The Table
Ekklesia — The Assembly — the purpose.
Church Is a Catastrophic Mistranslation
The Greek word is ekklesia.
It does not mean:
- a building
- an institution
- a religious corporation
- a clergy-led organization
It means assembly.
A summoned people.
A gathering called together for participation, not observation.
William Tyndale knew this.
In his 1526 English New Testament, he consistently translated ekklesia as congregation or assembly. Except for two occasions: Acts 14:13 and Acts 19:37 — both pagan contexts. Only there did he use the word church.
That detail should stop us cold.
When the gathering is pagan, “church” fits.
When the gathering belongs to Christ, it does not.
The word church smuggles in everything Jesus forbids:
- hierarchy
- passivity
- professionalism
- distance
It creates spectators instead of participants, leaders instead of brothers, institutions instead of bodies.
And once that word settles in the imagination, the structure follows inevitably.
The New Covenant Assembly Looked Nothing Like Sunday Morning
Nowhere is this clearer than 1 Corinthians 14.
This chapter is not abstract theology.
It is assembly practice.
“When you come together...”
“Each one of you has...”
“You may all prophesy one by one...”
Not a single voice addressing silent rows.
Not a preselected order of service.
Not a professional sermon as the centerpiece.
Participation is assumed.
Contribution is expected.
Christ’s voice is mediated through the whole body.
Now compare that to the modern Sunday morning experience:
A fixed hour.
A printed bulletin.
A preselected song set.
A single trained speaker.
A silent room.
The resemblance is zero.
We claim to “go by the Book,” yet the way we assemble has nothing to do with Christ’s revealed form of fellowship. We have replaced participation with performance and baptized it with language about reverence and order.
A leader-led paradigm has snuffed out the expression of Christ among the brethren.
Preaching Was Never the Center
This needs to be said plainly.
The idea that preaching is the divinely appointed center of Christian assembly does not come from Scripture.
Put a new believer in a room with the New Testament. Let her read it again and again. She will not emerge declaring:
- that preaching is the primary means of blessing
- that preaching is how the people of God are built up
- that preaching is the central mechanism of spiritual growth
That conclusion has to be taught to her.
It does not arise from the text.
The Lord’s eternal purpose is not the elevation of a mouthpiece, but the unveiling of a body. The ekklesia exists to display the many-faceted wisdom of God — not through one voice addressing many ears, but through many members listening to the Son and sharing the treasures of His wisdom.
Our fixation on leaders blocks this display.
And beneath that fixation is a much older problem.
Like Israel, We Want a King
Someone visible.
Someone trained.
Someone who will tell us what to do.
This impulse does not come from above.
It comes from below.
It is the same request Israel made when they rejected God’s direct rule in favor of something manageable.
Any time a gathering assumes that one or a few will:
- direct the meeting
- choose the songs
- do the teaching
the battle has already been lost.
Christ may still be honored in language, but He is no longer trusted to lead.
Large churches institutionalize this instinct. Even their “small groups” are often seeded with trained leaders to keep things aligned. Discussion is constrained. Direction is preapproved. Often the task is simply to reprocess the pastor’s sermon.
Christ is present — but He is not trusted.
The Spirit Ends the Argument
Pentecost is not a new institution.
It is the end of institutions.
No temple.
No priesthood.
No sacred geography.
God takes up residence in people.
Not leaders.
Not professionals.
Not buildings.
People.
Which means every attempt to rebuild:
- temples
- priestly classes
- hierarchical authority
- leader-centered assemblies
is not “contextualization.”
It is disobedience.
What replaces temple is indwelling.
What replaces priesthood is participation.
What replaces kingship is direct rule by Christ Himself through His Spirit of Truth.
The church does not need to be fixed.
It needs to be ended — in the same way the temple was ended, the priesthood was ended, and kingship was ended.
Not abolished by rebellion.
Fulfilled by presence.
If what you are part of cannot survive without:
- titles
- platforms
- centralized control
- professional mediation
then it is not the ekklesia Christ rules.
Ekklesia — The Table — the form.
An Autopsy of the Modern Lord’s Table
Sunday Morning, a Few Years Ago
I woke up early enough to beat the parking rush.
The room filled with sound first. Songs performed by a leader and a band, rehearsed, polished, projected. I sang along, mostly listening. My posture was already decided for me.
Then came the sermon. Fifty minutes. Carefully crafted. Slide deck synced. Movie references chosen with precision. The text was handled well. Connections were drawn I appreciated and would have made myself.
But I was still sitting. Still silent. Still receiving.
No dialogue. No interruption. No risk.
And then the pivot.
“The Lord’s Table.”
From the front, it was declared brilliantly. New Testament references. Rich language. The word feast spoken with confidence.
And then we shuffled.
Single file.
Down the aisle.
Tear off a meager scrap of bread.
Grab a shot glass of juice.
Gluten-free crackers offered as a side accommodation.
And something in my mind finally broke.
A feast?
What in the hell is feast-like about this?
This wasn’t irony. It was farce. A comic tragedy so normalized no one flinched.
Minutes later, we were dismissed and scattered like roaches into parking lots, scrambling toward real lunches, excited to discuss what a great sermon it had been.
And I knew it.
I’m in the matrix. I know I am.
The modern “table” is not a table. It is a prop.
We took something literal, embodied, and demanding and collapsed it into a symbol so small it can be swallowed without consequence. A cracker fragment. A plastic thimble. A drive-by transaction slipped into a service whose real center never has to yield an inch.
In the New Testament, the table is the thing.
In modern practice, it is the illustration of a thing.
That is not continuity.
That is replacement.
We did not spiritualize the table. We neutralized it.
A table in Scripture is not a metaphor. It is a meal.
Meals take time.
Meals require coordination.
Meals force proximity.
Meals expose difference.
Meals cannot be rushed without becoming something else.
The moment the meal is miniaturized, speed becomes possible.
The moment speed becomes possible, control returns to the stage.
The table slows everything the modern church is designed to accelerate.
So it had to be reduced.
A meal is participatory by nature. A ritual can be observed.
Think about how you eat with people you love.
You sit.
You wait.
You pass.
You receive.
You listen while chewing.
You speak while others chew.
You notice who hasn’t been served.
You notice who dominates the space.
You notice who withdraws.
No one is elevated.
No one performs.
No one is hidden.
A meal makes spectators impossible.
That is precisely why it does not survive institutional scale.
Ekklesia — The Table Economy — giving and finances.
This Is Not an Economy - An Autopsy of Church Finances
I was taught early on that when asked for money by anyone, the pat answer in your pocket was always the same:
I give to my church.
It was safe.
It was true.
It was an exit.
A complete, unassailable answer that ended the conversation and absolved you of any further obligation.
I used it. More than once.
And it worked.
Years earlier, I had been on the committee for that building fund campaign I wrote about before.
The one where we gave until we could hardly pay our bills.
The one where the building kept rising, stone by stone, while our own foundation cracked.
When the building project was nearing completion, the sound system was being set up.
I can’t say I remember the exact cost, but the sheer enormity of it—the board, the speakers, the baffle, the AV closet—was staggering.
A professional sound crew spent days onsite setting everything up and dialing it in.
The most scandalous moment, the one we seemed to perceive as scandalous at the time, was when they started playing the Eagles Live album over the board.
For the purpose of taking sound levels throughout the auditorium.
Yes, auditorium.
Precisely calibrating levels from every corner of the room.
And there was pearl clutching about the choice of music.
A demand for something more appropriate to be played.
Those guys really must have thought we were some first-class assholes.
And they were right.
We were shocked by Joe Walsh’s opening lick in “Life in the Fast Lane.”
But we should have been ashamed at the spectacle we’d created.
The money we’d spent.
The financial burden we’d placed upon God’s people.
I was a deacon at that same church.
We had benevolence duty.
I really should have reflected upon that word more at the time.
Benevolence.
The protocol was always the same.
Listen to the need.
Same routine for a stranger or a long-term member.
Ask them financial questions.
Have them fill out forms.
Go through their budget.
Question their expenditures.
Including the faithfulness of their giving.
Then give them $50.
Fifty dollars.
After all that.
After the interrogation.
After the forms.
After the budget review.
After the judgment.
Fifty dollars.
And then one day, someone asked me directly for help.
Not through the church.
Not through the benevolence process.
Just me.
And I said it.
I give to my church.
The words came out automatically.
And as they did, I realized I was doing precisely what I had been trained to do.
What I had been taught to do.
What the system had trained me to do.
I was redirecting need.
I was protecting the institution.
I was maintaining the economy.
And I was leaving a real need unmet.
Because I had already given.
To the system.
And the system had already spent.
On the sound system.
On the building.
On the maintenance.
On the economy.
And the real need went unanswered.
Because the obligation was already fulfilled.
The dissonance lingered.
And eventually, it became a question.
The Budget That Never Sleeps
The modern church requires an economy.
Not a simple one.
A complex one.
Mortgages.
Salaries.
Retirement funds.
Health insurance.
Property insurance.
Liability insurance.
Utilities.
Maintenance.
Landscaping.
Zero-turn mowers.
Leaf blowers.
Snow removal equipment.
HVAC systems.
Sound systems.
Lighting systems.
Projection systems.
Security systems.
Cleaning services.
Office supplies.
Printing costs.
Website hosting.
Online giving platforms.
Credit card processing fees.
Accounting services.
Legal fees.
Building permits.
Property taxes.
Parking lot maintenance.
Roof repairs.
Plumbing.
Electrical.
Carpet cleaning.
Window washing.
Pest control.
Trash removal.
Recycling.
Snow plowing.
Lawn care.
Tree trimming.
Bathroom supplies.
Kitchen supplies.
Coffee.
Cups.
Napkins.
Plates.
Utensils.
Nursery supplies.
Children’s ministry materials.
Youth group equipment.
Soundboard upgrades.
Microphone replacements.
Cable management.
Cable replacement.
Wireless systems.
Batteries.
Bulbs.
Filters.
Filters for the filters.
The list never ends.
Because the institution never sleeps.
The Red Herring of Scale
Before we go further, a necessary warning.
It is tempting to focus on the mega church. The multi-million dollar buildings. The private jets. The mansions. The excess. And those serve as useful illustrations.
But they are also a red herring.
Because focusing on the extremes makes it a comparative game. At least we’re not that bad. At least our pastor drives a Honda. At least we’re not building a stadium.
This is not about comparison. This is about the system itself.
The system requires an economy. Whether it’s a small church with a modest building and a part-time pastor, or a mega church with campuses and staff, the system demands money. The scale changes. The requirement does not.
The question is not “How much is too much?”
The question is “Why does it require anything at all?”
