Not A Stone Remains
On April 15th, 2019, we received the news that Notre Dame was burning to the ground. This was horrific and shocking news to the world. This beautiful, historic landmark, more than 850 years old, was now in danger of burning to the ground.
As I pause to think about the grandeur of Notre Dame Cathedral, my mind goes back to the church of my childhood.
I was one of those children who was raised in the church. I have many fond memories of those days. How well I remember the church mothers. They sure knew how to wear those fancy, humongous hats that prevented us kids from seeing the choir, the pastor, and even the other parishioners, sitting only two rows ahead of us. I remember the mother’s large purses filled with goodies, which they were always ready to dole out to some poor, young, flustered mother’s unruly toddler, or crying baby.
I remember being enamored by the choir’s renditions of the sacred hymns, and while I didn’t always understand the preacher’s message, I appreciated the weighty disposition accompanying him as he preached God’s Word, his readiness to share it with us, his bellowing voice reaching up to the highest point in the ceiling above us, and somehow I knew, even as a child, that I was in the presence of the Holy. I was merely a little girl, but, already, I loved the sanctity of the house of God. I felt safe there. I felt God’s presence there, and I was never in a hurry to leave.
The church of my childhood was where I had instilled within me the message of the Gospel of Jesus Christ. There, I came to know of His love for me, and of His redemptive work wrought for us all at Calvary. I learned how to serve there, how to give, and how to honor God’s Word, as well as how to memorize scripture, and hide it in my heart. l was taught to respect the leadership of the church, and to reverence God’s house itself. I was taught the importance of repentance, and I was taught the importance of prayer. This church was my family’s church from the time I was a child, until I grew up and moved to a different state. It remained my parent’s church, until they both went into a nursing home in their later years.
The church of my formative years was a staple, both in our community, and in our lives. It was a true church family. We knew when Robert and Carla became Mr. and Mrs. Jones, and when Mr. and Mrs. Jones welcomed a new baby into their lives. We knew when brother William’s house burned down; when sister Lucy was sick and shut-in; when brother Thomas went into a nursing home, and when Mother Johnson went home to be with the Lord.
Our pastor was devout, gentle and kind. His greatest investments were the ones he made into the lives of the saints God called him to shepherd. Those lives were our lives, and the lives of so many others down through the years. The membership of our church was roughly 2,000 strong, small by comparison to the many megachurches popping up everywhere today, and the sanctuary was always filled to capacity.
When I left that church and went away to college in New York City, my parents were terrified for me. The thought of their baby girl going away to live in a city marked by violence, drugs, and perversion, was overwhelming to them, to say the least. But growing up in that church, and with all that had been carefully instilled into me by the leadership of our church, I was more than well prepared for the big city. I had fallen absolutely, and irrevocably in love with God’s Word, and with God’s beloved Son, Jesus Christ. This wonderfully simple, yet Christ-centered church, had prepared me to live out my faith in one of the most decadent states of that time.
Many years later, after college, marriage, two children, divorce, bankruptcy, and a host of other issues that arose simply from living in a fallen world, I returned to the city where I grew up. I visited my old home church. It had gone through a few pastors; one had passed away, and the 2nd was in the process of retiring and passing the baton to a younger pastor; but this church was still thriving, as before. After all the trials I had endured down through the years, it was oddly comforting to see that the church of my childhood still looked the same as it had when I was a little girl. The mothers were still sporting their large hats, and still handing out candy to crying babies. The deacons were still praying at the altar. The choir was still singing the beautiful hymns of the faith, reminding us of the power, beauty, faithfulness, majesty and love of God. And from the faithful pastor’s lips, the oracles of God still rang out from the pulpit to the pews, and the Lord was still adding to the church such as should be saved.
At the end of the service, we were reminded to; visit and pray for Mother Bertrand, who had suffered a stroke, and was still in the hospital; congratulate brother and sister Carmichael, who just celebrated their 70th wedding anniversary, and to pray for the Burke’s family, whose father had gone home to be with the Lord earlier that week.
