Missional in a polarized world
We cry.
From our streets. From our churches. From our homes. From our borders. From our hospitals. From our prison cells. We cry, ‘God of mercy — breathe on us. Heal us.’
God answers.
‘If my people, who are called by my name, will humble themselves and pray and seek my face and turn from their wicked ways, then I will hear from heaven, and I will forgive their sin and will heal their land.’
Oh how we want that healing from heaven. Heal us from this pandemic. Heal us from the brokenness of George Floyd’s murder. Heal our BIPOC brothers and sisters. Heal the oppression. Heal our broken systems. Heal us from our prejudices. Heal us from our racism. We’re desperate for healing for our raggedy souls and the next raggedy intake of air choked by tear gas, or masks, or by knees. I can’t breathe, we exhale but that life-giving, automated reaction, coordinated by the stem of our brain, is suddenly the one choice we cannot make. One breath equals healing but somewhere, somehow, someone can’t breathe.
My people.
The Church — that broken body of Jesus that inhales new life with a sunrise on a Sunday…
