Ron Adams is pastor of Madison (Wis.) Mennonite Church. This article originally ran in the November issue of The Mennonite magazine. You can view the full issue online. 

I take some comfort in reading Paul’s letters to Christian communities spread throughout the Roman Empire. It’s pretty obvious that those early communities weren’t so different from our own. Like us, they argued over leadership, worship practices, sexuality, money and how best to hold the wayward accountable. They drew lines to keep certain folks out. They turned the gospel into a rule book. They struggled to let go of their old ways of being. They mistook their received wisdom for the way of Jesus.

It makes me wonder why anyone would look to the early church as the ideal of Christian community and an example to live up to. Think about it. The Galatian community was a mess. The Corinthian community was a hot mess. The Roman community was way too big for its theological britches. Even the Philippians, most dear to Paul’s heart, fought among themselves and were tempted to wander. If the earliest Christians are our example, it’s no wonder our church is the way it is.

No matter how we feel about the current state of affairs in Mennonite Church USA, Paul’s letters make one thing certain. Ours is not the first generation of Christians to get it wrong as often as we get it right. We are not the heirs of a perfect communion that is ours to preserve or destroy. Rather, we are the descendants of a long line of confused, conflicted, divided, disputatious, wandering, reckless, feckless and stubbornly foolish Christians—people who miraculously and through the grace of God, the love of Christ Jesus and the power of the Holy Spirit, have managed to keep the church alive for centuries.

That’s good news. Because it enables us to lay aside once and for all any notions of communal perfection. There never has been and never will be a perfect and pure church, at least not in this life.

Which takes us off a large hook. When the standard we set for ourselves is purity and perfection, we can become chronically disappointed with ourselves. Worse, when we set that standard for others, we are tempted to usurp God’s authority and judge others in ways we’d never want to be judged. How many times have we walked away
from sisters and brothers because they failed to measure up to standards we set for them? How many times have we done so because we were convinced that our way was God’s way and so the only true and perfect way?

Our infatuation with a mythical ideal of the perfect church has led to centuries of theological tail-chasing. Spinning in circles, we search for the perfect truth, a flawless ethic and a permanent confession of faith.

And when we think we’ve found perfection? It never lasts. We are not God, no matter how firmly we believe in our own understanding. Inevitably we live down to the standard set by our ancestors. Like them, we are not perfect and won’t be so until the day when God’s redemption is complete.

So what if instead of expending time and energy on a hopeless quest for the pure and perfect church we accepted this most basic fact: We are human beings. Earthen vessels, Paul calls us. Clay jars. Flawed, fragile, mortal, easily cracked and broken. In desperate need of careful handling. Barely capable of carrying within ourselves the grace and mercy of God. Yet we’re called to do so by the Spirit of Christ.

Suppose we accepted the fact that we will never get it altogether right and instead chose to rely entirely on the grace of God in Christ? Would we be any less faithful? I don’t think so. In fact, if we can learn to accept the truth about our ancestors and ourselves, we might also learn to give up on the judgment and instead put our energy into learning to live up to Jesus’ commandments to love.

We’d still not be perfect. But we might become better than we are. And we might even do less harm to each other. Now that’s a quest worth pursuing