Live and recent posts from across the Fediverse tagged #thechurch, aggregated by home.social.
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🎵 The Church - When You Were Mine (2002 Remastered)
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🎵 The Church - North, South, East and West
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🎵 The Church - Reptile
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#Religion #TheChurch #YesAllReligions
* To be clear: my problem with religions is philosophical and practical; I was never molested or mistreated in any way by religious folk. I think that the data shows that many—too many—people who centre their lives around religion are manipulative abusers seeking to impose their beliefs on others through political and legal controls; beliefs that have no evidence other than "Trust me bro."
#MixedMedia #DigitalArt #iBisPaintX
qɯɐ⅂ ǝlʇʇı⅂ ɐ pɐɥ ʎɹɐW
po⅁ ɟo qɯɐ⅂ ǝɥʇ sɐʍ snsǝſ
snsǝſ pɐɥ ʎɹɐW
The Church announce new album Lacuna: hear 'Western'
https://stereogum.com/2511629/the-church-announce-new-album-lacuna-hear-western/music/
A Box of Birds
#thechurch #aboxofbirds #ninetiesrock #alternativerock #psychedelicrock #dreampop #rockmusic #music #musicsky #musiciansky I'm not a big fan of covers but this one is the exception -- Released on September 21, 1999 it's the tenth from The Church. Coming on the heels of a highly successful late 90's stretch of critically acclaimed albums, the band decided to pay homage to the artists who influenced and shaped their sound -- but they did so in "The Church…
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News 📌
👤 The Church 📈 52 👥 300.6K
🔗 In arrivo il nuovo album della band di “under a milky way” – ascolta “western”
A oltre quarant'anni dall'inizio della loro avventura, i Church continuano ad ampliare il proprio [...]
a cura di Claudio Fabretti
#Ondarock #MusicianSky #MusicSky #Music
The Church
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🎵 The Church - North, South, East and West
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The Church Rides Again With Their Latest Single “Western” — New Album “Lacuna” Announced!
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🎵 The Church - When You Were Mine (2002 Remastered)
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🎵 The Church - Reptile
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🇺🇦 #NowPlaying on #KEXP's #DriveTime
The Church:
🎵 Reptile
#TheChurch
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163 The Church - Reptile [DJ N...
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The Church - Reptile (1988)
From the album Starfish.
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=x6Mx5xKOMAk
#music #musicvideo #thechurch #church #reptile #altrock #alternativerock #goth #gothic #postpunk #newwave
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Why Your Faith Must Become a Weapon of War
8,603 words, 46 minutes read time.
The Death of Sacred Protocol: Exposing the Failure of Modern Church Performance
The Church, in its eternal and biblical reality, is not dying. It is an immovable force. Christ gave us the ironclad guarantee in Matthew 16:18: “I will build my church, and the gates of hell shall not prevail against it.” But let’s be clear: the systems, the institutions, and the human structures built on the back of the Gospel are rotting. They are under the judgment described in Revelation 2:5: “Remember therefore from whence thou art fallen, and repent, and do the first works; or else I will come unto thee quickly, and will remove thy candlestick out of his place, except thou repent.” We are watching the necessary culling of an era where “Sacred Protocol” replaced the mission. Paul’s warning in 2 Timothy 4:3 is our current reality: “For the time will come when they will not endure sound doctrine; but after their own lusts shall they heap to themselves teachers, having itching ears.”
We have seen this rot firsthand in the mega-church machine. Leadership has traded the weight of the Gospel for a “Rock Star” aesthetic. This shift traces back to the institutionalization of the Purpose Driven model—a framework that treated the local body like a corporation and the Gospel like a commodity. Under this regime, leadership perfected “Blessing Subtraction,” the surgical removal of any truth, challenge, or biblical reality that might make a seeker uncomfortable. They sanitized the call to the cross, scrubbing away the blood and the cost until the faith became a sterile, marketable product. They ignored the command in Galatians 1:10: “For do I now persuade men, or God? or do I seek to please men? for if I yet pleased men, I should not be the servant of Christ.” We have been complicit in a system that prefers performance over the raw, offensive reality of the Truth. It is time to stop the act.
Walk into these arenas, and we see the obsession with status and surface-level aesthetics. The message of the cross is obliterated, replaced by a theater of the absurd. We are witnessing the warning of 2 Corinthians 11:14–15, where “Satan himself is transformed into an angel of light,” and his ministers disguise themselves as servants of righteousness. This is the pursuit of relevance gone terminal. The irony is suffocating. I once sat in a service where the stage was a chaotic grid of screens at varying heights and positions, flashing a barrage of imagery that bordered on the inappropriate. The sermon’s supposed point was “distractions.” Yet, the screens themselves—the very apparatus of the production—were the ultimate distraction. The medium destroyed the message. It was a hollow performance, a transparent attempt to mimic the aesthetics of success rather than preach under the power of the Holy Spirit.
This environment is poisoned by the “Health and Wealth” gospel. It is a parasitic doctrine that turns the church into a pagan temple, where we bribe God for personal gain. It is a direct violation of 1 Timothy 6:5, which speaks of those who are “destitute of the truth, supposing that gain is godliness.” We watch leaders obsess over fog machines and curated social media feeds, treating the pulpit like a brand-building exercise instead of a place for the exposition of the terrifyingly holy Word of God.
This is the “seeker” model: a stage-managed production. It treats God like a fire insurance salesman and the congregation like a customer base to be entertained. We prioritize the “conversion”—a transaction designed to soothe a guilty conscience—while ignoring the grueling, lifelong reality of discipleship commanded by Christ in Luke 9:23: “If any man will come after me, let him deny himself, and take up his cross daily, and follow me.” We bait the hook with promises of comfort and prosperity, draw the crowd with the allure of worldly success, and then leave everyone high and dry. We are left unprepared for the war of the Christian life, having ignored the exhortation in 2 Timothy 2:3 to “endure hardness, as a good soldier of Jesus Christ.”
By treating conversion as the finish line, we have failed. We leave men spiritually malnourished and functionally impotent. The modern church has mastered the art of the “altar call” while abandoning the reality of the cross. We have conveniently forgotten the most terrifying warning in Scripture: Matthew 7:21. Jesus states, “Not every one that saith unto me, Lord, Lord, shall enter into the kingdom of heaven; but he that doeth the will of my Father which is in heaven.” When we manipulate crowds into superficial professions of faith, we are effectively teaching them to take the Lord’s name in vain. We are coaching men to invoke Christ as a “fire insurance” policy—a verbal charm with zero intention of conforming their lives to His will. This is the ultimate vanity: using the Creator as a tool for personal comfort while ignoring His holiness. These are the people who will hear, “I never knew you,” because their “faith” was a performance for men, not a surrender to God.