What It Demands
The modern church economy demands regular, predictable income. Weekly offerings. Monthly commitments. Annual campaigns. Building funds. Mission funds. Special projects. Emergency appeals.
It demands consistency.
Because the bills never stop. The mortgage payment is due. The salary is due. The insurance is due. The utilities are due. The maintenance is due.
The institution cannot pause.
So the giving cannot pause.
This creates an obligation. Not a response to need. An obligation to maintain the system.
The Harm to Givers
This economy does multiple harms to those who give.
And to those who don’t.
And to those who receive.
First, it gives them the feeling they’ve done their part. They’ve given to the church. They’ve fulfilled their obligation. They’ve checked the box.
And that feeling loosens them from seeing needs that organically appear in their communities. The neighbor who lost their job. The family whose house burned. The single mother who can’t pay rent. The elderly couple who can’t afford groceries.
These needs are visible. They are present. They are immediate.
But the giver has already given. To the institution. And the institution has already spent. On the system.
So the real need goes unmet.
Because the obligation was already fulfilled.
Second, it creates an obligation-based economy.
This economy relies upon spoken and unspoken Old Testament demands that have nothing to do with New Testament realities. Tithing. Firstfruits. Storehouse theology. Malachi 3:8-10. These are invoked constantly.
As if the New Testament simply continued the Old Testament system. As if nothing changed. As if the temple economy was simply transferred to the church economy.
But everything changed.
The temple economy ended when Christ’s work was finished. The veil was torn. The priesthood was abolished. The sacrifices were fulfilled. The system was complete.
The New Testament does not command tithing. It does not command regular, institutional giving. It does not command building funds or salary structures.
It commands something entirely different.
The Language of Control
This economy uses specific language to maintain itself.
“Faithful Giving”
The phrase “faithful giving” is used constantly. As if giving to the institution is faithfulness. As if not giving to the institution is unfaithfulness.
This language creates a moral framework. You are not just giving money. You are being faithful. Or you are being unfaithful. This is not about need. This is about character. This is about your relationship with God.
And it works.
Because who wants to be unfaithful? Who wants to be characterized as unfaithful?
The language creates pressure. Not just obligation. Moral pressure. Spiritual pressure.
And it maintains the economy.
“Stewardship”
The word “stewardship” is co-opted. It no longer means managing resources wisely to meet needs. It means giving to the institution. “Good stewards of God’s money” means giving to the church. Not managing your resources to meet actual needs. Not using what you have to help those who need it. Giving to the institution.
The language redirects responsibility. You are not responsible for seeing needs and meeting them. You are responsible for giving to the institution. The institution will handle the rest.
This is not stewardship.
This is outsourcing.
“Investment”
Giving is framed as “investing in the kingdom.” “Sowing into ministry.” “Building the kingdom.”
This reframes giving from meeting need to building something. You are not meeting a need. You are investing. You are building. You are creating something.
This language makes giving feel productive. Like you’re accomplishing something. Like you’re building something.
But you’re not building the kingdom.
You’re maintaining a system.
The language obscures the reality.
“Robbing God”
Malachi 3:8-10 is quoted constantly. “Will a man rob God?” “You are robbing me.” “Bring the full tithe into the storehouse.”
This creates powerful guilt. Not just obligation. Guilt. Shame. The fear of robbing God. The fear of being cursed. The fear of being unfaithful.
This language maintains the economy through fear. Not through love. Not through need. Through fear.
And it works.
Because who wants to rob God? Who wants to be cursed?
The language creates compliance.
Not generosity.
Compliance.
The Harm to Receivers
The institutional economy also harms those who receive. The benevolence process I described earlier is not unique. It is standard. Listen to the need. Ask financial questions. Fill out forms. Review the budget. Question expenditures. Judge the faithfulness of their giving. Then give them $50.
This process creates barriers. Not just practical barriers. Emotional barriers. Spiritual barriers.
The person in need must: expose their financial situation, submit to interrogation, fill out paperwork, defend their spending, prove their faithfulness, accept judgment. All for $50.
This is not help.
This is humiliation.
This is not meeting need. This is maintaining control.
The process protects the institution. It ensures only the “deserving” receive help. It ensures the institution is not taken advantage of. It ensures the system is maintained.
But it does not ensure the need is met.
The need is secondary. The process is primary. The system is primary. And the person in need is secondary.
This is not the New Testament pattern.
The Pressure on Non-Givers
The institutional economy also creates pressure on those who don’t give. Or can’t give. Or don’t give enough.
They are questioned. Their faithfulness is doubted. Their commitment is suspect. They are excluded from certain roles. They are treated differently. They are judged. Not for their actual need. Not for their actual situation. For their giving. Or lack of giving.
This creates a class system. Those who give are faithful. Those who don’t are not. Those who give are committed. Those who don’t are not. Those who give belong. Those who don’t are suspect.
This is not the New Testament pattern.
In the New Testament, giving is not a test of faithfulness. It is a response to need. It is not a requirement for belonging. It is a natural expression of love.
The institutional economy turns giving into a gate. A gate that determines who belongs. A gate that determines who is faithful. A gate that determines who is committed.
This is not the New Testament pattern.
New Testament Giving: Situational and Need-Based
The New Testament pattern of giving is not institutional.
It is situational.
It is need-based.
It responds to actual need, not institutional maintenance.
“Now concerning the collection for the saints: as I directed the churches of Galatia, so you also are to do. On the first day of every week, each of you is to put something aside and store it up, as he may prosper, so that there will be no collecting when I come.”
(1 Corinthians 16:1-2)
This is not a command for regular, institutional giving. This is a specific collection for a specific need: the poor saints in Jerusalem. Paul is organizing a one-time relief effort, not establishing a weekly offering system.
The giving is: for a specific need (the poor in Jerusalem), temporary (until Paul arrives), proportional (”as he may prosper”), voluntary (”each of you”).
Not: for institutional maintenance, permanent, a fixed percentage, an obligation.
“For I do not mean that others should be eased and you burdened, but that as a matter of fairness your abundance at the present time should supply their need, so that their abundance may supply your need, that there may be fairness.”
(2 Corinthians 8:13-14)
This is mutual aid. Not institutional funding. The principle is fairness, not obligation. Abundance supplies need. Not abundance maintains systems.
“Let the one who is taught the word share all good things with the one who teaches.”
(Galatians 6:6)
This is not a command to pay a professional. This is instruction for mutual sharing within a body. The one who teaches shares the word. The one who receives shares material goods. This is reciprocity, not salary. It assumes a relationship of mutual giving, not a professional contract.
“If a brother or sister is poorly clothed and lacking in daily food, and one of you says to them, ‘Go in peace, be warmed and filled,’ without giving them the things needed for the body, what good is that?”
(James 2:15-16)
This is not about giving to an institution. This is about meeting actual, visible need. The need is present. The need is known. The need is immediate.
The response is direct. Not filtered through a system. Not processed through a budget. Not allocated by a committee.
Direct.
“Do not neglect to do good and to share what you have, for such sacrifices are pleasing to God.”
(Hebrews 13:16)
This is not about institutional giving. This is about doing good and sharing. Sharing what you have. With those who need it. Not with those who manage it.
“Sell your possessions, and give to the needy. Provide yourselves with moneybags that do not grow old, with a treasure in the heavens that does not fail, where no thief approaches and no moth destroys.”
(Luke 12:33)
“Do not lay up for yourselves treasures on earth, where moth and rust destroy and where thieves break in and steal, but lay up for yourselves treasures in heaven.”
(Matthew 6:19-20)
These commands are about direct giving to the needy. Not giving to institutions. Not maintaining systems. Direct giving. To those who need it. When they need it.
“Now the full number of those who believed were of one heart and soul, and no one said that any of the things that belonged to him was his own, but they had everything in common. And with great power the apostles were giving their testimony to the resurrection of the Lord Jesus, and great grace was upon them all. There was not a needy person among them, for as many as were owners of lands or houses sold them and brought the proceeds of what was sold and laid it at the apostles’ feet, and it was distributed to each as any had need.”
(Acts 4:32-35)
This passage is often cited as evidence for institutional giving. But look closely.
The giving was: voluntary (”no one said that any of the things that belonged to him was his own”), direct (”it was distributed to each as any had need”), need-based (”as any had need”), temporary (this was a specific moment in Jerusalem, not a permanent system).
This was not an institutional economy. This was mutual aid. This was the body meeting needs directly. Not through a system. Not through a budget. Not through a committee.
Directly.
And it was temporary. It was a response to a specific situation. Not a permanent system. Not an institutional structure.
A response.
To need.
“And all who believed were together and had all things in common. And they were selling their possessions and belongings and distributing the proceeds to all, as any had need.”
(Acts 2:44-45)
Again, this is direct distribution. “As any had need.” Not as the institution required. Not as the budget demanded. As any had need.
This is not institutional giving. This is the body functioning. This is mutual aid.
This is the New Testament pattern.
The New Testament pattern is clear:
Giving is:
- Situational (responding to specific needs)
- Need-based (meeting actual needs, not maintaining systems)
- Direct (person to person, not through institutions)
- Voluntary (not obligated)
- Mutual (reciprocal, not one-way)
Modern church giving is:
- Systematic (regular, predictable)
- Institution-based (maintaining the system)
- Indirect (through the institution)
- Obligated (tithing, commitments)
- One-way (to the institution, not mutual)
These are not the same thing.
“But What About Missions?”
This is where the objection arrives. But we give to missions through the church. But we support outreach through the institution. But we fund ministry through the system.
This sounds reasonable. But it assumes the institution is necessary for missions. It assumes the institution is necessary for outreach. It assumes the institution is necessary for ministry.
But the New Testament does not assume this.
In the New Testament, missions and outreach happen through the body. Not through institutions. Not through budgets. Through people. Through relationships. Through direct support.
Paul received support directly from churches and individuals. Not through a missions organization. Not through an institutional budget.
Directly.
The Philippian church sent support directly to Paul. Not through a system. Not through a budget.
Directly.
The New Testament pattern is direct support. Not institutional funding.
If you want to support missions, support missionaries directly. If you want to support outreach, support those doing outreach directly. If you want to support ministry, support those doing ministry directly.
The institution is not necessary. The system is not necessary. The budget is not necessary.
Only relationship. Only direct support. Only the body functioning.
What About Legitimate Large Needs?
Another objection arrives. But what about disaster relief? But what about large-scale missions? But what about needs that require more resources than a small group can provide?
This is a real question.
And the answer is not to create an institution. The answer is to coordinate. The body can coordinate. Groups can coordinate. Without creating a permanent economy. Without creating a permanent system. Without creating a permanent institution.
The New Testament shows coordination. Paul coordinated relief for the poor in Jerusalem. Multiple churches coordinated.
