I Say F*&% in Church.

For what it’s worth, this title isn’t click bait.

“…I’m not going to call it right. I’m going to call it real. I’m going to call it tired. I’m going to call it weary and searching. I’m going to call it combatting depression, anxiety, apathy, and expectation. I’m going to call it what it is, and what it is is a wretched soul, saved by grace…”

For what it’s worth, this title isn’t click bait.

I’m not trying to spike your blood pressure, to set off your offenses, or even justify my behavior. I’m just trying to be honest. Trying to practice what it means to hurt and heal in public. Trying to not hide parts of who I am out of shame or because I don’t think you want to see them.

Let me be clear and remind you that I am a firm believer in know your audience. That said, I am also a firm believer in know your author. So, dear sweet reader, here is your opportunity to either put your assumptions on pause for a moment and get to know me a little more; an opportunity for you to see the heart of my statement. Or, this is your chance to abandon ship because this one just might not be for you. Whichever you decide, know that your decision is a matter of what you need to do for your heart, mind, and personal convictions - not a reflection mine, and that’s okay too.

Real quick, let’s point out any immediate concerns or false assumptions - I do NOT say it out loud, I’m NOT preaching it from a pulpit, NOT echoing it for my peers to hear, and definitely NOT saying it where any kids can hear me. I believe language is powerful and I recognize that it contains so many nuances, subjectivity, and reliance on context that to teach people the meaning of what I am saying could make for an exhaustive conversation. All of that to say, yes, I do say fuck in church. To answer your question, I’m typically saying it for one of two reasons: one, in a moment of awe and overwhelm from a heart and place of worship; or two, in a moment where I have been called out because the actions of my flesh and the desires of my spirit have met a crossroads and I have to decide which path I’ll continue to take.

I understand the concept of “Sunday Best.” I know there is something nice about cleaning yourself up, all nice and fancy-like (sing, Applebee’s on a date night). I understand the notion of presenting our best selves before the Lord (pronounce “Lawrd”) with steamed collars, polished pumps, and perfectly coiffed hair. I see the beauty there and believe it to be a sweet offering - it’s just not where I am right now. Right now, I’m walking into church in oversized sweatshirts, yoga pants, and hair that probably should have been washed the day before thrown up in a scrunchie. But, you know what, I’m there.

Simply put, I am quite done with seeing churches as museums with dress codes, pinned smiles, and a minimum “goodness” level required for entry. I’m not there to impress a room full of stone people who were taught to believe that their original creation isn’t good enough that they cast themselves in white paint to appear more pure (this is a real thing with historical statues - look into it). No. When I go into church I’m expecting to step foot into a hospital. I’m going to see the broken, the beaten, and the damned. To be in company with those who showed up because they need saving, healing. I’m going to join the infantry of prayer warriors, and believe me, I know soldiers and they know a few four letter words themselves.

Fact is, our battle as humans, as believers, is relentless. Our war is real and pain happens here. I don’t need a place that dismisses that or a place that believes that only the scars of Jesus are worth talking about. Yes, it’s because of His I find healing but it’s because of mine He chose to bare His own. Teach me about that love - about Jehovah Rapha, the only healer who has ever believed in and felt the weight of all pain.

So know this, when I say fuck at the alter, I mean it. I mean my heart has been ripped to shreds. I mean, “Damn, Holy Spirit look at you showing up and doing your thing.” I mean, “How dare you speak so boldly to the convictions of my heart and call me out on my bullshit.” So yeah, I say fuck in church…because I say fuck outside of it too. And let me tell you what I’ve learned, it’s no surprise to God. I truly believe He would rather me be in a crowd of His people with my self barely strung together with all my desperation and readiness for worship (full of fucks) than He would me showing up with a heart that hasn’t cried out for His once that week, with lips that don’t even say His name (fuckless).

I’m over performance, production, and protecting my own self-righteousness. They are damning to the soul. I’m here for what some of you call authenticity that I call honest. I’m not going to call it true. I’m not going to call it right. I’m going to call it real. I’m going to call it tired. I’m going to call it weary and searching. I’m going to call it combatting depression, anxiety, apathy, and expectation. I’m going to call it what it is, and what it is is a wretched soul, saved by grace that can finally walk into service without getting a visceral reaction that made them want to vomit because they didn’t feel like they belonged. Because, I know I do. I know my place. I know my place is in this kingdom - in this congregation. I too am a part of the body of believers in a good and faithful God. In a God, a God who knows my ugly. A God who knows my ugly and…get this, loves me anyway.

I’m done trying to hide the hurt so that I might actually find the healing. I’m done letting pretentious and self-righteous people decide the places I am welcome. I truly believe the modern pharisees will never see heaven’s gates the way that us sinners, who have chosen to make heaven our homes, will because we care more about His glory and radical redemptive power than our own.

So yes, I say fuck in church and maybe, just maybe, you should say it too. That is if that’s what your soul is crying out when you encounter the full and overwhelming presence of God.