Look at the Apostles after the Ascension. There is no trace of our hollow, “seeker-friendly” aesthetic. Their lives were not defined by stage lighting or optimized monologues; they were defined by the brutal, relentless pursuit of a Truth that cost them everything. As Paul articulated in 2 Corinthians 11:23–27, his ministry was marked by “in stripes above measure, in prisons more frequent, in deaths oft.” He faced rods, shipwrecks, and robbers. They were beaten, imprisoned, exiled, and executed—not for a vague sense of spiritual improvement, but for the hard, offensive, and immutable reality of the Gospel. Peter was crucified upside down. James was put to the sword. Paul was beheaded. They did not die for a “fire insurance” policy; they died because they were consumed by a fire the world could not extinguish. They understood the mandate of Romans 12:1: to present their bodies as a “living sacrifice, holy, acceptable unto God.” They knew following Christ was never about status or climbing an ecclesiastical ladder. It was about carrying a cross that demanded total, uncompromising surrender, just as Christ commanded in Luke 14:27: “And whosoever doth not bear his cross, and come after me, cannot be my disciple.”
Look at the Apostles after the Ascension. There is no trace of our hollow, “seeker-friendly” aesthetic here. Their lives were not defined by stage lighting, curated playlists, or optimized monologues; they were defined by the brutal, relentless pursuit of a Truth that cost them everything. As Paul articulated in 2 Corinthians 11:23–27, his ministry was not a rise to power, but a descent into suffering: “in stripes above measure, in prisons more frequent, in deaths oft.” He faced rods, shipwrecks, and robbers. They were beaten, imprisoned, exiled, and executed—not for a vague sense of spiritual improvement, but for the hard, offensive, and immutable reality of the Gospel.
Consider the finality of their witness. Peter was crucified upside down. James was put to the sword. Paul was beheaded. Even John, the disciple whom Jesus loved, was not spared the full weight of the world’s hatred; tradition records that he was cast into a cauldron of boiling oil in Rome, only to be exiled to the brutal conditions of the Isle of Patmos when the fire could not break him. Yet, even in that desolate, punishing isolation, he did not waver; he was granted the vision to record the Revelation, documenting the ultimate victory of the King they had died to proclaim. This is where we must confront the logical reality of their conviction: no one dies for a lie they know to be a fabrication. These men saw the Risen Christ; they were not martyrs for a philosophy, but witnesses to a historical reality that transformed them from cowering fugitives into men who faced death without flinching. They did not die for a “fire insurance” policy; they died because they were consumed by a fire the world could not extinguish. They understood the mandate of Romans 12:1: to present their bodies as a “living sacrifice, holy, acceptable unto God.” They knew following Christ was never about status, comfort, or climbing an ecclesiastical ladder. It was about carrying a cross that demanded total, uncompromising surrender, just as Christ commanded in Luke 14:27: “And whosoever doth not bear his cross, and come after me, cannot be my disciple.”
This is the standard of the faith, a benchmark systematically purged from the modern protocol. If the Christianity we practice requires no sacrifice, no conflict, and poses no threat to our comfort, it is not the Christianity of the Apostles. It is a counterfeit—a hollow shell that ignores the ironclad promise in 2 Timothy 3:12: “Yea, and all that will live godly in Christ Jesus shall suffer persecution.” We have been sold a cheap imitation, a sedative for the conscience that leaves the spirit stagnant and useless.
The gatekeepers who preside over these stages demand that every thought, every strategy, and every expression of faith pass through a rigid, inherited filter of language and tradition—even when that tradition is nothing more than a scripted, hollow copy of someone else’s success. They demand a specific aesthetic of piety, a sanitized performance that poses no threat to the status quo. Yet, they refuse to equip the saints for the reality of the arena, failing the very mandate set forth in Ephesians 4:11–12: “And he gave some, apostles; and some, prophets; and some, evangelists; and some, pastors and teachers; for the perfecting of the saints, for the work of the ministry, for the edifying of the body of Christ.” They have turned the office of the pastor into a brand manager and the congregation into an audience, while the world burns because we are too busy refining our stage presence to actually engage in the work of the ministry. They aren’t building disciples; they are curating fans, and it is time we called that what it is: a dereliction of duty.
This is not stewardship; this is cowardice. By forcing the Gospel into a mold of “relatability,” we have ignored the blunt warning of James 4:4: “the friendship of the world is enmity with God.” We have been given a brain, a set of gifts, and an urgent calling, yet we let the opinions of men who prioritize performance over impact stop us from delivering the message to a world that is actively dying. They would have us believe that the “sacred protocol” of the institution is our master, but the Scriptures command otherwise in Acts 5:29: “We ought to obey God rather than men.”
Stop asking for permission to be effective. The gatekeepers are not our commanders; the Truth is. If we continue to allow men to dictate the boundaries of our calling, we are not stewards of the mystery; we are captives of a failed system. It is time to stop playing by their rules and start delivering the message with the authority it demands. The arena is waiting, the time is short, and the cost of staying silent is a debt we can no longer afford to pay. We are either servants of the Living God, or we are employees of a dying machine. It is time to choose.
The Apostolic Standard: Why Biblical Success Is Forged in Suffering, Not Surplus
We have been fed a counterfeit doctrine that equates material surplus with divine favor. This is the Prosperity Deception, and it is a toxic, soul-rotting betrayal of the faith—a modern iteration of the Golden Calf. By reducing the terrifyingly holy Creator of the universe to a cosmic vending machine, this doctrine is nothing short of blatant idolatry. It is the elevation of wealth, comfort, and status above the sovereignty of God, a transactional heresy that replaces the Cross with a balance sheet. When we examine the standard established by the Apostles, we find no promise of an easy life, no guarantee of corporate-level success, and zero mandate to chase the world’s hollow definitions of “abundance.”
Instead, we find the hard, immutable truth: Biblical success is forged in the furnace of suffering. The Apostles did not walk a path paved with comfort; they walked a path that led to the blood-soaked sands of the Roman arena, where they were forced to choose between the integrity of their witness and the violence of the mob. They walked into the suffocating, pitch-black darkness of subterranean dungeons, where the air was thick with the rot of their own festering wounds and the silence was broken only by the prayers of men awaiting a brutal, state-sanctioned end. They stood before the cold steel of the executioner’s blade—an instrument of terror designed to silence the message by obliterating the messenger. Their lives were not defined by curated appearances or strategic influence; they were defined by the grit required to remain loyal to the King when every worldly authority demanded they renounce Him or face the finality of the sword, the spear, or the cross.