But it was: for a specific need, temporary, direct, need-based.
Not: for institutional maintenance, permanent, indirect, system-based.
Large needs can be met through coordination. Not through institutions. Not through economies. Through the body functioning together. Temporarily. For specific needs. As they arise.
Financial Transparency and Accountability
The institutional economy often lacks transparency. Where does the money actually go? How much goes to actual need? How much goes to system maintenance?
These questions are often unanswered. Or answered vaguely. Or answered defensively. The budget is not always visible. The spending is not always clear. The allocation is not always obvious.
This creates suspicion. Not just from critics. From givers. Who wonder where their money went. Who wonder if it was used well. Who wonder if it met actual needs.
The New Testament pattern is different.
In the New Testament, giving is visible. It is direct. It is obvious. You see the need. You meet the need. You see the result.
There is no mystery. There is no opacity. There is no suspicion.
Only clarity. Only directness. Only relationship.
How Money Holds the Tangled System Together
By now, the pattern should be visible. The economy is not isolated. It is the foundation.
The table requires limits. The limits require rejecting the monopolized sermon. The sermon requires the professional. The professional requires the salary. The salary requires the economy.
The building requires the mortgage. The mortgage requires the economy. The economy requires regular giving. The regular giving requires obligation. The obligation requires the language of control.
The membership requires gatekeeping. The gatekeeping requires management. The management requires staff. The staff requires salaries. The salaries require the economy.
Each part depends on the economy.
The economy holds it all together.
Remove the economy, and the system collapses. Not because the parts are bad. Because they depend on something the New Testament does not require.
The economy is the foundation.
And the foundation is wrong.
The Table Economy
So we return to the table. Not as a sacred object. As a place of one anothering. Knowing and being known.
The table is where the body becomes visible. Where faces matter. Where voices matter. Where presence matters.
And the table is where needs become visible. Where you see the brother who lost his job. Where you hear the sister who can’t pay rent. Where you notice the family who needs groceries. Where you become aware of the actual, present, immediate needs of the body.
At the table, giving is not an obligation.
It is a response.
A response to need you can see. A response to people you know. A response to situations you understand. Not a response to a budget. Not a response to a campaign. Not a response to an institution.
A response to need.
The table teaches us to see. To see the needs the body has. To see the needs the body is aware of. To see the needs we can actually meet. Not the needs an institution creates. Not the needs a budget demands. Not the needs a system requires.
The needs that are actually there. The needs we can actually see. The needs we can actually meet.
At the table, giving is not systematic.
It is situational.
It responds to what is actually needed. When it is actually needed. By those who actually need it.
This is not an economy.
This is mutual aid. This is the body functioning. This is the New Testament pattern.
And it requires no institution. No budget. No system.
Only presence. Only awareness. Only response.
At the table.
Where we learn to see. Where we learn to meet. Where we learn to give.
Not to maintain. But to meet.
Not to fund. But to serve.
Not to support systems. But to support one another.
At the table.
Where the economy is not an economy.
But a response.
A response to need. A response to presence. A response to the body.
As it actually is.
Not as the institution requires it to be.
The Practical Question
So how do we transition? How do we move from institutional giving to situational giving?
The answer is not to create a new system.
The answer is to return to the table.
At the table, you see needs. You see the brother who lost his job. You see the sister who can’t pay rent. You see the family who needs groceries. You see actual, present, immediate needs.
And you respond. Not through a system. Not through a budget. Not through a committee.
Directly.
As you are able. As you see need. As the Spirit leads.
This is not complicated. It is simple. It requires no institution. It requires no system. It requires no economy.
Only presence. Only awareness. Only response.
At the table.
Where we learn to see. Where we learn to meet. Where we learn to give.
Not I give to my church.
But I see a need, and I can meet it.
Not I’ve fulfilled my obligation.
But I’ve responded to a need.
Not I’ve checked the box.
But I’ve served the body.
At the table.
Where the economy ends. And the body begins.
Where obligation ends. And response begins.
Where the system ends. And relationship begins.
At the table.
Where we learn what giving actually is. Not maintaining systems. But meeting needs. Not funding institutions. But serving one another. Not fulfilling obligations. But responding to presence.
At the table.
Where I give to my church becomes I see you, and I can help.
Where the exit becomes the entrance.
Where the economy becomes the response.
At the table.
Ekklesia — The Table and Worship — a melody of the heart.
This Is Not Worship - An Autopsy of Church Music
There are two main churches I reference in my anecdotes because they consumed the bulk of my adult church experiences. One was an IFB—Independent Fundamentalist Baptist. The other a non-denom, though we all know every bit as denominational, reformed outfit. It’s probably easy to pick out the different
experiences I relate as to which happened where. They serve as illustrative, but obviously don’t cover the gamut of traditions men and women have created. This is why I speak about the underlying structures, not the particular incarnations of them.
I was on the worship team. Part of the process of getting songs to Sunday was going through song selection with the pastor. He had to approve the songs. And the content.
Why?
Because the service was crafted. Thematically, the songs needed to match his sermon. They needed to match in tempo and mood as well. Not exactly what you would call spirit-led. Or body-led.
But they would get around this by saying that they had prayed over the choices.
And thus were led by the Spirit. And they were representatives of the body.
So tada.
Body-led.
And don’t forget, we do ask the audience to sing along.
But even when the congregation sings along, something else is happening. There are the oohs. The ahhs. The “praise God” and other things from the singers. Now I’m not ascribing motivation to these people. That would be wrong. I am only talking about what it portrays. And what it produces in the body.
It portrays performance.
It produces spectators.
Do I sing the oohs? Those aren’t on the overhead. Do I sing the ahhs? Those aren’t provided for me. Do I say “praise God” at that moment? That’s not my part.
Those aren’t on the overhead.
Those aren’t provided for me.
That’s not my part.
I am watching. I am following. I am consuming.
Not worshiping.
Not participating.
Spectating.
Not worshipers.
Not participants.
Spectators.
At another church, they really liked what they would call their “special music.” This is to be distinguished from the congregational music. This is a solo. A duet. A trio. Or God forbid, the southern gospel quartet.
For the uninitiated, please refer to the opening sequence of the Jack Black movie
Bernie.
The distinction matters. “Special music” means some perform. Others watch. The congregation does not participate. They observe. They receive. They consume. This is not about style. This is not about preference. This is about structure. Some perform. Many watch.
That is the problem.
We recently found ourselves at a funeral. After being gone from this place for seventeen years. And who struts up to the platform? The church’s SGQ. For short. And they sing the singularly most inane, most cringe-inducing song for me and my wife.
“Beulah Land.”
Ugh.
Double ugh.
We couldn’t run out. So instead, my wife dug her nails into my hand. As an ancient soldier might bite into a stick during an amputation.
It was about the structure. The performance. The spectatorship. The fact that we were watching, not participating. The fact that worship had become a show.
The Worship Set
Sunday morning begins with music. Not participation. Performance.
A band on stage. Lights. Sound. Rehearsal. Production.
The congregation watches. Sings along. Raises hands. Closes eyes.
But they do not lead. They do not choose. They do not create.
They consume.
The worship set is not worship.
It is a performance of worship.
And the difference is everything.
What We Call Worship
We have reduced worship to a music block. A thirty-minute set. A performance. A production. We call it “worship.”
Now, let’s acknowledge some things. We all understand that nobody thinks the singular act of worship is music or song. We have, again, coined a phrase to distill something down. I get it. We use shortcuts because they’re quicker. We’re not intentionally trying to make a theological argument. I want to avoid being pedantic here, as if I’m concerned about the precision of word choice and usage.
But I think there is a cautionary word of reflection here. How the modern adaptation of the word “worship” is such a distillation of the enormity of our lives and actions that it’s good to consider. Eating is worship. Drinking is worship. Taking a walk is worship. Changing your baby’s diaper is worship.
But music itself is also deeply biblical. It shows up everywhere in the text. In the Old Testament, we see Miriam’s song after crossing the Red Sea (Exodus 15), David’s psalms, the Levites appointed to music (1 Chronicles 15:16), the Psalms themselves—150 songs of praise, lament, confession, thanksgiving. In the New Testament, we see Jesus and the disciples singing a hymn after the Last Supper (Matthew 26:30, Mark 14:26), Paul and Silas singing in prison (Acts 16:25), and the command to address one another in psalms, hymns, and spiritual songs (Ephesians 5:19, Colossians 3:16).
Music is everywhere in Scripture. It is deeply biblical.
But notice what these examples show us. When Jesus and the disciples sang, they sang together. When Paul and Silas sang in prison, they sang together. The command is to “address one another”—not to perform for one another. The pattern is participation, not performance.
Worship, in Scripture, encompasses everything. It is a way of life.
“I appeal to you therefore, brothers, by the mercies of God, to present your bodies as a living sacrifice, holy and acceptable to God, which is your spiritual worship.” (Romans 12:1)
“So, whether you eat or drink, or whatever you do, do all to the glory of God.” (1 Corinthians 10:31)
This is not about music alone. This is about your body. Your life. Your whole existence. Presented as a living sacrifice. Everything done to the glory of God.
That is worship.
Not a set. Not a performance. Not a production.
A life.
The New Testament Pattern
In the New Testament, music is participatory. Not performative.
“Addressing one another in psalms and hymns and spiritual songs, singing and making melody to the Lord with your heart.” (Ephesians 5:19)
“Let the word of Christ dwell in you richly, teaching and admonishing one another in all wisdom, singing psalms and hymns and spiritual songs, with thankfulness in your hearts to God.” (Colossians 3:16)
Notice the pattern. “Addressing one another.” “Teaching and admonishing one another.”
The word “address” means to speak to, to direct words toward. You cannot address one another when you are all facing forward, singing to the backs of other people’s heads. You cannot teach and admonish one another when one person performs and everyone else watches.
This requires face-to-face interaction. This requires mutuality. This requires participation.
This is not one-way performance. This is mutual participation. Singing to one another. Not performing for one another. Making melody with your heart. Not with a sound system.
Now, every place will say they are doing this very thing. They will claim they are participating. They will say the congregation sings along. They will insist this is participatory worship.
But ask yourself this: Can you find any substantive difference between this and any concert you’ve ever been to?
Face front. Follow the leader. Sing to the backs of others’ heads.
The point here is that “sing along with us” is not participation. Any more than “listen to my sermon” is participation.
You are still watching. You are still following. You are still consuming.
You are not participating.
Participation means you bring something. You contribute. You address one another. You teach and admonish one another. You face one another. You see one another. You respond to one another.
Not sing along with the performers.
Not follow the leader.
Not face forward and watch the show.
The New Testament pattern is participation.
Not sing-along.
