Many Members
For I am a stranger with thee, and a sojourner, as all my father’s were.
It is a subtle truth, that men wile away their lives, unknown to the world at large. Television befog’s this sure reality…that our great big world is actually a bunch of tiny little worlds. Of course we join hands for community cause. We rise together as nations for election and war…and as a world in celebrations. And, we travel the globe for business and vacation. But at the dusk of our cause, we all migrate back to our tiny worlds. Family and friends…our village or city…our careers and studies…this is where we live out our lives. Of the scary number of people who die every minute, only the famous are world broadcast. And quite soon, even they are forgotten.
Free among the dead, like the slain that lie in the grave, whom thou rememberest no more.
Most of us are the movie extra’s, who are slain without number on the battlefield.
As a rule then, men must find their purpose in that obscurity. Find it, and embrace it with all of their life…without losing their global perspective. The only village we were ever meant to light, is our own village. Failing that, we needn’t try to light the world.
My Lord has left us two golden things upon this earth. His footprints, and a Spirit-filled church. How few have noted with what beauty; the shape and form of that church, fits so perfectly into our bunch of little worlds. For He designed it to be local…small…neighborhood, and yet world united and strong.
His church is the very fruit of his life and love. But it is a single strand of fruit…apples, if you will…and not the fruit cocktail on our landscape. Though it speaks many world languages; yet it is born of only one…and that, angelic. Her pastor’s across the planet preach many messages. Each one is wrestled for in a closet of tears…and tailored for the village of his charge, by the Holy Ghost.
My Lord’s church is a portable cement mixer, which he fills with crude stone souls. In each local assembly, we chafe and chip away our rough edges…one upon another…until we become smooth shiny jewels. Her cause is the same as it’s ever been…to reach people before the end, whether of their lives, or their world. Though most of her saints attend services barefooted, yet is she a radiant work of art, crafted by my Master’s skilled hands.
Yet for all we know about the church, we cannot define her…for she must define herself. And the lateness of the hour, prays that she do so. Seems we’ve got the local part down pretty good. And the hierarchy is logical. But in the ping and echo of her movements, we could use a little work.
For too long…and in the name of wise fishermen…we have tried to slip in, mask our name, and meld with our villages…hoping to catch them all with guile. Sorta spring
Acts 2: 38 on ‘em down the road a bit. And in so doing, our identity…as my Lord’s church…becomes blurred. Our unity becomes fractured. Yes, our local autonomy bodes well, when we cross the cultural divides of our world. But in crossing town limits and county lines, over-zealous autonomy more closely resembles kingdom building.
If the Body of Christ is at all mirrored in the body he gave you to live in, then local autonomy doesn’t exist. Your body relies on complete communication…complete cooperation…from cell to neighbor cell, from muscle to neighbor muscle, and from bone to neighbor bone. Ever notice how swift a matter, a splinter in the hand or foot is? Instant pain fires an impulse through the body. Then, there is lightening-speed analysis and response. Or…find your body’s waste system clogged up, and won’t go. How universally the whole body suffers.
Town to town, we do need to claim that same degree of sensitivity. County to county, strengthening her nerves and axons and tendrils across these lines. The chemical mixture…at all the local cell levels…must remain consistent. Else we could never be as lightening-quick…state to state…to relay our pain or pleasure to the head. Pray that our head be nearly so sensitive as our own body’s, to all of her joy or despair. Today’s Body of Christ…and its headquarter-to-local structure…must communicate as well as the splintered toe, or the clogged bowels. Like as Paul; who intimately knew which churches were in need, and which could afford to help. Or as James; who would not allow the well-off who so helped, to become profiteers from it, as the temple money changers. But as the Body of Christ.
Our local services are our life. Such joy of fellowship. Such life-changing altar calls. Praises of tears in the song service; as the Spirit begins there, to softly blow. Such anointed preaching, of the beautiful Word of God. In these things, surely she is ready for her noble Lord’s return.
But our local autonomy…bereft of strong wiring to our neighbor muscles and bones…makes us lethargic and disjointed. Perhaps it’s time we slice the baby in half. Tackle the difficult issues…the finer points…which divide us. For we should be rising now; to define ourselves clearly and united, to this generation. May the body call up her electrons, traveling through the web of nerve axons, to reach headquarters. And may her leukocytes respond at the speed of light, to the call.
But now are they many members, yet but one body.
Linear Mode