This was not an accidental byproduct of their ministry; it was the inevitable consequence of a radical, uncompromising devotion that stripped away the illusion of worldly safety. To follow Christ in the first century was to intentionally place one’s neck under the yoke of a hostile Empire and one’s soul under the absolute jurisdiction of Heaven. They viewed their physical lives as cheap currency to be spent in the market of eternity. If we are measuring our success by bank accounts, attendance numbers, or social standing, we are not following the Apostles. We are doing something far more sinister: we are using their name as a veneer to justify our own cowardice, effectively chasing the very idols of Mammon and status that they died to destroy. We have exchanged the fire of the Holy Spirit for the comfort of the status quo, and in doing so, we have built a religious monument to our own insecurity rather than a fortress for the Truth.
To understand why they chose this path, we must confront the reality of what they witnessed. The Apostles were not driven by a mere philosophy; they were unhinged by a historical event that shattered the natural world. They saw Jesus Christ invade the domain of death, pulling Lazarus from the grave and healing the incurable. But that was only the prelude. They witnessed Him surrender to the Cross, dying a public, agonizing death, only to dismantle the power of the grave by taking up His own life again three days later. They saw Him, alive and resurrected, before He ascended into the heavens. Yet, even with this evidence, the Apostles remained cowering, paralyzed by the fear of men—until the arrival of the Holy Spirit at Pentecost.
The weight of this arrival would not have been lost on men steeped in the history of the Law. At Mount Sinai, when the people forged the Golden Calf, the ensuing judgment ended with three thousand souls dead in the desert (Exodus 32:28). But at Pentecost, at the very site where the Law was celebrated, the Spirit descended with fire, and three thousand souls were saved (Acts 2:41). It was a deliberate, divine inversion: where the Law brought death to the idolaters, the Spirit brought life to the repentant. This was the ignition. The same men who had fled in terror were suddenly possessed by a sovereign power that rendered them incapable of silence. They were transformed from frightened, self-preserving fugitives into lethal witnesses for the Truth.
This is the foundation of the Gospel they preached. It was never a blueprint for self-actualization or a strategy for personal promotion. It was a declaration of war against the status quo of the human ego. They preached “Christ crucified”—a message that was a “stumbling block” to the Jewish demand for a political deliverer and “foolishness” to the Greek obsession with intellectual vanity (1 Corinthians 1:23). They shattered the modern myth that we are the masters of our own destiny, teaching instead that we are born into a state of ontological rebellion. As Paul establishes in Romans 3:10–12, “There is none righteous, no, not one: there is none that understandeth, there is none that seeketh after God.” We are not merely “mistaken”; we are in total apostasy. Because we are “dead in trespasses and sins” (Ephesians 2:1), we cannot “self-help” or “market” our way to God.
The Apostles demanded Metanoia—not a superficial emotional shift, but a radical, total transformation of the mind and a change of allegiance from the self-sovereign ego to the Absolute Sovereign. They understood the ancient Hebrew concept of Corban—that which is dedicated to God is completely separated from common use, stripped of its original purpose, and consumed by the fire of the altar. They preached that a man is “bought with a price” (1 Corinthians 6:20) and is no longer his own. This is not a “lifestyle choice”; it is a total acquisition of the human soul. This is why their Gospel was a declaration of war.
They echoed the Prophets of old, demanding that we present our bodies as a “living sacrifice” (Romans 12:1). They weren’t offering a “better life” to make us happy, comfortable, or secure; they were demanding our lives in their entirety to make us His. This is the cornerstone of the Apostolic mandate: a total, irreversible surrender of the self. However, modern teaching has fundamentally mangled this concept, weaponizing the phrase “you are the body of Christ” to foster a fragile, self-obsessed brand of piety. We are told that taking risks for the sake of the Kingdom—or even enduring the physical toll of a life lived in the heat of spiritual warfare—is a sin because we must “protect the temple.” They treat the human body like a porcelain relic to be preserved in bubble wrap rather than a weapon of war to be deployed for the King.
This is a coward’s theology, and it is how modern teaching consistently fails men. If the logic of “preserving the temple” were true—if avoiding pain, damage, or death were the ultimate metric of holiness—then Jesus Christ Himself was the greatest sinner in history. He did not preserve His body; He offered it up to be scourged, pierced, and nailed to wood. The Apostles did not seek to maintain their physical health or longevity; they ran headlong into the fray, intentionally subjecting their bodies to the rack, the whip, and the fire to advance the Gospel. If physical preservation were the aim, the Cross would be a mistake and the martyrdom of the Apostles would be an act of rebellion. But the Apostolic standard is the polar opposite. They understood that the body is not meant to be a sanctuary of comfort, but a vessel for sacrifice. By domesticating the faith and elevating self-preservation over sacrificial obedience, modern institutions have stripped men of their purpose. They have replaced the call to die to self with a call to coddle the self, leaving an entire generation of men functionally neutered and unable to stand when the fire finally comes.
True biblical prosperity is not the accumulation of assets; it is the capacity to endure for the sake of the Gospel. It is the grit to remain unshaken when the world applies the rack, the sword, or the cold shoulder. While modern institutions promise “blessing” in exchange for religious participation, the Scriptures explicitly promise persecution for those who live godly in Christ Jesus (2 Timothy 3:12). We must strip away the seeker-sensitive veneer and return to the original, blood-bought mandate. Consider the “rich young ruler” whom Christ confronted in the Gospels. The Scriptures do not even grant him the dignity of a name—a deliberate omission that serves as a chilling indictment. He is not a person; he is a prototype. He represents the man who wants the Kingdom on his own terms, assuming his wealth is a badge of divine approval. When Christ told him, “Sell all that thou hast, and distribute unto the poor… and come, follow me” (Luke 18:22), the man walked away grieving. He wanted the life, but he was unwilling to pay the cost. By leaving him nameless, the text warns us that those who prioritize their surplus over the King remain anonymous in the halls of eternity. The Apostles were not looking for a surplus of resources; they were looking for a surplus of faithfulness in the face of absolute adversity. They realized that a man’s life is not defined by what he gathers, but by what he is willing to sacrifice.
Look at the evidence of their lives. Peter was crucified upside down; James was put to the sword; Paul was beheaded; John was thrown into a vat of boiling oil before being exiled to the hell of Patmos. They lived under the constant threat of a Roman Empire that demanded their silence, yet they refused to recant. They faced the absolute worst of human cruelty and chose the Cross.
I have to stop and ask: How much do you have to hate a man—how deep must your malice run—to construct a cauldron large enough to hold a human being, fill it with oil, light the fire, and attempt to boil him to death? This is not just state-sponsored justice; this is a level of demonic depravity designed to shatter a man’s soul before it destroys his body. Yet, they could not break John. They could not silence the witness.