The Performance Model and Its Consequences
The modern worship set is built on a different model. The performance model.
A few perform. Many watch.
A few lead. Many follow.
A few create. Many consume.
This is not the New Testament pattern. This is the entertainment model.
And it has consequences.
When worship becomes performance, several things happen.
First, participation becomes consumption. You do not worship. You watch worship. You do not participate. You observe. You do not create. You consume.
Second, the body becomes an audience. Not participants. Not worshipers. Not a body.
An audience.
Third, worship becomes a product. Something to be produced. Something to be consumed. Something to be evaluated. “Great worship today.” “Powerful worship.” “The worship was amazing.”
These phrases reveal the problem. Worship is not something that happens to you. It is something you do.
But the performance model makes it something you receive.
The Red Herring of Style
It’s easy to get bogged down in style. The so-called worship wars come to mind. Traditional vs. contemporary. Hymns vs. choruses. Organ vs. guitar. Drums vs. no drums. This focuses entirely on style, sound level, length.
All things that obscure the underlying structural problems.
The problem is not the style of music. The problem is not the volume. The problem is not the length of the set.
The problem is the structure. The performance model. The fact that some perform and many watch. The fact that worship has become a show.
You can have traditional music performed on a stage, and it’s still performance.
You can have contemporary music performed on a stage, and it’s still performance.
You can have hymns. You can have choruses. You can have organs. You can have guitars. You can have drums. You can have no drums.
If some perform and many watch, it’s still performance.
The style doesn’t matter. The structure does.
But the structure itself is not isolated. It connects to everything else.
The Connection to the System
The worship set connects to everything else. The platform requires the building. The building requires the economy. The professional requires a salary. The salary requires the economy. The sound system requires the building. The building requires the economy. Each requirement creates another dependency.
The worship set is not isolated. It is part of the system. And it serves the system. By creating an audience. By creating consumers. By creating passivity.
Now, the objection arrives quickly. That sounds like chaos. How do 20 people bring a song?
Well, of course it sounds like chaos to a system. But ask yourself: How do 200 people bring a song? They don’t. You’ve just pointed out the problem of scale.
The question itself reveals the assumption. That the gathering must be one thing. One place. One event. One size. And that assumption is the lie we’ve swallowed.
The New Testament pattern assumes limits. It assumes a size where each one can speak. Each one can be heard. Each one can address one another. Not 200 people facing forward, singing to the back of other’s heads. Not a performance where some lead and many follow. But a body where each one brings something. Each one contributes. Each one participates.
The objection “How do 20 people bring a song?” assumes the problem is the number. But the problem is the structure. Twenty people can bring songs if they’re gathered around a table, facing one another, participating together. Two hundred people cannot. Not because of the number. Because of the form.
The form itself answers the question. If you accept the form, you have already accepted its limits.
How Worship Fits the Tangled System
By now, the pattern should be visible. Worship is not isolated. It is part of the system.
Accept the table, and you accept limits. Accept limits, and you reject the monopolized sermon. Reject the sermon, and you reject the professional. Reject the professional, and you reject membership. Reject membership, and you reject the building.
But what about worship?
The worship set requires the building. It requires the platform, the stage, forward-facing rows, distance, a sound system, production. But if you’ve rejected the building, you’ve rejected all of these things. The performance model of worship cannot function without them.
Similarly, the worship set requires the professional. It requires the professional worship leader, who requires a platform, a role, the performance model. But if you’ve rejected the professional, you’ve rejected the professional worship leader. The professional worship leader has no function the body cannot fulfill.
And the worship set requires the monopolized sermon. The worship set is crafted to match the sermon—thematically, in tempo, in mood. The service is one thing, one event, one production. But if you’ve rejected the monopolized sermon, you’ve rejected the crafted service. You’ve rejected the need for everything to match. The worship set has no function without the sermon to match.
Each part depends on the others.
The worship set is not isolated.
It is part of the system.
And the system is one tangled ball.
Pull one strand, and the whole thing tightens.
Which is why reform always fails.
And why only return works.
The Table and Worship
So we return to the table. Not as a sacred object. As a place of one anothering. Knowing and being known.
The table is where worship becomes visible. Not as performance. Not as production. Not as spectacle.
As participation.
This is our opportunity to explore what 1 Corinthians 14 would look like with music. Each bring a song. What would this look like?
The older brother, whose life experience had been shaped by some hard years. On his way to the gathering, he had thought about the old Kris Kristofferson song “Why Me Lord” all week:
Why me, Lord, what have I ever done
To deserve even one of the pleasures I’ve known?
Tell me, Lord, what did I ever do
That was worth lovin’ you or the kindness you’ve shown?
Lord help me, Jesus, I’ve wasted it
So help me, Jesus, I know what I am
But now that I know that I’ve needed you so
Help me, Jesus, my soul’s in your hand
Meanwhile, another had been singing a tune from a totally different style all week as she navigated a loss of friendship. A song that spoke to her pain, her confusion, her need for God’s presence in the midst of broken relationship.
There is no oversight of style. No oversight of genre. No oversight of talent. No oversight of singing voice.
Only the Spirit’s leading in his people.
And the millennial who has no earthly idea who Kristofferson is couldn’t care less about the genre. She is moved by her brother’s spirit. She readily identifies with the words. She sings aloud, embracing them as her own.
Because it’s not about the style. It’s not about the genre. It’s not about the talent. It’s not about the voice.
It’s about the Spirit speaking through one person, and the body responding. It’s about participation. It’s about mutuality. It’s about the body functioning as a body.
At the table, you do not watch worship. You participate in it—by serving, by sharing, by giving thanks, by bringing a song the Spirit has laid on your heart, by singing along when another brings theirs. You make melody with your heart, not with a sound system. At the table, worship is not a set. It is a way of life, presented as a living sacrifice, holy and acceptable to God.
That is worship.
And it requires no platform. No sound system. No professional. No performance. No style committee. No genre approval. No talent evaluation.
Only participation. Only presence. Only the Spirit leading his people. Only a life.
Presented to God.
At the table.
Where worship is not a performance.
But a way of life.
Ekklesia — The Table and Unity — knowing and being known.
This Is Not Unity - An Autopsy of Division
The Division We Accept
We have hundreds of denominations. Thousands of sects. Countless divisions. And we accept this as normal. As inevitable. As the natural result of people having different beliefs.
I’ve heard many talk about how this splintering is actually a beautiful thing to God. All of these expressions of him. Different flavors. Different styles. Different approaches. Each one revealing a different aspect of God’s character. Each one serving a different need. Each one reaching a different people.
It’s beautiful, they say. It’s diverse. It’s God’s design.
But is it?
Is division the natural result of disagreement? Or is it the result of systems that make division possible? Systems that make division necessary? Systems that make division profitable?
What if the question isn’t whether people will disagree. What if the question is: What happens when they do?
When you leave the table, disagreement becomes division. When you leave the table, you can abstract people into positions. You can label them. You can separate them. You can build walls between them.
The systems we’ve built create the conditions for division. They make it likely. They make it easy. In fact, they make it necessary.
And then we call it beautiful. We call it diverse. We call it God’s design.
But the New Testament calls it division. It calls it sin. It calls it the work of the flesh.
Division is not beautiful. It’s not diverse. It’s not God’s design.
It’s the result of systems that make division possible. Systems that create the conditions for division. Systems that make division easy.
Unity in the Division
Unity is a hot topic in the New Testament. Jesus prayed for it. Paul commanded it.
The apostles wrote about it constantly.
“I do not ask for these only, but also for those who will believe in me through their word, that they may all be one, just as you, Father, are in me, and I in you, that they also may be in us, so that the world may believe that you have sent me.” (John 17:20-21)
“I appeal to you, brothers, by the name of our Lord Jesus Christ, that all of you agree, and that there be no divisions among you, but that you be united in the same mind and the same judgment.” (1 Corinthians 1:10)
“There is one body and one Spirit—just as you were called to the one hope that belongs to your call—one Lord, one faith, one baptism, one God and Father of all, who is over all and through all and in all.” (Ephesians 4:4-6)
“Complete my joy by being of the same mind, having the same love, being in full accord and of one mind.” (Philippians 2:2)
“For as in one body we have many members, and the members do not all have the same function, so we, though many, are one body in Christ, and individually members one of another.” (Romans 12:4-5)
Unity is everywhere in the New Testament. It’s not optional. It’s essential.
But here’s the problem: We almost entirely only apply unity to the division we’ve already created. We talk about unity within our denomination. Unity within our church. Unity within our group.
We talk about unity in the division.
But the New Testament doesn’t talk about unity within division. It talks about unity that resists division. Unity that makes division difficult. Unity that is the natural result of being one body.
We’ve accepted division as normal. As inevitable. As the natural result of disagreement.
But the New Testament assumes unity. It commands unity. It makes unity the standard.
Not unity in division. Unity that prevents it.
Unity as a Weapon
But there’s something worse. Unity has become a coercive weapon used by the structure and the religious leader to preserve uniformity. Anything and anytime honest disagreement arises, the instinctive reaction is the mantra of unity, unity, unity. As if it is a heavy blunt object crushing the dissenter.
And within the system, the passive participants have been trained to become active in support of their leaders and chant unity, unity, unity. Shame. Guilt. Isolation. Division. All in the name of unity.
Unity becomes the weapon that silences dissent. Unity becomes the tool that enforces conformity. Unity becomes the mechanism that maintains control.
Disagree with the sermon? Unity. Question the professional? Unity. Challenge the system? Unity. Unity, unity, unity. As if unity means agreement. As if unity means uniformity. As if unity means silence.
The systems have co-opted the language of unity to enforce uniformity. They’ve weaponized it. They’ve turned it into a tool of control.
But look at how the New Testament describes unity. It’s about being one body. One Spirit. One hope. One Lord. One faith. One baptism. One God. The unity the New Testament commands is not uniformity. It’s not agreement on every detail. It’s being one body in Christ.
How the Systems Create Division
The sermon creates division. One voice speaks. Many listen. The voice becomes authoritative. The voice becomes the standard. Disagree with the voice, and you disagree with the church. The sermon creates a center that must be defended. A position that must be maintained. A unity that is fragile because it depends on agreement with one voice.
The profession creates division. Professional ministers become gatekeepers. They define orthodoxy. They enforce boundaries. They create insiders and outsiders. Disagree with the professional, and you’re outside. The profession creates hierarchy that requires division. Authority that requires submission. Unity that is
conditional on agreement with the professional.
Membership creates division. Formal membership creates insiders and outsiders. Those who belong and those who don’t. Those who agree and those who don’t. Membership creates boundaries that must be defended. Unity that is exclusive. Division that is institutionalized.
