It’s a Saturday evening, and I’m scarfing down some delicious homemade Korean food with some Asian students in an apartment near Beverly Hills. After eating, we pray and prophesy over each other, worship with a guitar, and tell stories of how God is moving in our lives.
It’s a Tuesday afternoon, and I’m taking communion in the parking lot of Cal State University Long Beach. Four of us huddle together, pass around a bottle half-full of Welch’s grape juice and a few little shortbread cookies, giving thanks and offering each other encouragement.
It’s late on a Wednesday night, and I’m overlooking the glowing lights of Las Vegas from the foothills outside city. One of my friends has a guitar, and we’re praying for the light of Jesus to fall on this dark place.
It’s early on a Friday morning, and I sit at a sticky dining room table with half-eaten waffles next to my Bible. There are kids playing a few feet away. Tears are in my eyes as conviction falls upon all of us gathered around the table at the words of Jesus that we’re reading in John.
It’s a Sunday night, and I go to a service at a church at the invitation of some friends. I go the service in the cool church building, but I know that the church I’ve been a part of on Saturday evenings in apartments, and Tuesday afternoons in parking lots, and Wednesday nights in the desert, and Friday mornings in dining rooms has been just real.
Dare I say that those times were even more real? I’ll be daring. I’ll say it. The church of Jesus Christ was never meant to exist on one day a week in one place.
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