One Church, a Thousands Ways

Welcome to Scattered Moments. I spent this past Sunday at one of my favorite churches in the whole world, Big Cane Baptist Church near Morrow, Louisiana. Now, Big Cain is not what you'd call a mega church. They don't have a sprawling campus, a coffee shop with a biblical name, or a worship center that requires a GPS to find your seat. But they have something that is becoming increasingly rare. They have jambalaya and dressing, and some of the finest people God ever put on this earth. They worship with their whole hearts, love with their whole lives, and cook like they're expecting the Apostle Paul to drop by for lunch. There's something glorious about a country church where the people have been through floods, wars, heartaches, funerals, weddings, and more church business meetings than anybody ought to endure. And they're still there, still singing, still praying, still loving Jesus after 180 years. And somewhere between the worship service and my second helping of Jambalaya, I started thinking about the church. No, not just Big Cain. I'm talking Capital C Church. The whole magnificent, beautiful, particular, gloriously diverse church of Jesus. Because right now, scattered across America, there are congregations of every imaginable shape, size, language, and personality. There's a little house church in Indiana where twelve people gather around the kitchen table. There's a megachurch in Southern California where twelve thousand people gather beneath lights that would make a Broadway producer jealous. There's a charismatic congregation in Michigan where the worship is so exuberant you might want to stretch before entering. And there's a high church congregation in downtown Chicago where the liturgy is ancient and the architecture is magnificent, and nobody has ever suggested replacing the organ with a fog machine. Somewhere in the Midwest, there's a church full of farmers who know more about rain than most meteorologists. They'll arrive next Sunday in pickup trucks, shake hands, sing hymns, pray for the neighbors, and head home to check the cattle. There's a congregation in the Panhandle of Florida near the beach where people come dressed like they've just stepped off. A surfboard. There's a church where everyone wears their Sunday best, and another where Sunday best means you found the cleanest pair of jeans and you just went. There are churches with stained glass windows and churches with folding chairs, churches that meet in a school gymnasium or a storefront or a barn, theaters, living rooms, and converted warehouses. There are churches with steeples and churches with neon signs. And churches that meet online where the fellowship hall is a digital chat room, and the greeters are probably using gamer tags. There are African American churches whose songs carry the echoes of generations of faith, suffering, endurance, and hope. There are Korean churches, Hispanic churches, Haitian churches, congregations and churches where the sermon is translated into three or four languages before anybody gets the invitation. There are churches where the congregation responds to the preacher with a thunderous amen, and other churches where an enthusiastic nod is considered a fairly dramatic display of emotion. Some churches sing hymns written at 300 years ago, others sing songs written three weeks ago. Some use guitars and some use organs and some use drums, some don't use any instruments at all. Yes, I'm looking at you, beautiful Church of Christ. And every congregation has at least one person who sings with great confidence and questionable accuracy and tone. God bless them. I suspect heaven has already made arrangements, but here's what amazes me. Every Sunday, all across this country, people gather who would otherwise have very little reason to know each other, different backgrounds, different incomes, different histories, different languages, different ways of expressing joy and sorrow, and somehow the name of Jesus brings them together, not because they agree about everything. Good heavens. Have you ever attended a church business meeting? But because beneath all the cultural differences and denominational distinction, there is a Savior who calls people to Himself. And then, yes, then I begin to think beyond the borders, across the oceans, across the mountains, across the deserts. There are believers in villages where the church has no electricity. There are congregations in Africa worshiping beneath the shade of trees, and there are Christians in crowded cities in Asia gathering quietly in apartments, sometimes under the threat of discovery. There are believers in places where following Jesus could cost you your job, your freedom, your family, or even your life. There are churches in India, China, and the Middle East where the decision to gather requires a kind of courage most of us will never fully understand. Some of these people will sing softly because they dare not sing loudly. Some will whisper their prayers, some will gather in secret, and some will worship openly with a joy that seems almost impossible given the difficulties they face. And I wonder if, at the very moment we sing in our comfortable sanctuaries, someone on the other side of the world is singing to the very same Savior. They are. Different languages, different melody, same Lord. While we are adjusting the thermostat, someone is gathering beneath a tree. While we're deciding whether the music was too loud, someone is risking everything just to hear the scriptures read. While we're wondering where to go for lunch, someone is praying for enough food to feed their family, and yet somehow we belong to one another. Not because we share a building, not because we share a denomination, not because we share a culture, a country, or even a common language, but because we share a redeemer. The Apostle John caught a glimpse of something extraordinary in Revelation. He saw a great multitude that no one could number. From every tribe, nation, every people, every language standing before the throne and before the Lamb, and they were worshiping. Can you imagine? No more borders, no more barriers, no more persecution, no more arguments about worship styles, no more wondering whether the music is too contemporary or the hymns are too old, just the redeemed together. And at the center of it all, Jesus, the one who suffered on an obscure hill outside Jerusalem, the one who stretched out his arms on a Roman cross, the one whose blood purchased people of every tribe and language and people and nation. The one who made room for us all at his table. And perhaps that's what I love most about church. It's not that we all look alike. It's not that we don't. The church was never meant to be a collection of people who are exactly alike. It is a family gathered by grace. And one day all those scattered congregations, all those little outposts of the kingdom will stand together before the throne. The farmer in Indiana, the surfer from Florida, the grandmother from Louisiana, the believer who whispered prayers in a secret room. The child who learned to sing about Jesus in a language I cannot understand. And a happy group of followers from Big Cain Baptist Church will be there too. Although I should probably warn the angels. If the folks from Big Cain are in charge of the fellowship meal, we're going to need a much bigger table, and probably another helping of John Baliah. Until that day, wherever you worship, however you sing, and whatever language you pray in, remember this: you are part of something much larger than the room you're sitting in. You belong to a people scattered across the earth and gathered in Christ, one Savior, one redeemed people. A thousand ways to sing his praise.