you.’ Unwarranted, unconditional love is what he is talking about, and we all know how difficult that is. We can usually manage it for our family—overlook their most glaring faults—visit them in jail….” A few more smiles.
“Paul continues, ‘Live in harmony with one another. Do not be haughty but associate with the lowly, never be conceited,’ and so on. Paul wrote this to the people in Rome when the newly emerging church was just taking form, evolving, you might say. And he wanted to be sure that everyone understood what being a church meant. I wonder how many of you know what it is,” he said and swung his arm around to encompass the four walls.
“This is a building. It is stone and mortar and glass, but it is not a church. You look surprised. You were told it was a church. It is listed in the Yellow Pages as a church. The sign at the road says Stonewall Jackson Memorial Episcopal Church. It must be a church.
“It is not. It is a building, a building which from time to time houses a church. You are the church. Do you understand? When Paul wrote to the Church in Rome, or Corinth, or Ephesus, he did not write to an address, to a building, a place. He wrote to people. The Church in Rome consisted of many separate gatherings meeting in houses and later in the catacombs—here and there. His letter would be passed around, perhaps copied, and distributed to them. We can only guess at the number of letters he wrote that were not copied and are lost to us. But in any event those people were the Church. There were no cathedrals, no bell towers, no parish houses, just people—the Church.
“Paul wanted them to know how they were to deal with one another. ‘If your enemy is hungry, feed him, if he is thirsty, give him drink….’ Not an easy task, I submit, yet that is what is expected of us. We are to love our enemies. What an outrageous notion. Whose idea was that, anyway? Oh, right, umm, it was Jesus. And if we are to treat our enemies this way, what about our friends?”
He couldn’t be sure, but he sensed people were shifting about in their seats. Bulletins rustled. He imagined he heard someone exhale rather more noisily than normal. He pressed on.
“I think there are two kinds of people here today. There are those of you who believe you go to church, and those of you who believe you are the Church. It is my intention, as long as I am your vicar, to persuade those in the first group to become like those in the second, to become the Church. Some of you may find that idea uncomfortable, and a few, not many, I hope, may decide this is not the place for you. But if this building were to vanish overnight, would that be the end? Would you pack up and find another building, another comfortable pew to occupy? Or would you come together and start over again?”
Eyes bright in the doughnut, flinty in the hole. Oh well, in for a penny, in for a pound.
“We need to make a decision, a commitment—this year, this month, this week, today. We need to make up our minds whether we are a Church or an address, whether we are going to conform to Paul’s teaching or ignore it. To help in that, we will begin three new programs this fall.” Blake was extemporizing and amazed at what he’d said. He had not thought of programs until that very moment. His notes on the pulpit contained nothing about programs, new or otherwise. Indeed, nothing of what he had said up to that point would be found in them.
“I will lead a Wednesday morning Bible study. I will ask Mary to review our music and from now on include some contemporary pieces each Sunday, and I am going to ask you to move about in the church, not walk around, no, but to sit in a different pew every Sunday. Introduce yourself to whomever you sit next to. Oh, and starting next week, I want you to wear a nametag.
“This church has been a mission for over forty years. Forty years! In that time, it has not grown. Our average Sunday attendance had remained at eighty-nine
“Paul continues, ‘Live in harmony with one another. Do not be haughty but associate with the lowly, never be conceited,’ and so on. Paul wrote this to the people in Rome when the newly emerging church was just taking form, evolving, you might say. And he wanted to be sure that everyone understood what being a church meant. I wonder how many of you know what it is,” he said and swung his arm around to encompass the four walls.
“This is a building. It is stone and mortar and glass, but it is not a church. You look surprised. You were told it was a church. It is listed in the Yellow Pages as a church. The sign at the road says Stonewall Jackson Memorial Episcopal Church. It must be a church.
“It is not. It is a building, a building which from time to time houses a church. You are the church. Do you understand? When Paul wrote to the Church in Rome, or Corinth, or Ephesus, he did not write to an address, to a building, a place. He wrote to people. The Church in Rome consisted of many separate gatherings meeting in houses and later in the catacombs—here and there. His letter would be passed around, perhaps copied, and distributed to them. We can only guess at the number of letters he wrote that were not copied and are lost to us. But in any event those people were the Church. There were no cathedrals, no bell towers, no parish houses, just people—the Church.
“Paul wanted them to know how they were to deal with one another. ‘If your enemy is hungry, feed him, if he is thirsty, give him drink….’ Not an easy task, I submit, yet that is what is expected of us. We are to love our enemies. What an outrageous notion. Whose idea was that, anyway? Oh, right, umm, it was Jesus. And if we are to treat our enemies this way, what about our friends?”
He couldn’t be sure, but he sensed people were shifting about in their seats. Bulletins rustled. He imagined he heard someone exhale rather more noisily than normal. He pressed on.
“I think there are two kinds of people here today. There are those of you who believe you go to church, and those of you who believe you are the Church. It is my intention, as long as I am your vicar, to persuade those in the first group to become like those in the second, to become the Church. Some of you may find that idea uncomfortable, and a few, not many, I hope, may decide this is not the place for you. But if this building were to vanish overnight, would that be the end? Would you pack up and find another building, another comfortable pew to occupy? Or would you come together and start over again?”
Eyes bright in the doughnut, flinty in the hole. Oh well, in for a penny, in for a pound.
“We need to make a decision, a commitment—this year, this month, this week, today. We need to make up our minds whether we are a Church or an address, whether we are going to conform to Paul’s teaching or ignore it. To help in that, we will begin three new programs this fall.” Blake was extemporizing and amazed at what he’d said. He had not thought of programs until that very moment. His notes on the pulpit contained nothing about programs, new or otherwise. Indeed, nothing of what he had said up to that point would be found in them.
“I will lead a Wednesday morning Bible study. I will ask Mary to review our music and from now on include some contemporary pieces each Sunday, and I am going to ask you to move about in the church, not walk around, no, but to sit in a different pew every Sunday. Introduce yourself to whomever you sit next to. Oh, and starting next week, I want you to wear a nametag.
“This church has been a mission for over forty years. Forty years! In that time, it has not grown. Our average Sunday attendance had remained at eighty-nine
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