Hello From the Simpsons
not forsaking our own assembling together, as is the habit of some, but encouraging one another; and all the more as you see the day drawing near. (Hebrews 10.25, NASB)
When the Lord instructs us not to forsake the assembling of ourselves together, he has a higher purpose in mind than just an outward demonstration of regular church attendance. The secret of the local body of believers is the communion of the Word and of the saints provides a place where the believer may grow in the grace of becoming a son of God both in character and substance.
Therefore, brethren, select from among you seven men of good reputation, full of the Spirit and of wisdom, whom we may put in charge of this task. But we will devote ourselves to prayer and ministry of the Word. (Acts 6:3–4)
The Early Church knew well the importance of the washing of the water of the Word and the renewal of the believer's soul in the Holy Ghost in the assembly (see Titus 3:5). When the administrative needs of the church began to encroach on the apostles' ability to give themselves over to the Word, they appointed several to discharge those duties. What is telling here is that no one seemed to question the demarcation between those called into the five-fold ministry and given charge over the souls of the sheep, and those who weren't.
This dividing line, even between the spiritually mature and immature, is more or less a misnomer today. Instead of recognizing true five-fold gifts bestowed by the Lord Jesus Christ himself (except for the pastor, of course), the local church has transmogrified eager-beaverness into "ministry." All too often ministry leadership turns on class attendance, hyper church involvement, an inside track with a church bigshot, or a Rachel Ray personality rather than the solids of the soul. Say hello to the Simpsons.
This approach, where Bart Simpson's perfect attendance and warm body can put him at the head of the class, creates a spasmodic spiritual atmosphere rather than the true communion of the saints. The church not only wants, but pointedly expects its congregants to share their most intimate secrets with happy-faced, anonymous prayer partners at the altar, dutifully attend classes taught by infamous tithers, or obediently submit to an assigned group leader who may have been saved just three months ago and is twenty years their junior. If the believer balks at any of this, he's deemed a rogue, not a team player and he's quickly tossed off the church's corporate ladder. Sure, he can pick up his toys and head out to another church, but he'll have to commit himself to the same kind indentured servitude under yet another Simpson to be anything but a pew-sitting cash register.
And I, brethen, could not speak to you as to spiritual men, but as to men of flesh, as to infants in Christ. I gave you milk to drink, not solid food; for you were not yet able to receive it, even now you are not yet able (1 Corinthians 3:1–2)
The spiritual man is a thorn in the side of today's corporate church environment. He's a quiet soul—quick to hear, slow to speak, and he wells know the value and power of silence. Not wearing his spirituality on his sleeve, he's careful to guard his own soul which he understands is the revealer of God in the earth. He considers precious his communion with other spiritual men and with God. He doesn't waste words and he doesn't eagerly cast his pearls before spiritual novices. Most of all, he's reluctant—reluctant to be called out, reluctant to step forward, reluctant to join himself to the corporate chariot. He's the kind of man of whom the world isn't worthy. It's unfortunate that the church doesn't think him worthy either.
As the church has patted herself on the back for her mega-auditoriums, whiz-bang music video worship, hundreds of support programs, and multi-million dollar budgets, the spiritual man has been conspicuously absent. I wonder if we've lost him for good.
