the ferris wheel never stopped.
they opened the doors like greeters on a sunday morning and ushered you right to your seat. it was unnerving. i hesitated like at the mall before an escalator. it inched. barely perceptible. it kept moving.
the wheels of the machine don’t stop.
i got in.
of course i did. it was amazing and huge. the view from the top, i’d heard, was worth the price of admission.
but what about when the admission is free and the view is free? just kindly folk opening the doors for you on a sunday morning.
“come on in, friend.”
i started going to church when i was 18.
my motives were questionable and my theology was non-existent, but sit down in the barely moving pew, i did.
i didn’t know about gender roles or political agendas. i didn’t know about kingdom outposts or gold teeth. i had no idea about the cornerstone music festival or moody bible institute.
i didn’t know the church was a machine that never stops moving. that it’s the tortoise that will win the race. so behind the times, so old-fashioned, such a work horse.
it keeps the faith. it keeps going.
twenty years later, i’m still on this ride. and i want off. i really do. the exposed mechanics have finally made me queasy. and maybe that’s okay. maybe that’s fine. maybe that’s why it moves so slowly.
it’s a lovely view from the top, but i’ve grown weary of it.
i want to go jump in the lake.
and when i’ve swam enough. when i’ve looked at the church from a far enough distance for long enough, i know it will be there. spinning still and slowly catching up to the times, one day to overtake every other enterprise and machine because of its steadfastness, its imperceptible, never-stopping faithfulness.
i know it will be there and i’ll step on again. maybe. probably.
but not today.