It is no secret that I have many grievances with the institutional church. I have few reservations in saying that I think it barely breaks even in doing good, versus doing harm to its own and the world who needs to hear the Gospel.

As I read in Romans 15 tonight, Paul talks about his freedom to now come and visit the church in Rome since his doors for service in his own region were coming to a close. So, to better understand the passage, I read from Matthew-Henry’s classic commentary on the text. And one short phrase stood out and left a very bitter taste in my mouth.

It is justly expected from all Christians, that they should promote every good work, especially that blessed work, the conversion of souls. Christian society is a heaven upon earth, an earnest of our gathering together unto Christ at the great day.

Christian society is a ‘heaven upon earth’. In other words, the corporate church is a heaven upon earth.

Well, yes, perhaps in isolated places. Perhaps even in Matthew-Henry’s time this was true. It’s hard to say, really. But for me, in my experience and the experience of many others, this sentiment does not resonate whatsoever. There is little more charity in the institutional church than in the world at large. But, in the church, there is far less acceptance or ‘love’—even patience or forgiveness.

But I do notice that Matthew-Henry deliberately uses the word ‘a’ in order to describe this present ‘heaven’. Of course we cannot attain here what we will truly have with Christ, there.

Nonetheless, the church ought to be something like a heaven on earth, in certain respects. And while the institution will never be perfect, we cannot accept the flaws by that virtue. Much like our own personal pursuits of Christ, we have to continue to tear down the flawed structures and at least attempt to rebuild stronger, more effective ones—regardless of the ‘cost’.

Twice in Genesis (Gen. 12 & Gen. 20), Abraham fails to trust God and, in fear of the countrymen who’s land he was visiting, tells them that Sarah is not his wife, but his sister.

There’s a level of redundancy in his actions that’s borderline comical.

But, what’s even more than that, many years later, Abraham’s son Isaac  sojourns in Gerer (the second place Abraham lied about Sarah). And, get this, when he’s asked about his wife Rebekah, he does precisely the same thing his father Abraham did. (In fact, the author of Genesis tells the story with almost the same words.)

He tells them that Rebekah is his sister because he feared the countrymen.

Listen to what Matthew-Henry has to say about it:

The temptation of Isaac is the same as that which overcame his father, and that in two instances. This rendered his conduct the greater sin. The falls of those who are gone before us are so many rocks on which others have split; and the recording of them is like placing buoys to save future mariners.

It’s one thing for us to fall into some unseen crevasse. It’s another thing for our children to fall into the same crevasse—or for us to fall into those of our fathers.

Interesting how difficult it is day-to-day to learn from other people’s mistakes. Instead, most of us fall, in one way or another, into the same holes as our parents before us.

Abraham had this unfortunate habit of telling people that Sarah was his sister, not his wife. Twice in scripture he allows the people of the land that he is dwelling in to believe this. Because of Sarah’s beauty, both times a ruler took Sarah as his wife and the wrath of God began to fall on that leader and nation.

In this case, it was Abimelech, the king of Geber. But listen to what happens. Genesis 20:4-6:

[Abimelech] said, "Lord, will you kill an innocent people? Did he not himself say to me, ‘She is my sister’? And she herself said, ‘He is my brother.’ In the integrity of my heart and the innocence of my hands I have done this." 6Then God said to him in the dream, "Yes, I know that you have done this in the integrity of your heart, and it was I who kept you from sinning against me. Therefore I did not let you touch her.

Abimelech did something wicked in ignorance. Honest ignorance—and God took note. He kept Abimelech from consummating their marriage and it was merciful. Matthew-Henry says it well.

If our consciences witness, that, however we may have been cheated into a snare, we have not knowingly sinned against God, it will be our rejoicing in the day of evil. It is matter of comfort to those who are honest, that God knows their honesty, and will acknowledge it. It is a great mercy to be hindered from committing sin; of this God must have the glory.

God was merciful on Abimelech when his wrong doing really was an honest mistake. I wonder, why does the church have so much difficulty extending that kind of mercy?

God is gracious for no reason outside of himself. Whatever it is that drives his desire to forgive sinners is imbedded somewhere within his being and it isn’t for us to understand. At least not now, not fully.