This is the logical reality of their conviction: no one dies for a lie they know to be a fabrication. They were not martyrs for a philosophy or a clever idea; they were eyewitnesses to a historical reality that transformed them from cowering fugitives into men who faced the ultimate agony without flinching. They saw the Risen Christ, and that vision burned away their fear of the state, the mob, and the executioner. They did not die for a theory; they died because they had seen the King, and they knew that even a vat of boiling oil was nothing compared to the glory of the life He promised.
They did not die for a “fire insurance” policy, and they certainly didn’t die for some “purpose-driven” career trajectory. These men were not careerists seeking to optimize their influence or curate a legacy. They died because they were consumed by a fire the world could not extinguish—the Holy Spirit, which turned their mortality into an instrument of eternal conquest. They understood that following Christ was never about status, comfort, or climbing an ecclesiastical ladder in a world that is already rotting from the inside out—a world hurtling toward the absolute certainty of divine judgment and final destruction as unveiled in the book of Revelation. It was about carrying a cross—not a symbolic burden, but a brutal, Roman-engineered instrument of execution—that demanded the total, uncompromising liquidation of the ego, just as Christ commanded in Luke 14:27: “And whosoever doth not bear his cross, and come after me, cannot be my disciple.”
It is time to abandon the cowardice of seeking worldly surplus and reclaim the Apostolic standard: a life defined by the Cross, tempered by the fire of persecution, and sustained by an uncompromising commitment to the Truth. We are currently suffocating under a mountain of cheap grace and seeker-sensitive marketing that promises everything while demanding nothing. That is not the Gospel; it is a spiritual narcotic designed to keep us complacent while the culture collapses. We are standing at a crossroads. We are either servants of the Living God, whose lives are truly “hid with Christ in God,” or we are merely employees of a dying machine—a secularized religious system that trades in influence, comfort, and the empty pursuit of status. The machine is failing, and it will take down everyone who clings to it for security. The time for games is over. The Truth does not negotiate, and the Cross does not bargain. It is time to choose: either we die to ourselves, or we perish with the idols we have built to replace the King.
The Divine Demolition: Why Judgment Begins at the House of God
This section will not be popular. It will not be printed in your weekly bulletin, and the “brand managers” in the pulpit will recoil from it like a vampire from sunlight. Let’s stop dancing around the issue. The Church—as it currently stands in its institutional, corrupted form—is under judgment. If the world is to face the fires of divine wrath, the Church will be judged first, and it will be judged with a severity that dwarfs the secular culture. Christ’s warning in Matthew 7:21–23 is the terrifying reality for the modern performer: “Not every one that saith unto me, Lord, Lord, shall enter into the kingdom of heaven; but he that doeth the will of my Father which is in heaven.” Many will claim they prophesied in His name and performed mighty works, yet the King’s final verdict is absolute: “I never knew you: depart from me, ye that work iniquity.” This is the chilling baseline for the “seeker-friendly” charade: God is not impressed by your stage presence, your programs, or your professionalized piety. He is looking for the will of the Father, and He is finding nothing but the vanity of men.
We see this same pattern in Jesus’ direct confrontation with the religious aristocracy of His day. He did not come to reform the Sadducees or court the Pharisees; He came to dismantle them. When He drove the money changers from the Temple in Matthew 21:12–13, He was declaring war on the institutionalization of the sacred. He saw the Temple not merely as a building, but as the only point of contact between God and the nations. The money changers were positioned in the “Court of the Gentiles”—the literal outer perimeter of the Temple. This was the only place where a non-Jewish person could stand in proximity to the presence of God. By turning this sacred threshold into a high-stakes marketplace, the religious elite were effectively shoving the world out of the way to make room for their own profit margins. It wasn’t just that they had set up shop; they had rigged the game. By forcing pilgrims to buy “temple-approved” animals and exchange their money for “holy” currency at predatory rates, they turned the sacrificial system into an extortion racket. They took the sincere, humble offering of the poor and reduced it to a cheap, mandatory business transaction. Jesus saw the Pharisees for exactly what they were: “whitewashed tombs”—beautifully polished on the outside to project holiness, but filled with the rot and stench of dead men’s bones. He didn’t mince words with these gatekeepers; He called them “blind guides” who strained at gnats while swallowing camels. Their entire structure was “teaching for doctrines the commandments of men,” a machine of performance that neutralized the power of the Word. Because they refused to repent, Christ pronounced the desolation of their house. He didn’t fix the machine; He rendered it obsolete.
That is the prototype for every generation since, and the modern “church” has simply updated the merchandise. Today, the “Court of the Gentiles” is occupied by high-end bookstores, branded apparel, and the “Holy Starbucks” in the lobby—a carefully curated atmosphere designed to make the seeker feel comfortable rather than convicted. They have turned the threshold of the encounter with God into a lifestyle brand. Just like the money changers, the modern machine knows that if you make the environment look and feel like the world, you can sell the world’s values back to the congregants at a premium. They have replaced the call to take up one’s cross with a call to purchase the latest “vision-aligned” resource or subscribe to the “community” app. It is a business model built on the backs of people who are searching for Truth, but instead of finding the fire of the Holy Spirit, they find a retail experience. When an institution prioritizes its own survival, its brand identity, and its bottom line over the radical, offensive, and uncompromising holiness of God, it is not a church—it is a corporation. And like the Temple in 70 AD, it is already under a sentence of destruction.
He isn’t measuring them by attendance spikes, state-of-the-art AV rigs, or the glossy optics of a social media campaign. He is measuring them by the brutal, unyielding standard of total devotion. The modern “mega-church machine” is a structure of vanity—a modern “Babylon”—that has prostituted the Gospel to buy worldly influence. As the early church father Cyprian of Carthage famously snapped in On the Unity of the Church, “The spouse of Christ cannot be adulterous; she is uncorrupted and pure.” When an institution aligns itself with the “excessive luxuries” and the “maddening wine” of the world (Revelation 18:3), she ceases to be the Bride and becomes a harlot. She sells access to God, she peddles a watered-down counterfeit of grace, and she trades the offense of the Cross for the comfort of the culture. As the mystic A.W. Tozer once warned, the church has become so “worldly” that it is effectively indistinguishable from the society it was called to haunt.
The tragedy is that this machine is fueled by a lie. We live in an era where “church growth” is often a carefully manufactured illusion, propped up by inflated metrics and a consumer-based business model. While these institutions brag about “thousands reached,” researchers have found that attendance numbers are routinely exaggerated—sometimes by a factor of three or four—to maintain the appearance of success. They prioritize the “seeker” over the saint, funneling millions into lighting, screens, and marketing to keep the pews filled with passive consumers. They are not making disciples; they are maintaining an audience. They spend more on the technology that creates a “mood” than on the grueling, slow, and unglamorous work of forging men of honor who can withstand the coming fire.