Buildings create division. Buildings create places to separate. Rooms to divide. Spaces to exclude. Buildings create physical boundaries that reinforce spiritual ones. Unity that is location-based. Division that is architectural.
The economy creates division. The economy creates us and them. Those who give and those who don’t. Those who support and those who don’t. The economy creates financial boundaries. Unity that is transactional. Division that is economic.
Worship creates division. Worship creates performers and audience. Those who lead and those who follow. Those who participate and those who watch. Worship creates aesthetic boundaries. Unity that is performative. Division that is cultural.
Ministry creates division. Programs separate the body. Children here. Youth there. Men here. Women there. Ministry creates demographic boundaries. Unity that is programmatic. Division that is structural.
Each system creates division. Each system requires it. Each system makes it necessary.
How Unity Fits the Tangled System
By now, the pattern should be clear. Division is not an accident. It’s not inevitable. It’s not natural.
It’s structural.
The systems we’ve built create the conditions for division. They make it likely. They make it easy. In fact, they make it necessary.
Accept the table, and you accept limits. Accept limits, and you reject the monopolized sermon. Reject the sermon, and you reject the professional. Reject the professional, and you reject membership. Reject membership, and you reject the building. Reject the building, and you reject the economy. Reject the economy, and you reject the performance model of worship. Reject the performance model, and you reject programmatic ministry.
But what about unity?
The systems create the conditions for division. They make it likely. They make it easy. In fact, they make it necessary. But if you’ve accepted the table, you’ve accepted limits. You’ve accepted presence. You’ve accepted relationship.
And at the table, division is difficult. It’s unlikely. It’s resisted.
The systems create division. The table creates unity.
Not through agreement. Not through uniformity. Not through conformity.
Through presence. Through relationship. Through knowing and being known.
Each part depends on the others. Division is not isolated. It’s part of the system. And the system is one tangled ball. Pull one strand, and the whole thing tightens. Which is why reform always fails. And why only return works.
The Necessary Distinctions
Now, let’s address the obvious objections. And these are not minor concerns. These are serious questions. Legitimate challenges. The kind that could undermine the entire argument if left unanswered.
Are you saying that in your fairy land of table, they are homogeneous? No distinctives? No differences? That the table in São Paulo, Brazil will be precisely the same as the one in San Antonio, Texas?
And what about beliefs? Are you saying there are no beliefs that separate the table? That the one at table who says, “I’m convinced that the resurrection is simply a metaphor for living a better life,” that we just keep eating?
And who decides what’s essential and what’s secondary? Isn’t this the very reason why there are denominations? One group differed on what’s essential. Another group differed on what’s essential. And now we have hundreds of denominations, each one convinced that their definition of “essential” is the right one.
These are legitimate concerns. Honest questions. Serious objections.
And I will attempt to answer them in what follows. Not with a rulebook. Not with a policy. Not with an institutional declaration. But with how the table actually works. How presence actually functions. How relationship actually handles these things.
But here’s what I believe: The splitting and how it happens necessarily presupposes systems to enable and empower them. The table doesn’t eliminate the questions. It changes how they’re answered.
The Table and Unity
So we return to the table. Not as a sacred object. As a place of one anothering. Knowing and being known.
This is where we began. The first article examined the table. This one returns to it. Full circle.
The table preserves unity.
At the table, when someone says, “I’m not sure that 1,000 years is literal,” what happens? Do the others throw them out? Do they create a new table? Do they divide?
Or do they keep eating together? Keep talking. Keep listening. Keep knowing and being known.
Because at the table, the person matters more than the position. The relationship matters more than the agreement. The presence matters more than the doctrine.
The table doesn’t eliminate differences. It preserves them within relationship. The table in São Paulo will have Brazilian food, Brazilian culture, Brazilian expressions. The table in San Antonio will have Texan food, Texan culture, Texan expressions. They will be different. They will be distinct. They will reflect their context.
But more than that, the table accommodates different understandings. Different ways of reading Scripture. Different theological emphases. Different expressions of faith. Different experiences of God. Different questions. Different struggles. Different gifts. Different perspectives.
The table doesn’t require uniformity. It doesn’t require agreement on every detail. It doesn’t require the same understanding of every passage. It doesn’t require the same theological framework. It doesn’t require the same expression of faith.
But they will be one body. Not because they’re the same. Because they’re united in Christ. Because they’re present with one another. Because they’re in relationship.
The table doesn’t create uniformity. It creates unity. Not through sameness. Through presence. Through relationship. Through knowing and being known.
This doesn’t mean tables in different places are somehow magically connected. A table in São Paulo and a table in San Antonio are separate gatherings. But they’re both part of the same body—the body of Christ—not because they’re in the same building or under the same institution, but because they’re both gathered around the same table, in the same way, with the same presence, the same relationship, the same knowing and being known.
Think about dinner with friends. What would someone have to say? What lengths would they have to go to? What insane utterance would they need to make for the group to cast them out?
It would take something extreme. Something that fundamentally breaks relationship. Something that makes continued presence impossible. Something genuinely harmful or dangerous.
And even then, in ongoing relationship, there would be a knowing. A knowing that says, “This isn’t like Jason. Let’s not react. Let’s wait and see what’s happening. We have time. We’re family. We don’t have to issue proclamations.”
The table creates that knowing. That patience. That time. That family.
The table doesn’t eliminate the possibility of necessary separation. But it makes that separation relational, not institutional. It makes it known through presence, not declared through policy.
Obviously, I can’t spell out every kind of disagreement. I can’t tell you how to determine if it’s trivial or actually hazardous to the very nature of the table. These are the kinds of things I generally think that God’s people, indwelt by God’s Spirit, in relationship with other believers, are well equipped to discern and handle.
And the New Testament seems to bear that out.
“But the anointing that you received from him abides in you, and you have no need that anyone should teach you. But as his anointing teaches you about everything, and is true, and is no lie—just as it has taught you, abide in him.” (1 John 2:27)
“For who has understood the mind of the Lord so as to instruct him? But we have the mind of Christ.” (1 Corinthians 2:16)
“If any of you lacks wisdom, let him ask God, who gives generously to all without reproach, and it will be given him.” (James 1:5)
The Spirit indwells God’s people. The body has the mind of Christ. Wisdom is available. Not through institutional policy. Not through professional declaration. Through the Spirit. Through relationship. Through presence.
At the table, when someone says something concerning, you don’t immediately divide. You talk. You listen. You ask questions. You share your conviction. You bear witness. You pray. You continue in relationship.
Because at the table, the person matters more than the position. The relationship matters more than the agreement. The presence matters more than the doctrine.
And because you know them. You’ve eaten with them. You’ve talked with them. You’ve been present with them. You have time. You’re family. You don’t have to issue proclamations.
But in the systems, you don’t know them. You haven’t eaten with them. You haven’t talked with them. You haven’t been present with them. You don’t have time. You’re not family. You have to issue proclamations.
The systems make division easy because they make relationship difficult. They make abstraction easy because they make presence difficult. They make proclamation easy because they make patience difficult.
The table makes division difficult because it makes relationship easy. It makes abstraction difficult because it makes presence easy. It makes proclamation difficult because it makes patience easy.
The table requires presence. The table requires limits. The table requires face-to-face relationship. The table makes division difficult because you can’t abstract someone into a position when you’re eating with them.
The table creates unity not through agreement, but through presence. Not through uniformity, but through relationship. Not through conformity, but through knowing and being known.
But at the table, unity is not a weapon. It’s not a tool. It’s not a mechanism. It’s presence. It’s relationship. It’s knowing and being known. And it can’t be weaponized. Because it can’t be coerced. Because it can’t be enforced. It can only be experienced. Through presence. Through relationship. Through knowing and
being known.
This doesn’t mean the table eliminates all disagreement. It doesn’t mean people at the table will always agree. It doesn’t mean the table is a magic solution that makes all problems disappear. But it does mean that when disagreement arises, it’s handled relationally. Face-to-face. With presence. With time. With patience. With knowing and being known.
And yes, there may come a point where someone’s beliefs or behavior make continued presence impossible. But that point is discovered through relationship, not declared through institution. It’s known through presence, not decided through policy.
The New Testament assumes unity. The table preserves it.
Not by eliminating disagreement. By making it manageable. By making it relational. By making it secondary to presence.
What if they’d never left the table? What if, when disagreement arose—over the millennium, baptism, spiritual gifts, end times, or any number of other issues—they’d stayed at the table? What if they’d kept eating together? Kept talking. Kept listening. Kept knowing and being known.
Would we have hundreds of denominations? Thousands of sects? Countless divisions?
We can’t know for certain. History is what it is. But we can observe this: The table makes division difficult. It requires presence. It requires relationship. It requires knowing and being known. The systems we’ve built make division easy. They create the conditions for division. They make it likely. But the table? The table
makes division difficult. It makes it unlikely. It resists it.
The table is where unity becomes visible. Not as agreement. Not as uniformity. Not as conformity.
As presence.
At the table, unity is not agreement. It’s presence. It’s relationship. It’s knowing and being known.
And it requires no system. No structure. No division.
Only presence. Only relationship. Only the table.
Where unity is not agreement.
But presence.
Ekklesia — The Table — the essence.
This Is the Table - What Remains When the Traditions Are Stripped Away
I’ve done the best I can to remove all the paint and varnish from this table.
The one I found at that yard sale. The ridiculous-looking one with legs removed, covered in layers of paint and decoupage. The one I flipped over to discover beautiful walnut wood underneath.
It took months. The table sat in my garage, legs removed, waiting. I’d work on it in the evenings, on weekends, whenever I could find time. The process was slow. Deliberate. Sometimes frustrating.
First came the chemical stripper. Thick, toxic stuff that smelled like a chemistry lab. I’d brush it on, wait for it to bubble and lift, then scrape away layer after layer. White paint. Blue paint. Yellow paint. Each one revealing another underneath. The decoupage came off in chunks—butterflies, ducks, flowers, all that decorative nonsense that someone thought would make it beautiful.
But the paint wasn’t the worst part. The varnish was. Multiple coats of it, each one harder than the last. Some areas had been varnished so many times that the stripper barely touched it. I’d apply it, wait, scrape, apply again, wait, scrape. Over and over. The same spot. The same stubborn layer.
Then came the sanding. Hours of it. Days of it. I started with coarse grit—60, then 80, then 120. The orbital sander humming, dust everywhere, my arms aching. I’d sand until I thought I was done, then flip it over, see another spot I’d missed, sand some more. Then move to finer grits—150, 220, 320. Each pass revealing more of the grain, more of what was underneath.
I used steel wool for the tight corners the sander couldn’t reach. My fingers cramped. My back hurt. But I kept going because every time I removed another layer, I saw more of what was actually there.
