives and husbands are encouraged to submit to one another in respect, love, and patience with the sacrificial love of Christ as their example (5:21–33).

  Paul is not arguing that the first-century Greco-Roman household structure is the best for human flourishing and therefore God’s design for all people everywhere. Such a question was not within his purview. Rather, he is explaining that when Christians imitate Jesus in their relationships, when partners in marriage serve one another rather than fight for dominance, we catch a little glimpse of the mystery of Christ’s relentless, self-giving love for the church, and the consummation of that love that is to come.

  Marriage is not an inherently holy institution. And it cannot magically be made so by the government, by a priest, or even by the church. Rather, marriage is a relationship that is made holy, or sacramental, when it reflects the life-giving, self-sacrificing love of Jesus. All relationships and vocations—marriage, friendship, singleness, parenthood, partnership, ministry, monastic vows, adoption, neighborhoods, families, churches—give Christians the opportunity to reflect the grace and peace of the kingdom of God, however clumsily, however imperfectly. For two people to commit themselves not simply to marriage, but to a lifetime of mutual love and submission in imitation of Christ is so astounding, so mysterious, it comes close to looking like Jesus’ stubborn love for the ch
urch.

  Writes Alexander Schmemann, “We must understand that the real theme, ‘content’ and object of this sacrament is not ‘family,’ but love . . . Some of us are married and some are not. Some of us are called to be priests and ministers and some are not. But the sacraments of matrimony and priesthood concern all of us, because they concern our life as vocation. The meaning, the essence and the end of all vocation is the mystery of Christ and the Church.”86

  Marriage, like a meal of bread and wine, is just one more ordinary, everyday circumstance God transforms into an avenue through which to enter our lives. We must be careful, then, of idolizing the institution of marriage on the one hand and discounting its kingdom-reflecting potential on the other. What makes a marriage holy isn’t the degree to which the two partners reflect gender stereotypes, or stick to a list of rules and roles, or even reflect cultural norms and expectations, but the degree to which the love of Christ is present in one of the most challenging and rewarding commitments two people will ever make to one another.

  Just as there is something about bread and wine that reminds us of Jesus’ humanity, there is something about the tension and longing of romantic love that reminds us of our desire for God and God’s desire for us. Scripture employs this metaphor throughout both the Old and New Testaments, where the relationship between God and God’s people is often pictured as a marriage, a covenant of fidelity and love made first with Israel and then with the whole world through the church. The longing of God is captured in a beautiful, oft-repeated refrain woven throughout the pages of Scripture from Exodus to Revelation—“I will give them a heart to know me, that I am the LORD. They will be my people, and I will be their God, for they will return to me with all their heart” (Jeremiah 24:7).

  When the people of God abandoned the covenant of love and fidelity, drawn as we are by the appeal of shallow, empty pleasures, God removed every possible obstruction to the covenant by being faithful for us, by becoming like us and subjecting himself to the very worst within us, loving us all the way to the cross and all the way out of the grave. In this metaphor, Christ is like a bridegroom who has chosen the church as his bride, and is busy preparing for a great wedding after which their love will be consummated. At the wedding, all the guests will sing, “God’s dwelling place is now among the people, and he will dwell with them. They will be his people, and God himself will be with them and be their God.”

  One can only get so far in thinking all this through before the metaphor breaks down and the meaning becomes obscured. That’s okay. It is only a metaphor, and like all metaphors, it isn’t the moon, but rather the finger pointing at the moon. We’re talking about the Great Mystery here, the ultimate reality that the apostle Paul says we only “see through a mirror dimly” anyway. I may be wrong, but I think the point is this: what each of us longs for the most is to be both fully known and fully loved.87 Miraculously, God feels the same way about us. God, too, wants to be fully known and fully loved. God wants this so much that he has promised to knock down every obstacle in the way, enduring even his own death, to be with us, to consummate this love. And so, in those relationships and in those moments when we experience the joy, ecstasy, and relief of being both totally vulnerable and absolutely cherished, we get just a taste, a mere glimpse, of what God has always felt for us, and what one day we will feel for God.

  The Orthodox Church illustrates all of this quite beautifully in its tradition of crowning the couple in a wedding ceremony.

  As Orthodox priest Alexander Schmemann explains, the rite of matrimony consists of two distinct services: the betrothal and the crowning. The betrothal occurs not in the church sanctuary, but in the vestibule, the part of the building that is closest to the outside world as an acknowledgment of the social and legal dimensions of marriage. The couple exchanges rings and their marriage is blessed by the priest. Then, they are invited into the church in a solemn and momentous processional.

  “This is the true form of the sacrament,” writes Schmemann, “for it does not merely symbolize, but indeed is the entrance of marriage into the Church, which is the entrance of the world into the ‘world to come,’ the procession of the people of God—in Christ—into the Kingdom.”88

  Once the couple is in the church, they are crowned. Typically, the crowns are identical—(one is not bigger than the other; the “rule” of this new household is to be shared)—and held for a moment over the couple’s heads by their attendants while the priest declares, “O Lord and God, crown them with glory and honor!”

