every Sunday, church buildings fill up with imperfect people.
we stand in the sanctuary, singing songs led by flawed worship leaders.
we nit-pick words spoken by struggling pastors.
on Sundays, we slap concealer on our blemishes.
we straighten our posture and sweeten our words.
we nod and smile while tuning out.
how sad it is,
that we feel the need to pretend our brokenness doesn't exist.
because in reality,
when the broken pieces stand together
the glory of the fixer is all the more beautiful.