Contrast this with the house churches of China, where the “church” consists of nothing more than a few believers gathered in a living room, a field, or a basement, knowing full well that discovery could mean prison, torture, or death. They have no high-end bookstores, no “Holy Starbucks” in the lobby, and no production teams to polish their image. Yet, they possess something the Western machine has long since traded away: the raw, unadulterated presence of the Holy Spirit. They do not rely on the theater of the pulpit to manufacture an experience; they rely on the terrifying reality of their faith. Their growth is not measured by the size of their stage, but by the resilience of their character. While the Western machine spends its resources on the appearance of church, the underground church in China is busy being the Church—forging men and women who have counted the cost and found Christ to be worth every ounce of the price they pay. When the fire finally hits, the stage-managed structures will evaporate into smoke, but the house-built foundation will be the only thing left standing.
We are not witnessing the death of the Church; we are witnessing the overdue death of a rotting machine under divine judgment. Look at the headlines: once-mighty “cathedrals of the culture,” like the Crystal Cathedral or the storied downtown megachurches that once commanded national influence, have shuttered their doors, sold their assets, and vanished into irrelevance. These are not merely economic failures; they are the physical manifestations of a spiritual verdict. God is currently sifting the wheat from the chaff, separating the true sons of God from the functionaries of a dying, secularized religious enterprise. This judgment is not an act of malice; it is an act of surgical mercy. He is clearing the rubble of these fallen monuments so that the foundation—the true, blood-bought, Apostolic Church—can be stripped of its worldly veneer and exposed for what it actually is. The candlestick is being pulled from the stage-managed temples of men, and those who choose to remain inside when the fire finally consumes the “wood, hay, and stubble” (1 Corinthians 3:12) will have nowhere left to hide. The judgment has begun at the House of God, and the machine is already gasping its final breath as its foundations turn to ash. It is time for every man to decide: will you continue to serve a dying, rotting institution that offers you nothing but a seat in a burning building, or will you stand with the Truth when the smoke finally clears?
The Remnant and the Return to the Arena
If the Garden of Eden proved anything, it is that any system, structure, or kingdom built by the hands of man—no matter how ornate—is under an inescapable sentence of decay. From the first stones laid in the wake of the Fall, history has been a graveyard of human ambition, a repetitive record of divine judgment. Look at the ruins: the Temple in Jerusalem, reduced to rubble; the cathedrals of Europe, now hollowed-out tourist attractions; the “cathedrals of the culture” in our own time, shuttering their doors as the rot sets in. Every empire, every institution, and every “seeker-friendly” machine is simply a tower built to reach heaven without the King. They are all doomed to the same end: rot, judgment, and collapse. The modern Church has not escaped this; she has accelerated her own demise, attempting to build a kingdom out of the world’s trash and hoping God would ignore the stench. But God is not mocked. As Cyprian of Carthage famously snapped in On the Unity of the Church, “The spouse of Christ cannot be adulterous; she is uncorrupted and pure.” You can drape yourself in the slogans of the faith, fill your closet with merchandise from the church store, and sit in the front row as million-dollar AV systems and production lighting rival the spectacle of the world’s most famous pagan performers. But the strobe lights, the fog machines, and the calculated aesthetics of a stadium-scale concert do not grant you an audience with the Almighty.
As Christ warned in Matthew 7, there are those who will invoke His name—who will point to their “mighty works” and their packed arenas right up until the moment of their destruction—only to hear the most terrifying words ever spoken: “I never knew you.” As A.W. Tozer once warned, the church has become so “worldly” that it is effectively indistinguishable from the society it was called to haunt. You can live a life of religious pretense, you can die wearing the shirt, and you can still stand before the King to hear your eternal sentence. This is the unvarnished, brutal fact: religious association is not salvation, and for the man who trades the Cross for a brand, hell is the only destination left.
But here is the hard truth your “brand managers” will never tell you: God does not need your approval, and He certainly does not need your relevance. We act as if the success of the Gospel depends on how well we package it, how “cool” we make the music, or how effectively we navigate the cultural currents. We are delusional. Look at Jonah. He was no frightened amateur; he was a seasoned prophet who had stood before kings. He did not flee Nineveh out of cowardice; he fled out of a twisted, self-righteous protectionism. He knew the prophecies. He understood that if God forgave the brutal Assyrians, it might jeopardize the security of his own people. Jonah wasn’t running to save his skin; he was running to sabotage God’s mercy because it didn’t align with his nationalistic agenda. He was so arrogant that he believed he could impose his own moral terms on the Sovereign of the Universe, prioritizing his own pride over the command of the King.
God didn’t care about Jonah’s “theology of exclusion,” and He certainly didn’t need Jonah’s permission to show grace to the pagans. The Great Commission is not a suggestion; it is a mandate to make disciples of all nations—regardless of our politics, the history of those we serve, or our moral disdain for their lifestyle, including those navigating the reality of the LGBTQ+ community. We are not called to be gatekeepers of grace or judges of who is “beyond reach.” We are called to be conduits of the Truth, and the Truth is not ours to withhold. Yet, most men today are paralyzed, waiting for the “green light” from a church board or a pastor before they dare to move, or worse, they hide behind the excuse of “seeking God’s will” to avoid the actual work of the Gospel. They treat the Will of God like a riddle to be solved rather than a command to be obeyed. This is rank cowardice. You do not need to see the entire horizon to take the first step; you are commanded to move. When we allow our prejudices or our desire for comfort to override the mission, we become exactly what Jesus condemned in the Pharisees: men who slam the gates of the Kingdom in the faces of others, effectively making them “twice the son of hell” by our own neglect and hypocrisy.
God didn’t need Jonah to be “relatable” to the sailors; He needed Jonah to be broken. When Jonah tried to bury the mission in the dark hull of a ship, God didn’t plead for his cooperation. He sent a storm that shredded the vessel, terrified the sailors, and forced them to witness the terrifying reality of the One True God. The pagans on that deck found the Truth not because of Jonah’s preaching, but because of his rebellion; they saw that the God of Israel is not a tribal charm to be controlled, but the Lord of the storm who demands absolute obedience. God refused to let His purpose be hijacked by a prophet’s pride, proving that He will shatter the ships of men—and the egos of their leaders—to ensure His will is done.
