Talking in Church

When I was five years old, my family changed churches.  We were a family of eight, but my mother, sister and I were the only ones who went to church with any regularity.  To be honest, I don’t know what was behind the decision to move.  But for whatever reason, we left St. Mark’s and went to the big church on the hill.  Funny, what memories stick with you.  I remember the car ride on that first Sunday we went to the new church.   My mother called to me in the back seat and said, “Carolyn, now this is a big, fancy church, and we have to be very quiet during the service.  You can not talk during church.”  I didn’t remember talking during church before, but I can tell you, I was very quiet at the new, fancy church.  


We must have liked it there because we stayed, and you know, the more things change, the more they stay the same.  Just like at the other church, we were still among the last to leave every Sunday because my mother would not go home until she had spoken to everyone.  


Maybe that’s why I liked communion Sundays so much.  It gave me something to do while I waited for my mom.  After church on communion Sundays, while my mother talked, I’d go up to the altar and play with all the little cups that were left there.  Now, remember – I was five years old.  Five year olds eat dirt at home, so church germs were certainly not a threat.


You know how there is always a little bit of grape juice left in the bottom of those little cups?  Well, I could take the leavings from two or three little cups and just about fill up another one.  And I could usually down three or four shots before my mother caught sight of me.  “You can not play with the little cups!” she’d say, as she drug me off by my arm.


So I find it ironic, all these years later, that I make my living talking during church and playing with those little cups.


It is a good thing, too, because I didn’t have a lot of other options.  I am not particularly musical, not athletic at all, not brilliant, artistic or technical.  I know a little bit about a few things, but not a lot about anything.  


But I do have one passion.  I love the church.  I love it!  I love the Lord.  He is the reason I live.  But I am a pastor because I love the church.  It fascinates me that Almighty God, in all his wisdom, chose this organism as his medium for sharing His revelation of Jesus Christ.  And my passion is for seeing that organism, the Church, work in the way God intended when he passed the Body of Christ from the person of Jesus to the people of God.  I don’t claim to know God’s whole vision for that kind of church, but I do believe he is looking for more than just somebody to talk on Sundays who occasionally plays with those little cups.  In fact, I believe he is crying out for the people of God to be the body of Christ.


The apostles themselves laid it out.  Instead of allowing circumstances to take their eyes off what was most important, the apostles figured out what makes the church powerful.  And they defined it with profound simplicity. “Prayer and the ministry of the word,” they said, “are the center of what we do.  Nothing should stand in the way of that mission.  And secondly, the ministries of compassion belong to the congregation.”*


Folks, that is powerful.  This was long before Paul wrote those amazing analogies about the Body of Christ.  There were no consultants, no books to read.  But the disciples saw not only God’s vision, but the immense danger of taking their eyes off that vision, because of some pressure by some group or another to fill some need.  


“Prayer and the ministry of the word are the center of what we do.  And the ministries of compassion belong to the congregation.”  


That’s the Body of Christ.  That’s the Church being the Church – not just talking on Sundays and playing with the little cups – but all of us together bearing the good news of Jesus Christ to a world hungering for a clear vision and the honest-to-goodness gospel truth.

* This is my take on Acts 6:1-7.

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