Yes, I was greatly comforted to be there that Sunday morning. In a way that may be difficult for many to comprehend, I appreciated the monotony and simplicity of sameness. I understood that sameness, of this kind, requires great strength and humility to remain faithful to God’s original assignment, especially when the multitude of one’s peers bring pressure to go in a different direction.
As a result of the obedience of the leadership of my home church, I was able to find comfort sitting in that sanctuary at a time in my life when it felt like the bottom had been ripped out from under me. There, in that sanctuary, I could rest in the presence of God, free from having to fight against a host of cameras eager to intrude upon my intimate moments with the Lord.
I had been in that kind of church before, a grandiose megachurch, where, for marketing purposes, they were all too eager to sacrifice the sacred on the altar of capital gain and notoriety. In the most vulnerable of moments, when the precious saints stood before God, choosing to worship Him through their pain, their tears and brokenness - suddenly, like an elephant in a china cabinet - a camera rudely crashes into this holy place, to get the shot. Before you knew it, what you hoped would be a moment of intimacy, of private confession, repentance and restoration before God, has suddenly become a very public moment, open to judgement, and to the criticism of those who may have known what you did the night before.
What must it feel like, while you are fervently crying out to God, as did Hannah (see 1 Sam. 1:12-15) who was perceived by the priest to be drunk, to unexpectedly look up and see your agonized, contorted, tear-stained face blasted up on a 20 ft screen for all to see?
For sure, that Sunday, I was glad to be sitting in a church where the Word of God did not have to compete with a man-u-factured presence, a counterfeit glory, created by smoke machines, extremely loud, eardrum breaking music, flashing lights, and expensive cameras. All these are the technology used to invoke strange fires, necessary whenever the true glory, and the true presence of God are absent from our worship services.
On the day that the exquisite, historic Notre Dame cathedral burned, the very first thought that came to my mind was the scripture from Mark 13:1-2. It reads:
As Jesus was leaving the temple, one of his disciples said to him, “Look, Teacher! What massive stones! What magnificent buildings!”
“Do you see all these great buildings?” replied Jesus. “Not one stone here will be left on another; every one will be thrown down.”
The Bible records that the glorious temple that Herod had built was built to impress the people, not to honor God. Jesus prophesied that it would be torn down to the very last stone. Not a stone would remain on top of another. And it came to pass, just as He had prophesied it would.
Now, I am not opposed to change or progress, not in the least. This blog is not about opposition to change. My own entire life has been about pursuing change and transformation. I am a firm believer that change, in the right direction, is always good, and is often accompanied by exciting, sometimes unexpected blessings. This blog is about the church remaining effective in ministry by not straying from God’s original assignment to it. It is about honoring the original commission from Jesus Christ, found in Matthew 28:18-20. It is about placing God’s people before things, and notoriety, and monetary gain. It is about, as Eugene Peterson so eloquently put it, “a long obedience in the same direction.”
The local church must return to its first call and commission. It must return to its first love. If it is to remain effective, and continue to have God’s blessing upon it, it must repent, and return. The leadership, beginning with the pastors, and down the line, must be willing to lead in repentance, to stand on the watchtower, to get still before God long enough to allow the Holy Spirit to allow them to catch a glimpse of the ancient paths. And in seeing, they must ask for the Lord to return His Bride back in the direction of the old paths, for this is where is the good way. Then, they must petition God for the humility and strength to walk therein, for in the ancient paths are found rest, and peace. (See Jeremiah 6:16).
In Revelation 2:5, God warns the straying church, that had abandoned its first love, “Unless you repent and do the things you did at first, I will come and remove your lampstand.” “Unless the Lord builds the house, they labor in vain who build it” (Psalm 127:1). Eventually, God will tear it down, until not a stone remains on top of another. We pray for a move of God upon His Church towards repentance, healing, Spirit-led direction, and restoration. We pray that once the doors of the church do open again for public worship that we will not seek to do business as usual, but that we will seek God for His way, His will, His plan, and His agenda for His bride.
