I'm waving my arms from a distance, beckoning you close - I'm here because I have truth to share, and sorries to say.

If you're hurting, come towards me and sit at my table, you'll be welcomed and loved, passed a mug, and encouraged to share, to listen, to be known anew.

I'm sorry for the way the church has hurt you. 

Beloved, I'm sorry that it’s carried the same book as me and told you it says you're broken. I'm sorry that it’s flipped to a page, shoved it into your face, and damned you. I'm sorry, I'm sorry a thousand times. I'm sorry it’s told you that your pride is somehow sinful, that the rainbow that makes you feel at home was somehow stolen - it wasn't, God placed it in the sky to show He's forever faithful, that faithfulness includes you, it always has. It doesn’t need it back, because it was never taken. My friend, share this meal with me, let us put the world to rights.

Beloved, I'm sorry that you were told your struggles weren't holy, I'm sorry that it told you that it was some moral failing, that you hadn't prayed enough, that you haven't believed enough. I'm sorry that your tears and wounds were seen as doubts when really, you know a lot more about faith in a valley than it ever will. I'm sorry that it didn't look at Jesus on the cross in all His lament and bloodshed and pain and then look to you and see some resemblance, I'm sorry it saw you hurting and did nothing. I cannot express to you how happy I am that you're sitting across from me, still fighting, I know you might not be able to see it, but He's sitting next to you as well, and He's prouder than words can say. Thank you, for not giving up on us - I'd understand if you did.

Beloved, I'm sorry it told you your body was something to be ashamed of. I'm sorry it told you to hide away, that somehow your very being was dangerous and that every move you made in confidence was wrong, that it was in any way an invitation to violation. You and I both know God didn't create anyone for that. I'm sorry it convinced you that your only use was to be used unless you walked and talked and dressed and lived a certain way. I'm sorry that when you came to it screaming it told you it was your fault. Your being is dangerous, but not in the way it thinks. You're dangerous because you challenge the status quo, because you walk in such confidence and beauty it's so clear that you bring out the God-colours of the world. Thank you for holding my hand and making me see that a body is a holy resting place for God and that they should shine and shout and be decorated in every-which-way in order to scream that they're alive and thriving. Thank you for being here, let's be survivors together.

Beloved, I'm sorry it told you to be quiet. I’m sorry it saw your signs and your words and your desperation and it told you that's not how it works. I'm sorry it told you that God didn't like your pickets, that somehow because of the quantity of your melanin or the contents of your DNA you were less loved. I'm sorry it built statues of a white man and worshipped the stone when worship should have started on the streets with banners, arms linked. I'm sorry that it worshipped an idol instead of seeing your pain and walking alongside you. I’m sorry it neglected the footsteps of God amid your protests and chose to tell you that your petitions weren't the will of God. May I stand by you, use my privilege to amplify, I won't steal the spotlight; I'll point it at you and learn to unlearn all its spite and try my best to walk in a new light.

Beloved, I'm sorry it told you that you weren't welcome, that your struggles made you less worthy, that when God called His children chosen that you weren't on His list. I'm sorry that when you were on the floor, on the street, in the dirt it didn't stop to ask you if you needed help, that it crossed the road and left you. I'm sorry that it didn't reach out, I'm sorry that it didn't go with you to get help, that it didn't see the hope in recovery and instead decided that you weren't someone it wanted on its pews. Thank you for fighting the demons that told you addiction is where you would stay. Thank you for telling me your story and letting me see a slice of you that God has already covered in bandages but that I know is still raw, that I know may not be gone yet, but that doesn’t disqualify you. Thank you for standing up and speaking of His redemption and telling people that you are not broken, not dirty, not wrong, that you are wonderfully and complexly human and that God stood by you. You are living proof of the strength of the human condition, thank you for teaching me how to be brave.

Thank you all, the messy and the complicated and the afraid beloved children of God that are sitting around my table listening to my heartfelt apologies, but I have a few more. I'm sorry you didn’t hear it sooner, and that you may lack an apology from the majority of the people that have hurt you. I’m sorry for my part in the pain. I invite you to remember how we have been washed clean, and so I invite you to remember that the compassion of God transcends our understanding and so let me ask you to pray for the church with me, that we may remain part of this body and fight the good fight. That two or three gathered in His name may become many living out the greatest commandment.

If you're hurting, thank you for still being here, thank you for everything, thank you for being my family, thank you for being His family, thank you, a thousand times - let's be who He made us to be, let's be the change, let's do the work because we're loved, because everyone is loved, no boarders and no walls.

Your mess is a holy mess, as is mine, your message is worth hearing, let me hold your hand and go with you into a new hope characterised by reckless compassion, overwhelming love, and with a God who dines with an explosion of colourfully and divinely chaotic people, and calls them friends.