What a relief, and a rare thing, to have my sermon “done” on Friday night.

From a series we’re doing at Suburban Pres. entitled “The Once and Future Church,” inspired by the Loren Mead book of the same name. (Many thanks to this article for providing the structure for the sermon.)
1 Corinthians 12:12-31a
For just as the body is one and has many members, and all the members of the body, though many, are one body, so it is with Christ. For in the one Spirit we were all baptized into one body–Jews or Greeks, slaves or free–and we were all made to drink of one Spirit. Indeed, the body does not consist of one member but of many. If the foot would say, “Because I am not a hand, I do not belong to the body,” that would not make it any less a part of the body. And if the ear would say, “Because I am not an eye, I do not belong to the body,” that would not make it any less a part of the body. If the whole body were an eye, where would the hearing be? If the whole body were hearing, where would the sense of smell be? But as it is, God arranged the members in the body, each one of them, as he chose. If all were a single member, where would the body be? As it is, there are many members, yet one body. The eye cannot say to the hand, “I have no need of you,” nor again the head to the feet, “I have no need of you.” …Now you are the body of Christ and individually members of it.

Once upon a time, almost two thousand years ago to be exact, there lived a… well, a body. Nothing fancy, mind you, just a regular body with arms and legs and eyes and a heart. This body was pretty young at the time, but what she lacked in experience she more than made up for in energy and enthusiasm.

And just what did she have to be so enthusiastic about? Why, Jesus the Messiah, of course! She had experienced Jesus in a personal way, and it gave everything she did a certain fire, a certain passion. She had heard Jesus’ words with her own ears. She had seen him perform miracles with her own eyes; seen him feed five thousand people with nothing more than a picnic lunch. She had tasted bread that Jesus had broken open; smelled the aroma of fish that Jesus cooked for breakfast that day on the beach after his resurrection. She had felt the flame of the Holy Spirit rest upon her, that day of Pentecost when she found her mission—to share Jesus with the world.

She pursued this mission with a zeal that was truly inspiring. (People wrote letters about it!) Because she had experienced Christ’s love firsthand, she knew that she was called to be in the world, to walk around in it, to preach in it, to comfort the sick and feed the hungry—but not to be of the world. She worked hard at loving her neighbors; she forgave others, bore their burdens, made sure the widows and orphans were cared for. She shared the love of Christ just as Christ had shared his love with her. This was her whole reason for being, to be a sign of Christ’s love. He was no longer here on earth, but she would not let him be forgotten. Jesus would be remembered; she would make sure of it.

This wasn’t easy, mind you. Sometimes she got off track, strayed from her mission, or otherwise stumbled upon the way. We know this because we have letters from that time in her life, strongly worded reminders to remain faithful to the gospel no matter what. It’s always a temptation to glamorize the past—she is as guilty as anyone of that. She made mistakes all the time back then, but she knew that accomplishing great things meant risking boldly and sometimes failing. And risk she did, and accomplish she did. We know because we are her descendants today.

Others would look at her and just know there was something distinctive about her. Indeed, there was no one else quite like her on earth. Many were inspired to join her. And this young body grew, little by little, and flourished, and visited lands far and wide to share the good news of Jesus.

But you have no idea what kind of danger this body was in by following the mission of Christ. She found herself vulnerable to a hostile culture, an empire, to be exact. And her very presence was offensive to the powers that be, who demanded that everyone worship the gods of the empire, who saw her as strange, a threat to their way of life, what with all her talk of the least of these, and the first being last. And they did everything they could think of to stop her.

This took its toll.

Her body bears scars to this day of their harassment, their persecution of her. The punishment was unrelenting. But there was something in her eyes—a determination, a conviction that her cause was just—and people continued to flock to her, to stand with her, and she only grew stronger as a result.

The body grew, matured, and continued to live on, way beyond the span of a human life. (The reign of God doesn’t conform to our worldly calendar, does it?) A few hundred years later, a curious thing happened. The persecution ended. The punishment ceased. The leaders of the empire came to her and said, “At last, we understand what you are about. We want to follow Jesus, and what’s more, we want to work alongside you. Our motives are similar, are they not? We want to bring the world together under a single language, a single culture. And don’t you want the entire world to know Christ? We can help make that happen. You know how powerful we are; you’ve been on the receiving end of our force and might. Now we will be your shield. We will be your sword.”

And within about a hundred years—though it seemed to be almost overnight in her mind’s eye—things changed. Everything changed.

