Day 76 (27) – Worship and the Onward Journey

Last minute packing up and airport adventures await. Wheels up to Germany later today.

But before that we got to spend time in prayer and worship at the Pilgrim Chapel. Merritt and I were asked to assist in worship with the scripture readings. A faithful message for the life pilgrim journey ahead accompanied us for our forward going journey. Again, the gift of hospitality and faith are our constant companions. Our cups overflow.

Lead me, Lord, gently, pervasively, irresistibly, increasingly, so that I walk my pilgrim way steadily, and find the place of my resurrection. Amen.

The Gospel of the Wounded Church

The wild Messiah is not done walking.
But now he limps in the Body.

Here is the Church—the Body of Christ, broken.

She is the Bride— covenanted,
called, blessed to be a blessing,
light of the world, a city on a hill.

But this Bride has scars.

Some wounds are holy—
from washing feet,
bearing burdens,
serving the unseen,
kneeling where no king kneels.

But not all wounds are holy.
Some are self-inflicted—
scars from crusades,
stains from scandals,
the sword grasped
when the cross was forgotten.
And sometimes—
these seasons of 
faithfulness and failure
happen at the same time.

She breathes in mercy
and inhales empire.
She touches the untouchable
and yet turns away.
A complicated Bride.
A Bride in need of healing.

Yet even now, this broken Body is still His Body.

Christ is not ashamed to wear her wounds.
Even the scandalous scars are gathered into grace.

For this is the wounded Church
sent into a wounded world—
a world unravelled by greed,
choked by climate breakdown,
teetering on the edge of collapse.

She is cross-cultural,
multi-lingual,
a global mosaic of mercy.

Here is a village chapel—
wooden benches,
a fragile choir
singing with hearts on fire.

Here is a grand cathedral—
stone arches,
candles lit,
ancient prayers echoing in stained glass light.

Here is a corrugated iron hut—
the Spirit moves as hands are laid
on the sick and the suffering.

Here is a city storefront—
where addicts and artists gather to sing psalms that break in unexpected hallelujahs.

Here is a protest march—
banners raised, tears in the streets,
as songs of justice rise into the tear-gas air.

Here is a quiet home— an elder’s hands cradling scripture, as grandchildren learn the stories that shape the soul.

One Body, many wounds. One Gospel,
many accents.

The Church’s fractures may yet become the cracks through which light gets in.

At her best,
she weeps with those who weep,
names the silenced,
stands interruptible in the crowd,
interrupting the machinery of death.

At her worst,
she forgets the Wild Messiah,
and the blessing becomes a blight.

But still—
the Spirit broods over the waters.
Still—
mercy rises from the margins.
Still—
the Lamb who was slain leads her home.

Let the Church be like this—
honest about her fractures,
humble in her witness,
wild in her mercy.

Not a museum of saints,
but a field hospital of grace.
Not a fortress of certainty,
but a covenant people,
wounded yet sent.

The Gospel was never clean.
It still smells of sweat and sorrow,
rupture and resurrection.

It will not be televised.
It will be whispered at the edges.
It will be sung by the ones who stayed.

Let the Church be like this—
wounded,
wild,
and faithful.

Amen.
And amen again.

– Rev’d Jon Swales, from the Gospel of the Wild Messiah collection.