Today we walked through the doors of the 4th church. Another opportunity for me to find a "home" among people who believe in the Bible and gather on a weekly basis to celebrate, cherish, confess to and console one another in this life we call sacred. Four walls, familiar music, a minister.
But I'm cynical. I'm longing for a place to call home all the while refusing to call any place home. Home insinuates rolling up my sleeves and digging into "housework". "Home" would require responsibility on my part. Playing an active roll. Even children have chores.
Can you be a guest in a place you call home? If you're never given responsibilities, never asked to take out the trash, or allowed to do the dishes ... you quickly realize that you will always be a guest. Some day they expect you to leave.
If you really want someone to "feel at home" don't you need to set an extra plate, clean out the spare bedroom, make room in the garage?
And so, in the churches I visit I look for a room with my name on it. I look for a place at the table. I want to know if this is someplace I can call home or if this is just a temporary stopping place.
I guess this whole life is a temporary stopping place. Which is what leads me back to why I walk in with hope but look through the glasses of a cynic. I want to find a home here. But I don't want my heart to be broken when I discover it's not.