A young professional entered in on Sunday
To worship the Savior,
To find fellowship,
To find friends,
To find a church family,
To even find a Christ centered mate.
Rules were preached.
So, so many rules
That church felt like a mountain of spiritual
A graceless state.
So many, many rules
That the young professional could not spiritually
So many, many rules made by man
Not made by Christ Jesus who sets su free.
A huge spiritual box was preached
And in order for a proper church fit
Encouragement was given to squeeze out the I part of my Christ given individuality.
Certain length of hair,
Neck could not be bare
A Savior presented so harshly that
Forgiveness could not be found anywhere.
No deep frienships formed.
No one reached out.
Righteousness based on rules.
Condemnation was rampant.
Guilt used to emotionally manipulate
And true emotional health was seen as
Worldly, heretical, an ideological detour to beware.
Eternity was earned by the keeping of the rules.
Salvation looked like perfection not struggle
And no one ever admitted to one another they had made a mistake
Or that they were wrong.
An unsafe society of spiritual actors singing a spiritual song.
Suspicious of a single not married yet,
Boxed in on every side,
Desperately just wanting to belong
This professional, whose hope and passion was Christ lost heart for the church,
Gloriously adopted and loved by the Savior, Jesus
Yet spiritually orphaned by the church going throng.
Which church am I?
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