The tools accumulated. Stripper. Scrapers of different sizes. Sandpaper in every grit. Steel wool. Rags. Mineral spirits. Tack cloths. A shop vac to clean up the mess. A respirator because the dust and fumes were no joke.
And the mess. Oh, the mess. Paint chips everywhere. Dust coating everything. Stripper drips on the concrete floor. Rags soaked in chemicals. The garage looked like a disaster zone.
But slowly, methodically, layer by layer, the junk came off. The paint. The varnish. The decoupage. All of it. Gone.
And underneath? Beautiful walnut wood. Rich grain. Deep color. The kind of wood that shows its age in the most beautiful way. The kind of wood that tells a story. The kind of wood that was meant to be seen, not hidden under layers of paint and decoupage and varnish.
The real thing.
I’m done talking about what it’s not. I’m done scraping away the layers. I’m done with the autopsy.
It’s dead. We know why. We’ve examined it. We’ve named it. We’ve traced its parts and understood how they worked together to create something that looked alive but wasn’t.
But now—life.
We are now, expectantly and with hope, focused singularly on what it is, what it should be, what it can be.
What Do We Call It?
I’ve been calling it “the table” throughout these articles. It’s a metaphor. A picture. A way of talking about something that’s hard to name.
But I’ve also used the word “ekklesia.” Not to be pretentious with Greek. Not to sound scholarly. But because it’s the actual word the New Testament uses, and it hasn’t been corrupted by two thousand years of institutional baggage the way “church” has.
Ekklesia (pronounced ek-klay-see-uh, or if that’s new to you, just think “ek-lee-see-uh”) means “called-out ones.” A people called together. Not a place. Not an institution. A people.
But here’s the thing: The name doesn’t matter. Not really.
You can call it “ekklesia” if that helps. You can call it “the table” if that picture works. You can reclaim the word “church” after emptying it of its baggage. You can call it “gathering” or “assembly” or “community” or any number of other words.
What matters is what the thing is.
Not what it’s called. Not what it looks like. Not how it’s structured. Not what system it follows.
What it is.
So I’ll keep calling it “the table.” Not because I’m anchoring you to a specific location or piece of furniture. The table is a shortcut. A way to express the idea. A picture that captures what ekklesia actually is—a place of presence, relationship, mutual participation, knowing and being known.
Throughout this series, I’ve held out the table as the way forward. It’s been the consistent image. The accessible metaphor. The thing that makes sense when all the systems don’t. So I’ll stick with it here.
But know that when I say “the table,” I mean ekklesia. The called-out ones. God’s gathered people. The body of Christ. The household of God. All of it.
And what it is cannot be prescribed. It cannot be systematized. It cannot be institutionalized.
It is God’s work done by the Spirit in God’s gathered people.
What the Table Is
The New Testament doesn’t leave us guessing. It tells us what ekklesia is—and when I say “the table,” this is what I mean.
Jesus said, “I will build my ekklesia” (Matthew 16:18). Not “I will build my institution” or “I will build my organization.” His ekklesia. Something he builds. Something that belongs to him.
Paul called it “the ekklesia of God, which he obtained with his own blood” (Acts 20:28). Not something we create. Not something we own. Something God purchased. Something God possesses.
The New Testament describes ekklesia in multiple ways, each one revealing something essential:
Ekklesia is the body of Christ. “For just as the body is one and has many members, and all the members of the body, though many, are one body, so it is with Christ” (1 Corinthians 12:12). “And he is the head of the body, the ekklesia” (Colossians 1:18). Christ is the head. The ekklesia is the body. Not a building. Not an institution. A body. With many members. Each one necessary. Each one connected. Each one functioning.
Ekklesia is the household of God. “So then you are no longer strangers and aliens, but you are fellow citizens with the saints and members of the household of God” (Ephesians 2:19). Not a corporation. Not a business. A household. A family. Fellow citizens. Members of a household.
Ekklesia is God’s temple. “Do you not know that you are God’s temple and that God’s Spirit dwells in you?” (1 Corinthians 3:16). “In him you also are being built together into a dwelling place for God by the Spirit” (Ephesians 2:22). Not a building made of stone. A temple made of people. God’s Spirit dwelling in his people. The people themselves are the dwelling place.
Ekklesia is the bride of Christ. “Christ loved the ekklesia and gave himself up for her” (Ephesians 5:25). Not an organization to be managed. A bride to be loved. Christ’s sacrifice. Christ’s beloved.
Ekklesia is a royal priesthood. “But you are a chosen race, a royal priesthood, a holy nation, a people for his own possession” (1 Peter 2:9). Not a class of religious professionals. A priesthood of all believers. All chosen. All royal. All holy. All God’s possession.
Ekklesia is Spirit-indwelt. “God’s Spirit dwells in you” (1 Corinthians 3:16). Not in a building. In you. In his people. “You are being built together into a dwelling place for God by the Spirit” (Ephesians 2:22). Built together. By the Spirit. A dwelling place for God.
The Spirit manifests in each member. “To each is given the manifestation of the Spirit for the common good” (1 Corinthians 12:7). Each given. The Spirit manifesting. For the common good.
The Spirit teaches. “The anointing that you received from him abides in you, and you have no need that anyone should teach you” (1 John 2:27). Not just human teachers. The Spirit. “We have the mind of Christ” (1 Corinthians 2:16). Not through human wisdom. Through the Spirit. The mind of Christ.
These aren’t metaphors we can spiritualize away. They’re descriptions of what ekklesia actually is. A body. A household. A temple. A bride. A priesthood. Spirit-indwelt. Spirit-taught. Spirit-empowered. All of these, together, showing us what God’s gathered people are.
And this body has many members. “For just as the body is one and has many members, and all the members of the body, though many, are one body, so it is with Christ” (1 Corinthians 12:12). One body. Many members. Not uniform members. Different. Distinct. But one. “For as in one body we have many members, and the members do not all have the same function, so we, though many, are one body in Christ, and individually members one of another” (Romans 12:4-5). Many members. Different functions. One body. Members of one another.
“The eye cannot say to the hand, ‘I have no need of you,’ nor again the head to the feet, ‘I have no need of you.’ On the contrary, the parts of the body that seem to be weaker are indispensable” (1 Corinthians 12:21-22). No member unnecessary. No member dispensable. All needed. All important. “If one member suffers, all suffer together; if one member is honored, all rejoice together” (1 Corinthians 12:26). Connected. Interdependent. When one suffers, all suffer. When one rejoices, all rejoice. This is how a body functions.
“Now you are the body of Christ and individually members of it” (1 Corinthians 12:27). You are the body. Not you will be. Not you should be. You are. Now. The body of Christ.
So if the table is a body, a household, a temple, a bride, a priesthood—how does it actually function?
How the Table Functions
The New Testament shows us how ekklesia gathered and functioned. Not as a suggestion. Not as an ideal. As a pattern. As what actually happened.
“They devoted themselves to the apostles’ teaching and the fellowship, to the breaking of bread and the prayers” (Acts 2:42). Teaching. Fellowship. Breaking bread. Prayers. Together. Devoted. Not occasional. Not optional. Central.
“And day by day, attending the temple together and breaking bread in their homes, they received their food with glad and generous hearts” (Acts 2:46). Day by day. In their homes. Breaking bread. Glad and generous hearts. Not once a week. Not in a special building. Daily. In homes. Around tables.
This is how the table gathered. This is the pattern. Not because it was commanded in a formula, but because this is what naturally emerged when God’s people gathered. This is what happened. This is what worked. This is what the Spirit produced.
Paul described it this way: “When you come together, each one has a hymn, a lesson, a revelation, a tongue, or an interpretation. Let all things be done for building up” (1 Corinthians 14:26). Each one has something. Each one brings something. Each one participates. Not one person performing. Not everyone watching. Everyone participating. Everyone building up.
“You can all prophesy one by one, so that all may learn and all be encouraged” (1 Corinthians 14:31). All can participate. All can learn. All can be encouraged. “All things should be done decently and in order” (1 Corinthians 14:40). Order. But not control. Decency. But not passivity. Structure. But not hierarchy.
When ekklesia gathers, everyone has a face. Everyone has a voice. Everyone has a place.
When someone says, “I’m not sure that 1,000 years is literal,” what happens? Do the others throw them out? Do they create a new gathering? Do they divide? Or do they keep eating together? Keep talking. Keep listening. Keep knowing and being known.
Because at the table, the person matters more than the position. The relationship matters more than the agreement. The presence matters more than the doctrine. But this doesn’t mean anything goes. The table handles disagreement relationally. When someone says something concerning, you don’t immediately divide. You talk. You listen. You ask questions. You share your conviction. You bear witness. You pray. You continue in relationship. You give time. You give space. You give grace.
Because at the table, you have time. You have relationship. You have presence. You can discern together. You can wait. You can see if this is a momentary confusion or a fundamental departure. You can discover what’s actually happening rather than reacting to a position.
Obviously, I can’t spell out every kind of disagreement. I can’t tell you how to determine if it’s trivial or actually hazardous to the very nature of the table. These are the kinds of things I generally think that God’s people, indwelt by God’s Spirit, in relationship with other believers, are well equipped to discern and handle. “The anointing that you received from him abides in you, and you have no need that anyone should teach you” (1 John 2:27). “We have the mind of Christ” (1 Corinthians 2:16). “If any of you lacks wisdom, let him ask God, who gives generously to all without reproach” (James 1:5).
God’s people, indwelt by the Spirit, in relationship with one another, are equipped to discern. Not perfectly. Not infallibly. But relationally. In presence. Together. When someone opens the text, it’s not because it is their assignment, but because it has been living in them all week. Another pauses the reading and asks a question no sermon would allow. Someone else says, “I don’t know,” and the room does not panic.
The Scriptures are not mishandled. They are handled together. Not because there’s no one qualified to teach, but because teaching happens through the body. “And he gave the apostles, the prophets, the evangelists, the shepherds and teachers, to equip the saints for the work of ministry, for building up the body of Christ” (Ephesians 4:11-12). Teachers equip. The body builds itself up. Not one person teaching everyone. The body teaching itself.
Memory surfaces. Another passage is recalled. A lived experience reframes a word. Someone senses a dissonance with Christ’s character, and the room slows down. Someone else, known for their understanding of Scripture, speaks with weight. Not because they have a title. Because they have demonstrated wisdom. Because the body recognizes their gift.
Understanding does not arrive polished. It accumulates.
This is not chaos. It is communal discernment.
What forms here is slower, but sturdier. Less impressive, but harder to manipulate.
