God’s Perfect Style

I’m sewing crystals on lace, in strings that catch the light of the lamp above my head. Alternating tiny beads, larger glass diamonds, and the occasional pearl. It’s my daughter’s wedding dress, and it must be just right.

These lace-and-bead concoctions are the sleeves, a kind of Roaring Twenties look that suits her tiny frame. But the skirt? Full-blown princess. She wants to feel like a princess on her big day, and to her, that means a full gathered skirt with petticoats. Adding an Elsa-style glittery cape as a train, some rather boho-chic silk, and a ’20s headpiece will finish off this creation of love.

It may sound like an unfortunate mash-up that wouldn’t work on any runway. But no, it’s coming together quite beautifully as the unique creation it is. I’m fusing styles, because this girl cannot be pinned down to one, and her styles are as variable and blowsy-beautiful as my cottage garden outside.

She will be stunning on her wedding day.

Lately, when I’m not sewing, I’ve been doing a lot of thinking and studying about the church, and it occurs to me that she is like this dress in my lap.

The church is made up of all kinds of parts, sewn together by the One who loves her most of all. It is, like this dress, a complete creation of love. It’s also, like this dress, a fusion that by the standards of human thought would never, ever work. We differ in the details of what we believe. Our worship styles range from solemn liturgy to free-flowing shouts to gospel joy. We are men and women, black and white, Spanish-speaking and Chinese, ex-gang members and blue-haired ladies—sometimes all sitting next to one another. It shouldn’t work. But in the best of times, it does.

We come with many different gifts, personalities, and sets of baggage from the past. We are a mixture that can choose to clash, making the entire creation look like a mess top to bottom. Or we can choose to embrace the disparities and weave them together into a unique look that bears the unmistakable stamp of a Master fusion artist.

“The human body has many parts, but the many parts make up one whole body. So it is with the body of Christ . . . we all share the same Spirit . . . our bodies have many parts, and God has put each part just where he wants it” (1 Cor. 12:12–13, 18 NLT).

That guy with the skull tattoo? He’s right where God wants him in your church. The lady whose spiritual gift seems to be making enough food to feed the entire city for every event? She’s right where God wants her, singing off-key behind you. The young man struggling with learning English, the ex-con who just wants a job and a second chance, the perfectly manicured mother of three perfectly dressed children? All of them are where God wants them.

Your gifts were never meant to be squashed because you or someone else thinks them less than worthy. Your “part” is meant to be played out.

The challenge is to accept that, by some divine tailoring ability, the different parts will make an amazing whole. We simply have to recognize that it might not look like our idea of a perfect runway model. Instead, the church is God’s perfect creation, with all manner of styles making up its pattern. What we see as a hot mess, he sees as coming together quite nicely in the end.

One of my favorite sections in the Bible is in Revelation 7, where John pictures an endless sea of people, of all colors and languages and nationalities, together praising God. I’m looking forward to seeing that ocean of redeemed, colorful humanity. I am humbled at the chance to participate in its making now.

The church will be stunning on her wedding day—not because she is perfect, but because she is the creation of the One who knows and loves her best.

Jill Richardson is a writer, speaker, pastor, mom of three, and author of five books. She likes to travel, grow flowers, read Tolkien, and research her next project. She believes in Jesus, grace, restoration, kindness, justice, and dark chocolate. Her passion is partnering with the next generation of faith. Jill blogs at jillmrichardson.com.

Photograph © Bethany Beams, used with permission