Certain episodes in scripture bug me.
They don’t bug me because I don’t understand them. They bug me exactly because I do understand them.
Jesus mentions that the world will know we are His followers by the way we love each other. That is to say in as much as people might observe glorious singing, evocative preaching, stirring testimonies, dynamic teaching, efficient social ministries, impressive facilities and organisational structures – all of that means diddley-squat unless there’s love. Observable, real, practical expressions of love. Not any love either, but the serving love that took Jesus to come in the form of a carpenter’s son.
The kind of love that embraced the rejected in the community. The kind of love that took twelve unlikely lads to embark on a mission of mercy through villages and towns that knit them together and to their teacher. The kind of love that was highlighted by that teacher becoming a slave and washing their feet. The kind of love that allowed him to take three of his close friends up a mountain to see Him in a completely different light that revealed Him for who He was.
In contrast what I have experienced in the past are a collection of individuals who share the same interest in this man Jesus. Yet are reluctant to practise the same love. Reluctant to dare to be vulnerable and transparent with each other. Reluctant to embrace a communal familial intimacy that was practised by the same teacher they claim to follow. On the surface it’s all good and pleasant and polite. Teas and coffees and biscuits aplenty.
Scratch the surface, dig a bit deeper and there’s little to no commitment to reflecting that love. It’s like an invitation to watch a circus of performers doing their tricks – whether singing or talking or getting money. Be a spectator but not a participant. Expect to see things, but not be a part of it – let others into you even as you are allowed gradually into others.
There’s a resistance because of the hurt; there’s a resistance because of the betrayal; there’s a resistance because of the fear; there’s a resistance because of the pride. And with every resistant act there’s a clear sign – you’re welcome to the community of perfectly pleasant strangers – but nothing more.
Not sure how long the resistance can be accepted, though.
For His Name’s Sake
Shalom
C. L. J. Dryden
Life With CD 