And when decisions need to be made, when guidance is needed, when care must be coordinated, the table has elders. Not as a separate class. Not as professionals. As those recognized by the body for their character, wisdom, and maturity. “Let the elders who rule well be considered worthy of double honor” (1 Timothy 5:17). “Appoint elders in every town” (Titus 1:5). “Shepherd the flock of God that is among you” (1 Peter 5:2). Elders. Plural. Recognized by the body. Serving the body. Not ruling over it, but serving it. “Not domineering over those in your charge, but being examples to the flock” (1 Peter 5:3).
The table has structure. It has order. It has those who serve. But it’s the structure of relationship. The order of presence. The service of the body. Not the structure of systems. Not the order of control. Not the hierarchy of positions.
When someone brings a song, there is no oversight of style, genre, talent, or singing voice. Only the Spirit’s leading in his people.
This participatory gathering creates something specific: mutual care. The New Testament is filled with “one another” commands. Not “one to another.” Not “some to others.” One another. Mutual. Reciprocal. All to all.
“Love one another. Just as I have loved you, you also are to love one another. By this all people will know that you are my disciples” (John 13:34-35). This is how the world knows. Not by our buildings. Not by our programs. By our love for one another.
Through that love, we serve one another (Galatians 5:13). We bear one another’s burdens (Galatians 6:2). We encourage and build one another up (1 Thessalonians 5:11). Not serving the institution. Not serving the program. Serving one another.
We confess our sins to one another and pray for one another (James 5:16). We show hospitality without grumbling (1 Peter 4:9). We teach and admonish one another in all wisdom (Colossians 3:16). We speak the truth in love (Ephesians 4:15). Not one person teaching everyone. Not hiding. Not pretending. One another teaching one another. One another knowing and being known.
These “one another” commands aren’t just individual ethics. They’re how the body functions. They’re the pattern of ekklesia. They’re what happens when God’s people gather. Not as programs. Not as assignments. As the natural expression of the body. As what emerges when people are present with one another. As what the Spirit produces in his people.
This is how the table functions. Not through hierarchy. Not through programs. Through one another. Through mutual love. Through mutual service. Through mutual care. Through the body functioning as a body.
And this mutual care extends to material needs. “And all who believed were together and had all things in common. And they were selling their possessions and belongings and distributing the proceeds to all, as any had need” (Acts 2:44- 45). Together. All things in common. Distributing to those in need. Not a program.
Not a budget. Mutual aid. Response to need.
“If anyone has the world’s goods and sees his brother in need, yet closes his heart against him, how does God’s love abide in him?” (1 John 3:17). “Do not neglect to do good and to share what you have” (Hebrews 13:16). “Bear one another’s burdens, and so fulfill the law of Christ” (Galatians 6:2).
Giving is not an obligation. It is a response. A response to need you can see. A response to people you know. A response to situations you understand. Not a response to a budget. Not a response to a campaign. Not a response to an institution.
A response to need.
This is not an economy. This is mutual aid. This is the body functioning. This is the New Testament pattern.
What the Table Requires
The table requires presence. The table requires limits. The table requires face-to-face relationship.
The table makes division difficult because it makes relationship easy. It makes abstraction difficult because it makes presence easy. It makes proclamation difficult because it makes patience easy.
The table requires presence because you can’t abstract someone into a position when you’re eating with them.
The table requires limits because you can’t manage hundreds or thousands of people at a table. You can’t orchestrate their participation. You can’t control their contributions.
The table requires relationship because that’s how needs are known. That’s how care is given. That’s how the body functions.
The New Testament shows ekklesia meeting in homes. “The ekklesia in their house” (Romans 16:5). “The ekklesia in her house” (Colossians 4:15). “The ekklesia in your house” (Philemon 1:2). Not in special buildings. In homes. Around tables. In presence. In relationship.
This body, this household, this temple—it creates something specific.
What the Table Creates
The table creates unity.
The table doesn’t eliminate differences. It preserves them within relationship. The table in different places will reflect different contexts, different cultures, different expressions. They will be different. They will be distinct. They will reflect where they are and who they are.
But more than that, the table accommodates faithful differences. Different ways of reading Scripture—some emphasizing literal interpretation, others seeing types and shadows, all seeking to understand God’s word. Different theological emphases—some focusing on God’s sovereignty, others on human responsibility, both true, both needed.
Different expressions of faith—some more expressive, others more contemplative, both valid. Different experiences of God—some through suffering, others through joy, both real. Different questions—some wrestling with doubt, others with certainty, both welcome. Different struggles—some with sin, others with suffering, both met with grace.
Different gifts—some teaching, others serving, others encouraging, all needed. Different perspectives—shaped by different lives, different stories, different journeys, all valuable.
These differences don’t mean unfaithfulness. They mean the body is functioning. They mean the Spirit is working through different people in different ways. They mean the table is big enough, flexible enough, relational enough to hold them all. The table doesn’t require uniformity. It doesn’t require agreement on every detail. It doesn’t require the same understanding of every passage. It doesn’t require the same theological framework.
The table doesn’t create uniformity. It creates unity. Not through sameness. Through presence. Through relationship. Through knowing and being known.
This doesn’t mean there are no essentials. It doesn’t mean anything goes. The essentials are established in Scripture—the gospel, the deity of Christ, the resurrection, the authority of Scripture. But at the table, these essentials are recognized and affirmed relationally, not enforced institutionally. When someone fundamentally denies the resurrection, or rejects Christ’s deity, or abandons the gospel—these things become clear in relationship. In presence. In conversation. Over time. Not through a doctrinal statement. Not through a membership test. Through knowing and being known.
But let’s be honest—most disagreements aren’t that. Most disagreements are about how to read a passage, or what emphasis to place on a doctrine, or how to apply a principle. And at the table, these can be held in tension. They can be discussed. They can be lived with. Because the person matters more than the position. The relationship matters more than the agreement.
Jesus prayed for this: “that they may all be one, just as you, Father, are in me, and I in you, that they also may be in us, so that the world may believe that you have sent me” (John 17:21). Unity. Not uniformity. Oneness. Not sameness. So the world may believe.
Paul pleaded for it: “I appeal to you, brothers, by the name of our Lord Jesus Christ, that all of you agree, and that there be no divisions among you, but that you be united in the same mind and the same judgment” (1 Corinthians 1:10). No divisions. United. Same mind. Same judgment.
“Maintain the unity of the Spirit in the bond of peace. There is one body and one Spirit—just as you were called to the one hope that belongs to your call—one Lord, one faith, one baptism, one God and Father of all” (Ephesians 4:3-6). One body. One Spirit. One hope. One Lord. One faith. One baptism. One God. Unity in diversity.
The table creates mutual aid. The body functioning. Needs met. Burdens shared. Care given. Not through budgets. Not through campaigns. Through seeing need. Through sharing. Through bearing burdens.
The table preserves what the traditions obscure. Presence elevates what the traditions displace. Relationship maintains what the traditions destroy.
What the Table Replaces
The table is the participatory feast, not the institutional ritual. The table is where each one brings something, not one voice monopolizing. The table is where the body functions, not a professional class.
The table is relational belonging, not institutional gatekeeping. The table is where God dwells in his people, not in buildings. The table is where needs are met directly, not through institutional budgets.
The table is participatory music, not performance. The table is relational care, not programs. The table is where unity is preserved through presence, not division through systems.
This is what Jesus meant when he warned against “the traditions of men.” Not that traditions are inherently wrong, but that they obscure what matters. They elevate what shouldn’t be elevated. They displace what should be central.
The table is what remains when those traditions are stripped away. It’s what was there all along. It’s the pattern the New Testament describes. It’s what the Spirit produces when God’s people gather in presence, in relationship, in mutual participation.
Not through systems. Not through structures. Not through institutions.
Through the table.
What This Is
This is God’s work done by the Spirit in God’s gathered people.
This is the pattern established in the New Testament.
This is presence. This is relationship. This is mutual participation.
This is the table.
This is ekklesia.
This is what remains when the traditions are stripped away. This is what was there all along. This is what the traditions obscured and displaced.
This is the real thing.
The Invitation
If you hold out hope that God has something different for his people, then I’d like to ask you to consider: What would you have to strip away of your own deeply held and passed down traditions? And what might they have been obscuring for so long?
Ekklesia is not a formula. It’s not a blueprint. It’s not a model to replicate.
It’s a place. A presence. A relationship. A knowing and being known.
It’s what God’s people do when they gather. When they eat. When they share life. When they bear one another’s burdens. When they speak truth in love. When they encourage one another. When they build one another up.
It’s what happens when the Spirit works through his people, not through programs and hierarchies.
And that’s enough.
Ekklesia — The Ministry — the function.
The Table Without the Professional
When spiritual care is salaried, the body learns to outsource responsibility, and the professional is pressured to manage rather than belong.
Sit twelve believers down.
No stage. No title. No paycheck.
Eat. Pray. Listen. Speak. Bear one another’s weight.
Do not imagine absence as loss.
Imagine presence.
Someone opens the text, not because it is their assignment, but because it has been living in them all week.
Another pauses the reading and asks a question no sermon would allow.
Someone else says, “I don’t know,” and the room does not panic.
There is no expert guarding the interpretation.
And yet the Scriptures are not mishandled.
They are handled together.
Memory surfaces.
Another passage is recalled.
A lived experience reframes a word.
Someone senses a dissonance with Christ’s character, and the room slows down.
Understanding does not arrive polished.
It accumulates.
This is not chaos.
It is communal discernment.
What forms here is slower, but sturdier.
Less impressive, but harder to manipulate.
Authority does not come from credentials.
It emerges from faithfulness, coherence, humility, and shared submission to Christ.
Nothing here depends on a professional.
Only on presence.
At the table, you quickly notice something else.
Certain people speak, and the room changes.
Not because they are eloquent.
Not because they are confident.
But because when they speak, things clarify.
Scripture opens.
Tension eases.
Christ becomes visible.
The room listens.
But here is the critical difference.
Listening does not become deferring.
No title is conferred.
No role is assigned.
No expectation is set that this person must now carry the weight every time.
What is recognized is not the person, but the gift in that moment.
And the room knows this intuitively.
Because who is to say that the life experience that sharpened this brother’s insight today will be the same experience the body needs two weeks from now?
Next time, another voice opens Scripture.
Another story illuminates the text.
Another set of wounds and faithfulness brings clarity.
Teaching emerges situationally, not permanently.
Speaking remains fluid.
Listening remains discerning.
No one becomes the resident meaning-maker.
This is how the body stays awake.
Nothing here requires formalization.
Because the moment recognition turns into office, the table begins to tilt.
The moment we say, “We should probably let you handle this from now on,” we have quietly rebuilt the stage.
The body senses this danger long before it can articulate it.
So it resists instinctively.
Not by suspicion.
