Church Essay #3: Membership Standards

The older woman looks at the younger lady and rolls her eyes.

“It’s getting so that they’ll let anyone in the church these days.”

She adjusts her suit coat and points a bejeweled finger at the one person in Fellowship Hall who isn’t easy to miss.

The young lady’s light brown hair is nearly shaved around the sides and back of her head. In contrast, bubblegum pink highlights sprout like a fountain from the top, adding a foot to her height. Her jacket matches her hair. Her jeans show skin through the fashionable tears.

The older, respectable looking woman says, “God loves her I’m sure, but really.”

Membership standards.

Jesus had them.

Churches don’t.

For a moment, I imagine joining an Anime club. I tell the costumed fans that cartoons are for kids. I tell the cyborgs and swords-carrying wannabe ranger heroes that I think our meeting time would be better spent discussing politics.

In my mind, a blue-haired samurai escorts me to the door at the end of a katana blade.

He doesn’t simply let me walk out onto the side walk.

I don’t land on anything I particularly care to mention.

Some people can be so rude.

The older woman rolls her eyes and says, “Learn to dress yourself.” Then she points to another figure across the room. “Oh, there’s another one.”

This time, it’s a guy. His color palate ranges from dark charcoal to black. His trench coat hangs open. A knit cap covers his ears. Dark, unkempt hair peaks out under the bottom. His gloves have no fingers. His pants sag over his legs.

Membership standards.

In the corner behind me, I hear one teen from the youth group say to another, “Oh yeah? Well if you’re so righteous, tell me what Hezekiah 3:19 says.”

Having been expelled from the Anime group, I joined a model railroading club. I’ve always liked playing with toy trains.

The second teen has flipped through is Bible from cover to cover, only to start flipping through again from the beginning. His eyebrows are down in concentration.

In my mind, the model railroaders start getting annoyed with me for playing with their stuff.

They say that to be in a model railroader’s club, you have to be a model railroader.

I tell them that’s discrimination.

Moments later, I’m knocking on the front door of the hobby shop asking if I can at least come back in to get my coat.

“What are you looking for, son?”

“The Book of Hezekiah, sir,” the teen says, He seems grateful for the help.

I recognize the older man as he takes the teens Bible. He’s my deacon.

“Hezekiah. Let’s see. Sounds like it’d be in the Old Testament right?”

The second teen nods.

The first teen puts his hand over his mouth to conceal his smile.

The older woman says, “I hope Myrtle is watching her purse with shady characters like him around.”

I leave the hobby shop and decide to join an Old West Historical Recreation Society. They say their costumes are authentic; detailed replicas of what the real cowboys wore.

I arrive for our first meeting dressed as a steam-punk version of Ironman.

Even the saloon girl shoots me before they all run me out of town.

Some people have no imagination.

Another deacon joins the hunt for Hezekiah 3:19 as the older woman says. “People actually dressed up to go to church in my day. We had membership standards back then.”

I nod. Jesus had membership standards, too.

Near the sanctuary door, the head usher tells one of his subordinates, “You’ll just have to find someone to cover for me.” He holds up two tickets and says, “I gotta go. Kick off’s in an hour.”
Jesus had membership standards.

No, you may not go home and burry your father.

Follow me.

No, you may not bid farewell to your wife and kids.

Follow me.

And if you can’t sell all you have to give it to the poor, then I won’t be waiting for you at the city gate. I love you, man, but no.

The five thousand who ate off a kid’s sack lunch? They tried to make Jesus their meal ticket king. Not exactly what He was going for, so He abandoned them. The whole walking on water bit was His way of sneaking off. And when the crowd didn’t take the hint, He turned on them with a sermon He knew they couldn’t swallow.

Follow me. Not your ideal of me, but me; the Bread of Life. Nothing like hinting at cannibalism to thin out a church. That’s how they did it in Jesus’ day. That’s how they pruned off the prune-faced posers; those free-loading hangers-on waiting for Jesus to make their lives better.

Asking Jesus to fix your life is like asking a car salesman to help you to keep your old clunker on the road. The cross wasn’t about fixing lives, it was about trading them in for the new and improved model.

A true disciple would know that. Deny yourself, take up your cross daily, and follow me: the membership standard for the Official Jesus Christ Fan Club.

All others need not apply.

Yet, the unconditional surrender of discipleship now plays out like the negotiated terms of a ceasefire. Sure, Jesus may have exchanged His throne in heaven for diapers on our behalf, but asking us to give up clubhouse seats for Him? That’s a little extreme.

In the corner, six different Bibles are open in search of Hezekiah 3:19.

One of them flips past the parable of the Ten Virgins.

Another goes over the passage about hating your mother and father, sister and brother, wife and children…

No one wants to read the sermon they can’t stomach.

Joshua clearing out the promised land.

Jesus clearing out the temple.

The pretence and subsequent deaths of Ananias and Sapphira.

The Apostle Paul telling the church at Corinth to expel the immoral brother.

None of these can be found in Hezekiah 3:19.

An elder reviews the table of contents and says, “Well, it’s not in the Old Testament. I’ve checked the list twice.”

The first teen starts to laugh and walks away.

In my mind, I’m at a Star Wars Convention telling everyone to live long and prosper.

Those plastic light sabers hurt.

One of the Bibles flips passed the second letter the Thessalonians, telling them to remove disobedient members from the fellowship. They were strict back then. They really took this walking with Jesus stuff seriously.

Fanatical zealots. Not like today. Today, the church welcomes anyone in the hope of them hearing the word, and being saved.

One of the Bibles flips passed the Great Commission, telling the church to go into the world. It says nothing about bringing people into the church. No one seems to notice. Again, it’s not Hezekiah 3:19.

In my mind, I get a job at a soup kitchen so I can throw buttered rolls at the unwashed masses of lazy bums. The supervisor tells me to cut it out. I tell her that soup kitchens are supposed to welcome anyone in need. She points to the line of filthy, freshly-buttered coats and tells me I’m on the wrong side of the counter for that.

It would appear the bums can start a food fight if they want, but employees cannot. I try to point out the double standard, but I lose my job anyway.

Some people just don’t understand church logic. I’m guessing that’s a good thing.

I imagine a military base during wartime, where enemies are allowed to waltz in through the front gate where they’re issued a uniform and treated as defectors seeking asylum. Throw in a little tolerant understanding. Throw in a little patriotism to a different flag. In time, that outpost would fall without a single shot being fired.

I think of the church.

The Trekkies are amongst the Jedi.

The bums are in the kitchen.

The atheists are teaching Sunday School so they can complain about all the hypocrites. And of course, none would be un-Christ-like as to point them out as chief contributors to the problem.

“Shameful,” the older woman says, shaking her head. “They’ll let anyone in the church these days.”

I nod, and when I speak, I’m not looking at the guy in the trench coat. I’m not thinking of the bubblegum fountain on the other side of the room.

From the corner someone says, “What? Hezekiah?” He laughs. “That’s a joke. There’s no such book.”

And my deacon says, “Are you sure?”

“You’re absolutely right,” I say to the older woman. “Clearly, the membership standards of the church need to be addressed.”