God forgives to satisfy his desire to forgive. It is as William Gurnall describes:

You know the reason why God stands so long waiting on sinners, months, years, preaching to them; it is that He may be gracious in pardoning them, and in that act delight himself. Princes very often pardon traitors to please others more than themselves, or else it would never be done but God doth it chiefly to delight and glad His own merciful heart. Hence the business Christ came about (which is no other but to reconcile  sinners to God) is called “the pleasure of the Lord.”

I discover profound encouragement knowing that God has forgiven my sins because it pleases him, and not because I have in some way convinced him to do so.

The puritan, Ralph Venning (also the author of one of my all-time favorite books, The Sinfulness of Sin) wrote about the grandness of even the smallest sins committed by our leaders. I thought his phrasing was poignant and worth sharing tonight.

“We may occasion other man’s sins by example, and the more eminent the example, the more infectious it is. Great men cannot sin at a low rate because they are examples; the sins of commanders are commanding sins; the sins of rulers are ruling sins; the sins of teachers are teaching sins.”

I gather that Venning’s thought here is also, in part, why “not many” of us should “presume” to be teachers.

But for us in America, I don’t think the most obvious sins are the ones that are transmitted from leaders to congregations. No, those sins we recognize and usually scorn. It’s the more subtle, insidious ones that make it through. Failure to love. Failure to forgive. Failure to steward wisely, and others.

When our church leaders fail to uphold the ultimate worth of Jesus by their lifestyles and their public and private choices, they expand their guilt by permitting their congregations to do the same. Our elders approve the installation of a $10,000 decorative fountain in the atrium of the new church building; the congregation learns that there is no shame in a $40,000 mid-sized sedan, when a $12,000 used sedan would be more than sufficient.

Samuel Rutherford writes:

“The devil’s war is better than the devil’s peace. Suspect dumb holiness. When the dog is kept out of doors, he howls to be let in again.”

Rutherford is right, and we don’t usually think of it like that in the moment. But as he says, we should “suspect dumb holiness”.

What does that mean? It means, that when holiness just happens and we’re not struggling with one thing or another, there’s reason for us to be suspicious. It may be that we’re simply in a time of blessing and rest. But, more commonly, it may mean that we’ve unwittingly settled into a quiet, corrosive pattern of sin, so that the Enemy has no need to make a ruckus.

I know that for me this pattern has generally proven true.

As strange as it may seem from the inside, when I’m struggling it’s usually an indication that I’m in a healthy place. While on the flip side, when all things seem to be going well, it’s usually a symptom that I’m not struggling when or where I ought to be.

Again, not a rule of any kind, but a fairly consistent pattern.

The Church has this unfortunate habit of making things more complicated than they need to be. And sure, it looks like wisdom at first. But I think the reality is that there are very few situations where there’s any really good reason for a church to own property, a fleet of vans, or have some complicated non-profit tax status.

But over complication isn’t just in the big picture either. Even down to the Church’s attempt to gather together, things are inflated to impossibly gigantic sizes. Between a four foot stage elevation, a coffee bar in the lobby and an eight piece contemporary band, the line between Church royalty and the common folk is drawn with thick black paint.

So at the end of the day no one really connects, no one really changes—except of course, by God’s grace, when someone falls through the system’s cracks and they accidentally make a real, authentic, personal connection with another human being.

The famed puritan writer, Richard Baxter puts it like this:

“Simplicity is the ordinary attendant of sincerity.”

When things are kept simple, there is a natural tendency toward sincerity. In fact, as soon as we endeavor to systemize something, we throw a mask over whatever authenticity may exist. Over time, it’s bound to completely disintegrate.

Just consider the basic difference between telling the truth and telling a lie. The truth is always the simplest—even when reality is complicated. But when you introduce a lie, you’ve created two parallel realities, both of which must be maintained for either one not to fall apart. Even when the truth is complicated, a lie makes it worse.

So, when a church builds a system intended to make guests feel welcome, or compelled to give, or compelled to serve, or whatever, what happens when the lives of congregation don’t match the system? Both must be maintained. And something will have to go: sincerity. And what’s worse, maintaining the system will mean missing real problems in the congregation.