  The crowns represent the reality that every family is like a little kingdom, and that little kingdom can represent the kingdom of Jesus—where the first is last and the last is first, where the poor and the sick are welcomed in, where the peacemakers and the merciful find a home, where humility and self-sacrifice reign.

  “This is what the marriage crowns express,” writes Schmemann, “that here is the beginning of a small kingdom which can be something like the true Kingdom. The chance will be lost perhaps even in one night; but at this moment it is still an open possibility. Yet even when it has been lost, and lost again a thousand times, still if two people stay together they are in a real sense king and queen to each other.”89

  Then, after some prayers are prayed and words are spoken, the priest removes the crowns from the heads of the newlyweds and presents them at the altar.

  “Receive their crowns in Thy Kingdom,” he prays.

  Now the crowns invite the couple, their attendants, their families, the priest, the guests, and indeed even God who is present at this wedding, too, to remember “that ultimate Reality of which everything in ‘this world’—whose fashion passeth away—everything has now become a sacramental sign and anticipation.”90 Together they catch a glimpse of the Mystery.

  Dan and I have been married for eleven years now. Sometimes our marriage looks like the kingdom. Sometimes it does not. Sometimes we wear our crowns with decorum and grace. Sometimes we fight to snatch them off each other’s heads. But what makes our marriage holy, what makes it “set apart” and sacramental, isn’t the marriage certificate filed away in the basement or the degree to which we follow a list of rules and roles, it’s the way God shows up in those everyday moments—loading the dishwasher, sharing a joke, hosting a meal, enduring an illness, working through a disagreement—and gives us the chance to notice, to pay attention to the divine. It’s the way the God of resurrection makes all things new.

  THIRTY-SIX

  Body

  You are the body of Christ, and each one of you is a part of it.

  —1 Corinthians 12:27

  “THE CHURCH IS A WHORE, BUT SHE IS MY MOTHER.”

  The quote is attributed to St. Augustine, but no one’s really tracked it down. I’d venture to guess it originated with a man, though, and an unimaginative one at that.

  It’s not that I don’t appreciate the sentiment—that despite her persistent wanderings and betrayals, the church births us and feeds us and names us children of God—it’ s just that when we leave men to draw all the theological conclusions about a metaphorically feminine church, we end up with rather predictable categories, don’t we?

  Virgin. Whore. Mother.

  But what might a woman say about church as she? What might a woman say about the church as body and bride?

  Perhaps she would speak of the way a regular body moves through the world—always changing, never perfect—capable of nurturing life, not simply through the womb, but through hands, feet, eyes, voice, and brain. Every part is sacred. Every part has a function.

  Perhaps she would speak of impossible expectations and all the time she’s wasted trying to contort herself into the shape of those amorphous silhouettes that flit from magazines and billboards into her mind. Or of this screwed-up notion of purity as a status, as something awarded by men with tests and checklists and the power to give it and take it away.

  Perhaps she would speak of the surprise of seeing herself—flaws and all—in the mirror on he
r wedding day. Or of the reality that with new life comes swollen breasts, dry heaves, dirty diapers, snotty noses, late-night arguments, and a whole army of new dangers and fears she never even considered before because life-giving isn’t nearly as glamorous as it sounds, but it’s a thousand times more beautiful.

  Perhaps she would talk about being underestimated, about surprising people and surprising herself. Or about how there are moments when her own strength startles her, and moments when her weakness—her forgetfulness, her fear, her exhaustion—unnerve her.

  Maybe she would tell of the time, in the mountains with bare feet on the ground, she stood tall and wise and felt every cell in her body smile in assent as she inhaled and exhaled and in one loud second realized, I’m alive! I’m enfleshed! only to forget it the next.

  Or maybe she would explain how none of the categories created for her sum her up or capture her essence.

  If the church is like a body, like a bride, then perhaps we ought to take her through what Barbara Brown Taylor calls the “spiritual practice of wearing skin”:

  Whether you are sick or well, lovely or irregular, there comes a time when it is vitally important to your spiritual health to drop your clothes, look in the mirror, and say, “Here I am. This is the body-like-no-other that my life has shaped. I live here. This is my soul’s address.” After you have taken a good look around, you may decide that there is a lot to be thankful for, all things considered. Bodies take real beatings. That they heal from most things is an underrated miracle. That they give birth is beyond reckoning.91

  “When I do this,” she says, “I generally decide that it is time to do a better job of wearing my skin with gratitude instead of loathing.”

  So let’s turn the mirror:

  This is the church. Here she is. Lovely, irregular, sometimes sick and sometimes well. This is the body-like-no-other that God has shaped and placed in the world. Jesus lives here; this is his soul’s address. There is a lot to be thankful for, all things considered. She has taken a beating, the church. Every day she meets the gates of hell and she prevails. Every day she serves, stumbles, injures, and repairs. That she has healed is an underrated miracle. That she gives birth is beyond reckoning. Maybe it’s time to make peace with her. Maybe it’s time to embrace her, flawed as she is.