All Nations. I once was a worship leader at a church that used this phrase as a core part of its messaging: We were a church of all nations. It was a beautiful idea in a world where it did indeed still feel like Sunday mornings were the most segregated hours of the week. But no matter how many international flags hung around that sanctuary, the structure of the church leadership spoke the silent subtext out loud: All nations was a descriptor for the “mission field,” a hopeful nomenclature for the constituency of the congregation. But it was not a descriptor for who was called to comment, much less to lead. Here, only White American men (and perhaps a token man of color) were imagined as competent arbiters of God’s truth.
I felt this almost immediately, and as a then young person discerning ministry, knew that this would not be a place that would discern or support my call. And I grieved. Because the worship was beautiful, the resources plentiful, the graphics stunning, the sound professional, the potlucks amazing, the friendships overflowing. It was slick and glossy, with a budget to back it all up. It was also filled with relationships real and true. There was coffee and kids church and an intergenerational buzz every Sunday morning and, of course, enough bandwidth to sustain a built-in dating pool.
This loving family was constantly cited as the picture of heaven—though most of us considered the preaching to be “mid” at best. And the theology offered Gatorade more than it did the subtleties and nuance of a well-bodied wine. And while many people were uncomfortable with the silence around race and gender—to say nothing of sexuality—many of us continued to stay, mostly for one another.