The only system that survives the fire is the Kingdom of God, and its entry fee is absolute: 100%. God does not bargain, He does not negotiate, and He certainly does not accept your leftovers or the scraps of your spare time. He demands the entirety of your life—the “living sacrifice” commanded in Romans 12:1. This is not a request for a tithe of your effort; it is a claim of total ownership. Most men live as though they are merely “consultants” for the Almighty, offering God a polite Sunday appearance while keeping the rest of their existence under their own management. That is not discipleship; that is a business transaction.
As Dietrich Bonhoeffer famously diagnosed in The Cost of Discipleship, “Cheap grace is grace without discipleship, grace without the cross, grace without Jesus Christ, living and incarnate.” We have been sold a sedative, a “doctrine of intellectual assent” that replaces the radical reality of the cross with the comfort of a consumer experience. God is not looking for a larger audience to entertain; He is looking for a Remnant to deploy. He is hunting for men who have finally realized that if they cling to the rotting structures of this world, or the hollow comfort of a compromised institution, they will inevitably go down with the wreckage. As A.W. Tozer once warned, “If the Holy Spirit was withdrawn from the church today, 95 percent of what we do would go on and no one would know the difference.”
You cannot serve two masters, and you cannot build a life on two foundations. When the judgment comes, the only thing that remains is what was fully, irrevocably, and intentionally surrendered to the King. As C.S. Lewis put it in Mere Christianity, “Until you have given up yourself to Him you will not have a real self.” Anything less than 100% surrender is not just a failure—it is a delusion.
This is your return to the Arena. The “Arena” is not a building you attend on Sunday; it is the raw, unvarnished reality of your daily life. It is the home where you lead, the workplace where you testify, and the secret places of your heart where you either bow to the King or serve your own ego. The “church” you have been taught to attend is a temporary structure; the Church you are called to be is an eternal weapon of war. You have spent your life looking for a system that makes sense, a church that makes you comfortable, and a faith that fits into your schedule. That system is a lie.
As the apostle Paul wrote to the church in Ephesus, “For we wrestle not against flesh and blood, but against principalities, against powers, against the rulers of the darkness of this world” (Ephesians 6:12). You cannot fight a spiritual war while sitting in a theater seat. As the theologian and martyr Dietrich Bonhoeffer noted, “When Christ calls a man, he bids him come and die.” This is the reality of the Arena: it is the place where the cross is not a decorative symbol on a wall, but the active instrument of your daily surrender. You have been trained to seek a “safe space,” but the Gospel is an assault on your autonomy. As G.K. Chesterton famously observed, “The Christian ideal has not been tried and found wanting. It has been found difficult; and left untried.” You are done with the easy path. The Arena demands your sweat, your sacrifice, and your absolute commitment to the King who died to make you a soldier, not a consumer.
Stop looking for a building to house your faith and start looking for a brotherhood to sharpen your steel. Find two or three men who are as tired of the “seeker-friendly” charade as you are. As Proverbs 27:17 dictates, “Iron sharpens iron, and one man sharpens another.” You need men who will call out your compromise, not facilitate your comfort. Stop playing the role of the consumer and start operating as a combatant. If you have been waiting for permission to be effective, consider this your immediate dismissal from the ranks of the spectator.
The institutions are failing, the systems are collapsing, and the stage lights are going dark. We are living in a moment that demands what Tertullian once described: the blood of the martyrs is the seed of the church—not the corporate budgets or the marketing strategies of the religious industrial complex. When the dust finally settles, there will be no buildings, no brands, and no excuses. There will only be the King, and the question of whether or not you gave Him your all. You are either a servant of the Living God, or you are an employee of a dying machine. The smoke is clearing. The choice is yours.The Dnd
The Death of Sacred Protocol: Why Modern Church Performance Must End
The “seeker-friendly” era is not merely stagnant; it is actively under a sentence of divine judgment. As Christ warned in Revelation 2:5, “Remember therefore from whence thou art fallen, and repent, and do the first works; or else I will come unto thee quickly, and will remove thy candlestick out of his place, except thou repent.” While these institutions may continue to operate for a season, the era of their spiritual authority is over because the systems that prioritized convenience over the Cross have begun their inevitable decay. You were never meant to be a member of a club; you were meant to be a citizen of a Kingdom that can never be shaken, and as Galatians 1:10 demands, you must choose: “For do I now persuade men, or God? or do I seek to please men? for if I yet pleased men, I should not be the servant of Christ.”
The path we are on leads directly into the crucible of Revelation, toward the inevitable judgment and total destruction of the world, the apostate church, and every system built by human hands. This is not a random collapse; it is a destiny already planned, foretold, and set in motion by the Sovereign. We are moving toward a period of sifting that will purge the earth of its illusions—a time of unparalleled upheaval where, as Revelation 6:12–14 describes, the “sun became black as sackcloth of hair, and the moon became as blood,” and the very “heavens departed as a scroll when it is rolled together.” In that day, the terror will be so absolute that, as Revelation 9:6 foretells, “men shall seek death, and shall not find it; and shall desire to die, and death shall flee from them,” as they hide in the dens and rocks of the mountains, terrified by the wrath of the Lamb.
Even if we do not witness the King’s return or the full weight of the Tribulation on this side of the grave, we are all hurtling toward a singular appointment. Hebrews 9:27 reminds us that “it is appointed unto men once to die, but after this the judgment.” Christ warned us explicitly against the lethargy of being unprepared in the parable of the Ten Virgins (Matthew 25:1–13), where those who lacked the oil of genuine devotion were shut out, left to plead with a Master who did not know them. Faith is not a performance for the applause of men; it is a life lived in the searing, holy presence of the Living God. The question is not whether you can maintain the aesthetic of a “good Christian,” but whether you are 100% committed to His team. When the distractions of “life” fade, when fear strips away your excuses, and when you stand before the throne, what will remain? You are either surrendered to the King, or you are clinging to the wreckage of a dying machine.
To survive the sifting, you must understand the cost of Kingdom citizenship:
Whether you debate the precise timing of the Tribulation or recognize it as an impending, inescapable reality, the trajectory is unmistakable: the man-made buildings will burn, the corporate brands will be forgotten, and the stage lights will fail—but the Truth remains. Stop watching. Start fighting. Serve the King, or serve the machine, but do not pretend there is a middle ground. The fire is already here. What will you leave behind in the ashes?
Stop Consuming, Start Combat: The Final Call to Defect from the Dying Machine
The fire is already here, and the wreckage of the modern ecclesiastical machine is piling up. You have spent years as a spectator in a theater built for the glory of men; now, you must decide if you will perish with the props or defect to the Kingdom. The time for nuance is over. The time for neutral observation is dead. You are being called out of the ruins of the “seeker-friendly” delusion and into the arena of the living Truth.