Yes, just as she had dreamed, more and more people were hearing the gospel message—were coming to know Jesus. Now people were being baptized by the thousands! Imagine, all the new converts flocking to her! Gone were the days of hiding in little house communities, worshiping Christ on the sly. Those house churches threw their doors open, built buildings, hired people to handle the overflow crowds. Business was booming, and our little protagonist was at the center of it all.

And oh! the travel! Back in her early days, she had done a bit of travel, but nothing like this. Crossing oceans, discovering new lands—it took many years, centuries really, but over time her voyages took her to every corner of the globe in the name of Jesus. She was powerful, she was successful, she was loved, she was

Feared.

You see, there was something troubling going on too… something just not right about these latest triumphs. For one thing, a great many of the converts were flocking to her, not because they sincerely desired to follow Jesus, but because it was now illegal to do otherwise. In fact, many of them came prodded by the tip of a sword of the state, not urged on by the fires of the Spirit. She was ashamed to admit that she herself wielded that sword more than once.

As the centuries went on, people would come on Sunday mornings to hear what she had to say, not so much because they wanted to be transformed, but because everything else was closed!, or because their friends were there, or people they sought to impress, or because “that’s just what you do.” She would look out over the crowds and think, “They used to come because their lives depended on it! They needed the gospel like a body needs to breathe.”

They didn’t know what it was like in the beginning, what Jesus had said, what he had inspired her to do and be—and she didn’t have time to teach them. As more and more people came to her, grabbed onto her skirts, clamored to be near her, the instruction that she had offered so earnestly in the beginning, the call to stand in contrast to the powers of the world, fell by the wayside.

She had joined forces with the empire, and the empire conferred a certain status, and many advantages—but at what cost?

And this old body of hers began to look different too, this body that had never been anything fancy, arms and legs and eyes and a heart, just like you or I. And way deep down she was still the same body as before, but when she dared look in the mirror she scarcely recognized herself. In the early days, she had worn simple clothing, plain and modest, but now she wore fine linens, colorful fabrics as brilliant as stained glass, and flashy jewels that glinted in the sun, the worth of which would have fed her for a year in the olden days.

She still managed to do a great deal of good—feeding the poor here, building a school there, constructing a hospital, inspiring great works of art and music that brought people closer to God—but something was different. The zeal of those early days seemed like just a dream. There was business to be done now, details to attend to.

Time marched on. Years passed. And a curious thing happened—the powers that be, the ones with whom she had formed this partnership so long ago, had less and less time for her. The world changed, right out from under her. Some still came to hear what she had to say, but others sought out different people to associate with, people who believed very different things than she did. What stung the most were those who stayed home altogether.

Some of them looked with pity upon her old face, her eyes, ears, hands; her fine clothes now a little shabby and old fashioned. “Look at her! She is a relic from a bygone era, a fossil! She doesn’t have anything useful to say anymore.”

Still others viewed her with contempt: “She’s nothing but a big hypocrite, and all her friends are hypocrites too. She says she worships the God of love, but she sure doesn’t seem very loving. She claims to follow in the way of Jesus, but she certainly seems hungry for status. Look how she cozies up to the people in power.”

Then there were the curious ones, who looked longingly into her wrinkled face, poked her gently on the arm, just to see what she’d do. They’d say, “Tell me a story,” and even stay to listen for a while, but she spoke in a language that only she understood. Finally they’d wander away, a little sad.

Yes, the world had changed right out from under her very body; her legs and feet didn’t recognize the path she traveled now. And she realized she had a choice.

She could pine away for the good old days, and get angry at the fact that she isn’t the belle of the ball anymore. She could demand that people come to her! And learn her way of speaking! And sing her songs! And do things her way! Because that’s what’s always worked in the past! That’s how it’s always been!

Or, she could get a facelift, and pierce her eyebrow, and get a tattoo, brush up on her slang, glitz up her buildings, show-biz up the gospel, and throw open the doors and wait for the grateful masses to arrive, and hope they’re enough like her for her to still feel comfortable. (Oh, and hope they don’t break anything.)

Or she could stand up and walk out the front door, and she could go into the neighborhoods, and into the Starbucks, and into the shelter, and into the school, and she could listen for a good long while… just listen, to learn the language, but also to hear the longing underneath the words, the deep needs, the hungers and the fears. And after she’s listened, and learned, and listened some more, she’ll be ready someone says, “Tell me a story.” And they’ll hear it in their own language, and be amazed.

I wonder what she’s going to decide.