The Bride is Brawling … Again

The wedding guests have gathered in great anticipation; the ceremony to be performed today has been long awaited. The orchestra begins to play an anthem, and the choir rises in proper precision. The bridegroom and his attendants gather in front of the chancel. One little saint, her flowered hat bobbing, leans to her companion and whispers, “Isn’t he handsome?” The response is agreement, “My yes. The handsomest.”

One by one, the bridesmaids, heralds of the nuptials, begin to stride in measured patterns. Several flower girls sow rose petals upon the white, unmarked aisle cloth. The sound of the organ rises, a joyous announcement that the bride is coming. Everyone stands and strains to get a proper glimpse of the beauty—then a horrible gasp explodes from the congregation. This is a bride like no other.

In she stumbles—something terrible has happened! One leg is twisted; she limps pronouncedly. The wedding garment is tattered and muddy; great rents in the dress leave her scarcely modest. Black bruises can be seen welting her bare arms; the bride’s nose is bloody. An eye is swollen, yellow and purple in its discoloration. Patches of hair look as if they had actually been pulled from her scalp.

Fumbling over the keys, the organist begins again after his shocked pause. The attendants cast down their eyes. The congregation mourns silently. Surely the Bridegroom deserved better than this! That handsome Prince who has kept himself faithful to his love should find consummation with the most beautiful of women—not this. His bride, the Church, had been fighting again.

Karen Mains writes for Gospel for Asia about the Bride of Christ brawling again and again.

I wrote this story, shamelessly copying my husband’s sermon idea, and used it in a book I wrote on forgiveness. Last week, a friend asked me in which book I had used this illustration.

“Key to a Loving Heart,” I informed her.

“That’s such a powerful picture,” she replied.

So I looked it up, and it is a powerful allegory. Here, I give proper credit to my creative husband (since I didn’t give him credit for the story in the book!)

I am a child of the American church. My early memories are intertwined with Sunday school teachers, morning worship services, fellowship hours, youth groups, choir practices, evening evangelistic efforts, midweek prayer meetings, summer Bible camps. I was raised in the church, and much of adult life has been spent serving the church. I am all too aware of church splits, minor fracases, non-amicable partings, ecclesiastical skirmishes. In fact, last Sunday after church, someone mentioned an acquaintance who had dropped his attendance.


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