Maturity is measurable. Sanctification is measurable. But how?
It all comes down to movement.
The meaning of the Hebrew word we translate “repentance” has the basic meaning of “return.” A person who repents is one who has spent the first part of their life moving away from God. But then they are arrested by an encounter with Christ.
The rest of their life is meant to be spent in a continuous movement back to God.
We are on the road in Holland, Michigan. This is church country.
Holland is a pretty and very upmarket tourist community with heated sidewalks to ward off the winter snow, and open gas fireplaces on the street to counter the chill wind. You can buy Christian-themed merchandise in almost every shop. Plaques and mugs are only the beginning. We even saw a plaque with a quotation from the Heidelberg Catechism. The window of the ladies’ wear store was festooned with verses between the dresses. “Fearfully and wonderfully made” was one of them. The toy shop had childrens’ devotionals. And the conversation was similar. In the art store, both conversations we overheard were on local church topics. We did not visit the craft brewery to see whether there were Bible verses on the beer mugs, but being Reformed country, it is possible there were.
The building in the photograph doesn’t look like much. In fact, it doesn’t even exist any more. But it has quite a story to tell. And something to teach us about building the church and extending the kingdom.
I’ve been thinking a lot about buildings lately.
Here in southwestern Michigan, where we have spent a large part of the winter, the church has completed a major addition to the building, which in turn has enabled us to knock out the walls of the original structure, which is only ten years old, to create a much larger auditorium. This has created lots of excitement as it nears completion. And the Lord will use it in all sorts of ways.
I admit it. I was wrong.
I really had thought spending the winter in south-western Michigan would mean escape from 35 years of relentless snow. Until well into February, I was right. The total snowfall had been negligible. And so when the forecast called for six to eight inches and everyone started to panic, I called it Michigan snowmageddon and mocked the locals who were rushing to the supermarket to clear the aisles of bread and milk and cancelling every event in sight. Even without a snowblower, my superior level of fitness and a trusty shovel would be enough to face any challenge a feeble American winter could throw at a battle-hardened Canadian.
This afternoon found me in a series of massive barns praying over chickens. Let no one say a pastor’s job is boring.
And yes, I am serious. My friend Mat raises chickens. A lot of them. In fact, he has eight barns with forty thousand chickens in each barn. They run free and look quite content.
The problem was this. A mysterious bacteria had invaded the barns. In spite of every possible precaution being taken and the vet pronouncing the barns to be in outstanding shape, chickens were dying. And antibiotics are not an option for this business.
