The first church I ever pastored was in a small community in the Brazos Valley of Texas. It was a simple wooden chapel, with white siding and a metal roof, the floors were original to the sanctuary from when it was built in 1851. The church was called Zion Methodist and its humble abode and modest strappings would not be what one would think when reading the word Zion. You see, Zion in the Bible has two different meanings, it was the hill on which the city of David (Jerusalem) was built. But it also describes the heavenly city or kingdom of heaven established by God. Either way, when one first walked into this humble place of worship, trodding upon the ancient floorboards of days gone by, very little imagery would invoke the city of Jerusalem or the Kingdom of God. But that was because worship hadn’t started yet!
If you were to park yourself in one of the old wooden pews and simply sit for a while on a Sunday morning you would notice a few things. You would notice Ms. Kathy, who would most assuredly come up and greet you with a smile and a hug, then make her way to the front of the church to help lead music, kicking off her shoes in the process. You might notice Ms. Heinrich arriving with a carload of neighborhood children who would burst through the doors of the church and go running for the fellowship hall for a plate of cookies and homemade lemonade. Mr. Truitt and Ruby Stuckey would eventually make their way inside, sitting in the same spot they had sat for over 70 years together. He refuses to get a new hearing aid, but if Ruby likes the sermon then he will be happy. Here comes the Stovers (Dwayne and Christine), with their kids eager to see what the children’s sermon would be, Dwayne will lead adult bible study and Christine will lead children’s Sunday school. Here would come the others, the Darbys, the Wendts, the Grissetts, the Mims, the Evans, the Monohans, the Jones, the Barlings, the VonDomelens, the Wethingtons, and the McGintys. Before you would know it that humble chapel would be full of laughing voices, smiling faces, bible studies, songs being sung, testimonies given, and warm fellowship. In other words, the church.
One’s first impression of Zion Methodist would most likely be of skepticism and boredom. They would find no beckoning balconies, no state of the art audio visual system, their would be no parking attendants outside, no massive edifices that invoke its holy purpose, no stained glass windows, no coffee bar or snack shack, not even cushy chairs with cup holders or gift bags. Just simple wooden pews, a well-tuned piano, a humble altar, and a pulpit, all under an illuminated cross. But it would be the people that would snap one out of their premature judgment. Songs of praise would echo as this humble space turned into a place of worship, and while the number of congregants would vary from 30 to 50, it would seem like a mighty multitude. Why would one jump to judgment? Maybe because we have too long embraced the wrong definition of “the church.”