To execute your departure from the dying machine and your full entry into the Kingdom, you must act on these tactical imperatives:
The descent of the “seeker-friendly” era is the opening move of a much larger sifting. When the lights fail, when the stage is dismantled, and when the brands are nothing more than dust in the wind, only those who stood for the King will be left standing. Stop waiting for the world to improve. Stop waiting for the church to reform. Stop waiting for permission to be effective. The machine is failing; get out before it drags you down into the ashes. What are you waiting for?
SUPPORTSUBSCRIBECONTACT MED. Bryan King
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The views and opinions expressed in this post are solely those of the author. The information provided is based on personal research, experience, and understanding of the subject matter at the time of writing. Readers should consult relevant experts or authorities for specific guidance related to their unique situations.
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Calling Out the Church Is an Act of Witness
“Why are you calling the church out and making them look so bad?” someone asked me after I preached about the church’s lack of justice. “The people you’re preaching to probably don’t even need to hear that message. You were likely just preaching to the choir and calling out rare extremists.”
I always feel a bit gaslighted when people tell me this. I wish I had screenshotted all of the insane posts I saw from Christians I knew during the pandemic. The “rare” extremists are apparently many of my friends. I grew up with them. I played at their houses. They taught me who Jesus was. And now that they had been socially and politically provoked, I was observing in them an unimaginable behavior I didn’t know they were capable of.
To some extent, I need to speak out on these issues for evangelistic reasons, as the world needs to see a pastor address such behavior. Unbelievers think that the “rare” extremist is what Christianity looks like because they have seen the same posts I have. I also need to speak out to save myself. If I allow this kind of stuff to go on without saying anything, then I become complacent—and I can’t handle that. People need to know that Christians aren’t all like that. They need to know that Jesus looks different than what’s being presented to them.
To represent God wrongly is what it means to take the Lord’s name in vain, and it was such a big deal to God that he made it one of the Ten Commandments. In the Old Testament, the Israelites bore the name of Yahweh just by being Israelites. Wherever they went and whatever they did, they were to be a specific representation of the name Yahweh. They were to have the character of Yahweh, do justice like Yahweh, farm like Yahweh, party like Yahweh, and take care of the oppressed like Yahweh. They failed over and over and over again until Yahweh eventually divorced his abusive wife, Israel. They had not done a good job of portraying Yahweh to the world, and they had taken his name in vain through their misrepresentation. Christians do the same thing.
So why do I speak about justice to a world that doesn’t always want to hear about it?
I speak because someone has to bear witness to it.
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9 million views
https://youtu.be/mA54NBtPKdI?si=TPziHxXpJ8lV6jvU
One is the best #lovesongs from the Australia ♥️
I think I read the harmonica solo was a placeholder they couldn't bear to cut
North, South, East And West (2005 Digital Remaster)
https://youtube.com/watch?v=DzB6K0J0Lto&si=yPnpjnWDNY6OJGXu
They used to practice under my parent's first ever flat. Apparently they would apologise for waking up the baby. But this one is before my time. Stellar hits #UnderTheMilkyWay but such a vast discography :O
Check the whole band shimmering forth, and Kilbey's wry lyrics
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📻 Vortex Abyss 🕳️ (Dark ambient, neofolk, shoegaze, immersive)
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🎵 The Church - North, South, East and West
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🎵 The Church - Reptile
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📻 Vortex Shadow 🌑 (New wave, synthwave, cold wave, goth)
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📻 Vortex WaveSpiral 🌀 (Post Punk & Classical New Wave)
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🎵 The Church - The Unguarded Moment (2002 Remastered)
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“Faith in Experience”
A sermon from John 20:19-31
Here’s a question: How would we define “experience”?
Without using the word “experience”? I found out once, in front of a class I was teaching, that it’s really hard to do that. It was hard for the students to do, too. We all kept wanting to fall back on something like “it’s what you … you know … experience.” Even Google has a hard time with this, because one of its three definitions of the word in its noun form is, and I quote, “the knowledge or skill acquired by a period of practical experience of something …”
Still, the dictionaries do give us some helpful additional language for what feels to most of us like simply a basic feature of life. Language like “feel” or “encounter” or “undergo,” specifically in a direct, personal way, so as to observe or participate in something. We distinguish what we “experience” – because we ourselves are directly part of, or in contact with, it – from what we “know about,” say from reading or hearing about it, and from what we “think about” or even “imagine.”
That direct, personal quality of “experience” may have something to do with the way it feels, to most of us, like something that really belongs to us. And that makes the knowledge we gain, from experience, feel different to us from what we know as facts and figures from books, or even as the procedures from a procedures manual – before we’ve gone through them ourselves, that is.
And this vital difference we feel, between experience and the other kinds of knowing we do, seems to lie at the heart of this familiar story about Thomas and the other disciples. This is the story that has led Christians down through the millennia to refer to Thomas as “doubting.” Doubting, because he insists on experiencing the risen Christ, the way his fellow disciples have, before he’s willing to join in with their “Hallelujah! Christ is risen! The Lord is risen indeed!” celebration.
But honestly, can we really blame him?
Because here are the other disciples, having shared a transformative meeting with the Risen Christ, up close and personal … which, scary as it does seem to have been, has also been exhilarating, and transformative, and above all, convincing. It has for them the undeniable quality, of direct, personal contact, of first-hand encounter with reality – of experience.
[Although granted, in light of modern psychology, or even in light of ancient psychology, any skeptics among us could come up with at least a couple of ways to deny it, if they wanted to. Could point out how notoriously unreliable human sensory perception is, how vulnerable it is to illusions and delusions and deceptions and so on. All that could even have been going through Thomas’s mind in that first conversation with the other disciples.]
And clearly, the experience matters for them. It has moved them from fear to a new-found fearlessness. It has moved them from devastation and despair to rejoicing and hope and purpose. It has definitely given them something to talk about to Thomas, making them witnesses to what they themselves know in that direct, personal way.
We might well wonder to ourselves what Thomas’s experience of this new situation must have been over the next few days of hanging out with his old friends. This new experience of being in direct, personal contact with people he used to be on the same page with, at least more or less, who now seem to have a really different relationship to the world in which they’re all living. A really different personal sense of its perils and possibilities, its promise and their project in it.
I have to imagine that Thomas’s experience during this week is not terribly different from anyone’s – our own – who realizes they are looking at the world and its events from an entirely different place from a friend’s or a neighbor’s. [We may have had an experience or two like that ourselves, here in our everyday world in which people disagree so vehemently about various aspects of reality.]
