Between The Altar and The Crowd

With every beat of this unworthy heart,
with every breath drawn from grace alone, I believe.
I know that Christ is King.
Your name is my very foundation
and the truth when all else lies.

But the church,
the building, the people in it,
their voices sound like Yours.
But often, their echoes twist like
spoiled pulp falling from their lips.

I see their robes, their rituals,
their eyes scanning the pews
like farmers appraising fields for harvest.
They speak of love but wield authority,
and I wonder:
how many altars are built
for their own names?

Is it my failure, Lord?
Is it wisdom? Or deceit?
Am I weak in my faith,
or am I hearing a quiet gospel
given by You instead of by flesh?

And yet, even as I struggle,
I am judged. Not by You,
but by those who claim to know You better.
Their words sting sharper than guilt,
and their pride rises higher than their steeples.
They cast me out of their fellowship,
as if their voices hold the keys to Your kingdom.

They act as though You are theirs alone,
as though Your grace
does not overflow
onto the unworthy… onto one like me.

I know I fall short.
Every day, I feel the weight of my failures.
I am a person made of sin, and I neglect You.
and yet I come to You too,
broken but believing,
knowing that… You. Are. King.

Is this not enough?
To believe with every molecule in me?
Is it faith You want or conformity?
Is it my devotion, despite my failure,
or my submission to men who claim to know You more?

Will the last not be first?
Well, I don’t care to be first.
And I don’t care if I’m last.
All I want is to clean Your feet.

Lord, I am tired.
Tired of fighting to belong
among those who claim to carry Your name.
Tired of trying to fit into their mold,
when all I want is to be Yours.

So, I kneel where the crowd cannot see,
and I will pray. Not for their approval,
but for Your mercy. Maybe I will never be enough.
But I will live my life in quiet devotion.
Not for the applause of men,
but for the love of my Savior. The King, who died for me.