Presumably it included a lot of asking questions: What happened? How did it feel? Who said what, exactly? And then …? Maybe it included reaching for explanations … for how this came to be “true for you” when it so clearly isn’t “true for me”? Maybe, also, trying to work out what they can and can’t still talk about, can and can’t agree on now, can and can’t still do together … whether they can, or can’t, still be friends?
But, importantly, we gather the answer to that last question must have been “yes,” because the following week Thomas is there with them. He evidently trusts his friends that much, and believes something in their story enough … to be there with them, to be part of their togetherness.
Perhaps because he’s hoping to see what they’ve seen? Or perhaps he’s feeling something less than hope, but something more than flat-out denial? Maybe he can’t believe that anything similarly real and convincing could possibly happen to him, but he’s willing to go along with the other disciples, at least for a while, maybe just for old times’ sake, or because, well, what has he got to lose … ? We don’t know – John the author of the gospel has left the story very much open to our imagination on this surely rather important point. There are a lot of ways we could tell this story.
And then, as John tells it, Jesus appears among them yet again. And this time, Jesus has a specific mission and a specific message for Thomas: look, here I am, for you, as needed and requested, so please, don’t stay on the outside of this resurrection life, trust it …
… to which Thomas says, in effect, “Wow, OK!” Or, in John’s gospel’s words, “My Lord and my God!”
And we Christians have been affirming that affirmation of faith, along with that of the other disciples, ever since. There’s a name for this story, by the way, along with all the other stories we have in our scripture, about Jesus, and his birth and life and ministry and passion and death and resurrection and ascension and subsequent ongoing interaction with his disciples in the power of the Holy Spirit, all of which comes to form the contents of the earliest Christian proclamation of the gospel. The Church calls it “witness,” specifically, “the apostolic witness” – the apostles’ sharing of their direct, personal experience of Jesus Christ, in life, and in new life. The apostolic witness – the apostles’ stories of experience – is the earliest scaffolding for the historic Christian community and its tradition, the tradition we ourselves are part of this morning.
In whatever way we’re part of it.
Because this story of Thomas and his process of coming to his own experience of the risen Christ reminds us that there’s more than one kind of story of “Christian experience.” There’s more than one path to direct, personal encounter with Jesus Christ. And Thomas’s path through doubt is no less real or valid or even “faithful” than that of the other disciples. Thomas, in the course of staying true to his own experience, and open to whatever it could come to be, has provided an encouraging role model for lots and lots of real-life Christians since.
When Jesus says “blessed are those who have not seen, yet have come to believe,” he’s right – well, of course he is, he’s Jesus; and we must know that the happy experience of always having had an easy time trusting the reality affirmed by the church, and by whoever brought us there; of just trusting the grace of Jesus Christ and the steadfast love of God and relying on the power of whatever we’ve come to think of as the Holy Spirit, feels like a blessing. The gift of that kind of untroubled faith is its own brand of direct, personal encounter with the risen Christ, through the life of Christ’s people. [It’s experience; it counts.]
But that isn’t everyone’s story, though, as we know – whether from reading about it, or from experience.
Some stories sound a lot more like Thomas’s. Anne Lamott’s, for instance, who writes in her book Traveling Mercies that “My coming to faith did not start with a leap but rather a series of staggers from what seemed like one safe place to another (3).” Her arrival took a long time, too, starting from a home in which no one believed in God – “it was like we’d all signed some sort of loyalty oath early on …” in deference to her father’s early, what we might call “bad experience” with church (8).
As she tells it, the trip began with patchy early encounters with different kinds of religious people; took her through heart-breaking loss, and a long valley of substance abuse, and was decisively influenced at first by a priest, who skipped a meeting and waited almost an hour for her to show up in his office at church to talk with someone who sounded like she was in trouble, and who shared a story or two, and then later a quote from Dag Hammarskjöld: “I don’t know Who or What put the question, I don’t know when it was put. I don’t even remember answering. But at some moment, I did answer Yes (43).” [Yet another witness … from experience]
And then, after a few more years, the trip took her close enough to St. Andrew’s Presbyterian Church in Marin City, California, to hear the music on Sunday morning from the flea market outside.
And then to “begin stopping in at St. Andrew from time to time, standing in the doorway to listen to the songs (46).”
And then, to actually going inside the church, about once a month, never staying for the sermon, though.
And then finally actually sitting down in one of the chairs in the back. Still always leaving before the sermon.
And then, in the midst of a personal crisis, having what she experienced as a presence, in the room with her, which she felt sure was Jesus, with an invitation, to which she reacted by turning to the wall and saying out loud “I would rather die (49).”
But after that, she says, she kept having the feeling “that a little cat was following me, wanting me to reach down and pick it up, wanting me to open the door and let it in. But I knew what would happen: you let a cat in one time, give it a little milk, and then it stays forever.” She wasn’t having any of that. But …
“… one week later, when I went back to church, I was so hungover that I couldn’t stand up for the songs, and this time I stayed for the sermon, which I just thought was so ridiculous, like someone trying to convince me of the existence of extraterrestrials, but the last song was so deep and raw and pure that I could not escape. …
“I began to cry and left before the benediction, and I raced home and felt the little cat running along at my heels, and I walked down the dock past dozens of potted flowers, under a sky as blue as one of God’s own dreams, and I opened the door to my houseboat, and I stood there a minute, and then I hung my head and said, ‘______: I quit.” I took a long deep breath and said out loud, ‘All right. You can come in (50).’”
And as far as Lamott’s experience is from Thomas’s, in time and space and culture, we can’t help noticing that it shares a vital common element. Namely … the way it depends on “being there,” with the others. At first, barely there. But then, long enough to have some direct, personal contact with something vital in the life of that community, the one that forms around, and bears witness to, the reality, and the presence, of the risen Christ and the life Jesus makes possible. Being there, with the others, who are not only there for themselves and each other, but as we say in our communion liturgy, “the body of Christ for the world” – for all the Thomases and Annes and all others, who are coming by whatever route to their own indispensable, direct, personal experience of the life of the risen Christ.
WORK CITED
Lamott, Anne. Traveling Mercies: Some Thoughts on Faith. Anchor Books, 1999.
Image: “Open book 1,” by Alina Daniker alinadaniker, CC0, via Wikimedia Commons
#ChristianIdeasAndPractices #experience #faithHopeAndLove #theChurch
Okay. So, here's one of my pieces... A stipple rendering of #SteveKilbey (inspired by the album cover of Starfish by #TheChurch).
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after everything now this
Every fan of The Church has this in the collection. Released on February 5, 2002 ... Check out After Everything Now This by The Church on Amazon Music #rock #rockmusic #thechurch #aftereverythingnowthis #music #musicsky #musiciansky
The poisoned stream of culture is flowing through our churches