But by participation.
Everyone remains responsible.
Everyone remains interruptible.
Everyone remains capable of being wrong.
You cannot guarantee outcomes.
You cannot script the arc.
You cannot measure participation with attendance alone.
You must trust:
- that the Spirit actually teaches
- that truth can survive conversation
- that Christ does not require a weekly mouthpiece
Institutions solve for predictability.
The table solves for faithfulness.
Here’s what happens over time.
People grow articulate.
Quiet voices strengthen.
Confidence stops being confused with gifting.
Discernment becomes communal muscle memory.
And drift, when it appears, is met early, gently, and publicly—not after it has hardened into doctrine.
So return to the table.
Always the table.
Sit twelve believers down.
Remove the paycheck.
Remove the stage.
Remove the title.
Let the Spirit speak.
If the arrangement collapses without money, it was never a vocation.
It was a profession pretending to be a calling.
But if it flourishes?
Then you have found something that was always meant to be.
Excerpt from: This Is Not a Profession An Autopsy of Professionalized Ministry.pdf
The New Testament gives us its clearest window into early assemblies in places like 1 Corinthians 14.
Paul does not describe a vibe. He describes a structure.
“When you come together, each one of you has a hymn, a word, a revelation, atongue, an interpretation.”
“You may all prophesy one by one, so that all may learn and all be encouraged.”
This is not chaos.
It is not anarchy.
It is not a free-for-all.
It is participation governed by love and mutual upbuilding.
The modern sermon replaces that with managed speech.
One voice.
One perspective.
One approved channel of meaning.
Everyone else receives, evaluates, and goes home.
The sermon does not merely exist within the gathering. It organizes the gathering around itself.
Time is structured for it.
Space is arranged for it.
Silence is enforced for it.
One voice occupies the majority of the assembly’s attention while the gifts, insights, questions, confessions, and exhortations of the body are structurally excluded.
Not because people have nothing to offer.
But because the form cannot tolerate it.
The meeting is no longer built around Christ expressed through the body. It is built around a talk about Christ delivered to the body.
Those are not the same thing.
Sermons require things.
Credentials.
Training.
Permission.
A platform.
And once those are required, a line is drawn.
Some speak.
Most do not.
Some prepare the Word.
Most consume it.
We may still affirm the priesthood of all believers with our mouths, but the architecture of our gatherings denies it every week.
A body trained this way cannot suddenly become mature.
It has been taught to sit still.
Week after week, believers are trained to:
Listen.
Receive.
Evaluate.
Leave.
They are not trained to speak carefully.
To weigh one another’s words.
To disagree faithfully.
To carry spiritual responsibility for one another.
The sermon produces spectators, not participants.
And spectators eventually confuse attendance with obedience.
Ekklesia — The Ministry — the problem of scale.
This Is Not Ministry - An Autopsy of Program-Driven Church Life
Over the two prominent church structures I’ve participated in, I’ve done it all. Deacon. Worship team. Benevolence. Bus captain (that’s an entirely different article). Children’s church pastor. Teen Sunday school teacher. Adult Sunday school teacher. Care group leader. Adult education committee. Men’s ministry leader. And no doubt many others I can’t or choose not to remember.
However you want to slice or dice up people into demographic groups, I’ve seen it and participated in it. The silos in which we divide people up is staggering. As is the expectation that when we toss all of these people back together, we’re confused that they do not talk to or relate to one another.
In my business, this makes perfect sense to me. I’m a software engineer by trade. One thing that has fascinated me is the difference between large and small organizations.
Large organizations, by necessity, create all kinds of technical silos. Security team. Data operations. DevOps. IT. Development. Architecture. What I’ve witnessed is that a natural kind of antipathy develops between the groups. A tribalism. A “they just don’t get it like we do” kind of vibe.
I presently work for a startup and am in a situation to be able to build out a multidisciplinary team of engineers. Rather than offload specialties to one person, I’m intentionally looking for people who know a little about a lot of stuff we need, while realizing that they tend to excel in one area. And as we gather as a team to solve problems, that doesn’t mean that the engineer with a stronger architecture leaning tells everyone how it’s going to be. We just naturally solve our problems as a team, looking for some direction in the group from the person who seems to demonstrate a gifting in that area, while the others probe, ask questions, and refine their own skills in that area.
The difference is not just size. It’s structure. It’s how we organize. It’s what we create when we divide.
The Program Model
Modern ministry is built on programs. Children’s ministry. Youth ministry. Men’s ministry. Women’s ministry. Discipleship programs. Evangelism programs. Small groups. Bible studies. Outreach programs. Recovery programs.
Each with its own curriculum, schedule, leader, budget, space, and materials.
Now, you might ask: Can’t there be a relational program?
The answer is: Not really.
Programs have structure. They have schedules. They have curriculum. They have designated leaders, spaces, and times. Relationship is organic. It responds to need. It emerges from presence. It happens when it happens. It doesn’t follow a schedule or curriculum. It doesn’t require a designated leader or space.
When you structure relationship, you’ve created something else. You’ve created a program. And programs, by their nature, replace organic relationship with structured interaction. They replace presence with schedule, response with curriculum, mutuality with designated roles.
Each program claims to build relationships. And within the program structure, relationships do form. But the structure itself determines the kind of relationship. Program-based relationships serve the program. They fit the schedule. They follow the curriculum. They maintain the structure. But relationship, in the New Testament sense, serves the need. It responds to presence. It emerges from the body. It doesn’t require a program to exist.
Ministry becomes programmatic. Not because programs are inherently evil, but because programs, by their structure, cannot be relational in the way the New Testament describes. Programs are scheduled; relationship is organic. Programs are structured; relationship is situational. Programs are curriculum-driven; relationship is need-driven.
These are incompatible.
The Necessary Acknowledgment
Now, let’s acknowledge something important.
Just because something does not appear in Scripture doesn’t make it bad in and of itself. Electricity doesn’t appear in Scripture. Driving to a gathering doesn’t appear in Scripture. These aren’t bad.
Creating age-specific events doesn’t have to be bad intrinsically. The question is not whether age-specific events are mentioned in Scripture.
The question is: What do programs do to the table? What do they do to the normal means of grace? What do they do to ekklesia? What do they do to following Jesus?
Programs are structured by design. They have schedules, curriculum, designated leaders, designated spaces, designated times. This structure is not accidental. It is intentional. And this intentional structure creates something that is counter to the table. It creates separation where the table requires presence. It creates division where the table requires unity. It creates management where the table requires relationship. It creates programs where the table requires the body functioning together.
This is what I aim to demonstrate in this article: Programs are structured by design to create something that is counter to the table. They separate the body. They fragment relationships. They replace organic ministry with programmatic ministry. They require the system. They serve the system. And in doing so, they work against the very thing they claim to serve.
The Scale Problem
Here is the critical point: There is virtually no way that any of this program happens apart from the acceptance of large scale.
Programs are a response to scale. When you have 200 people, you cannot know everyone. When you have 200 people, you cannot address everyone’s needs. When you have 200 people, you cannot function as a body. So you create programs. Children’s ministry to handle the children. Youth ministry to handle the youth. Men’s ministry to handle the men. Women’s ministry to handle the women.
Programs are a management tool. They manage scale. They organize large numbers. They create structure for what cannot function organically.
But the New Testament pattern assumes limits. It assumes a size where each one can speak, each one can be heard, each one can be known, each one can participate. Programs are not necessary at that size.
At the table, you don’t need children’s ministry. You need children at the table. At the table, you don’t need youth ministry. You need youth at the table. At the table, you don’t need men’s ministry or women’s ministry. You need men and women at the table. The body functions as a body. Without programs. Because the scale allows it.
Programs are a concession to scale. They are a substitute for what cannot happen at scale. But they are not the solution. They are the problem.
The question “How else do you minister to 200+ people?” assumes the problem is the number. But the problem is the scale. The New Testament pattern doesn’t assume you need to minister to 200+ people in one gathering. It assumes limits. It assumes a size where the body can function. Programs allow you to minister to more people by managing scale. But the body allows you to minister to people by being the body. These are not the same thing. Programs manage what cannot function organically. The body functions organically because the scale allows it.
How Programs Disrupt the Table
The table is the normal means of grace. It requires the body to be present together. All ages. All stages. All gifts. All needs. At the table, children learn from adults. Adults learn from children. Youth learn from elders. Elders learn from youth. The table is where the body functions as a body.
The normal means of grace in ekklesia are the table: shared meals, presence, mutual exhortation, mutual confession, mutual bearing of burdens, mutual teaching, mutual participation. Each one has. One another. The body functioning together.
But programs separate the body. Children go here. Youth go there. Adults go here. Men go there. Women go there. The body is fragmented. The table cannot function when the body is divided. When children are separated, they cannot learn from adults. When youth are separated, they cannot learn from elders. When men and women are separated, they cannot learn from one another.
Picture it. The children are dismissed to children’s church. The youth are sent to youth group. The men are gathered for men’s ministry. The women are gathered for women’s ministry. The recovery group meets in another room. The discipleship class meets in another room.
Who’s left at the table?
A homogeneous group of people. Same age. Same stage. Same perspective. Same experiences. Same struggles. Same blind spots.
An echo chamber.
Everyone agrees. Everyone understands. Everyone sees it the same way. No one challenges. No one questions. No one brings a different perspective. No one brings a different need. No one brings a different gift.
The children aren’t there to ask the questions adults stopped asking. The youth aren’t there to bring the energy and honesty that makes adults uncomfortable. The elders aren’t there to bring the wisdom that comes from having seen it before. The men aren’t there to hear from the women. The women aren’t there to hear from the men.
The table is empty. Or worse, it’s full of people who all look the same, think the same, and reinforce the same.
Programs separate the body. They fragment relationships. They prevent the body from functioning as a body. The table requires presence. Programs require separation. These are incompatible.
The Small Group Concession
This is where small groups come from.
Growth groups.
Care groups.
Life groups.
They are a substitute for ekklesia.
They keep people within the structure.
Like a restaurant that serves terrible food but offers a “VIP room” with slightly better food to keep you coming back, even though you’d be better off going to a different restaurant entirely.
Or like a hospital that provides poor care but offers a “premium wing” with slightly better care, even though you’d be healthier at home.
Small groups are the “premium wing” of the institutional church.
They give you a taste of what ekklesia should be.
But they keep you within the structure.
They keep you dependent on the system.
They keep you from leaving.
The meaningful experiences people have in programs? They’re not because the program is good. They’re because the program is the closest thing to ekklesia they’ve ever experienced within the structure. It’s not the program that’s meaningful. It’s the proximity to ekklesia. The smaller size. The relational connection. The mutual participation.
Small groups give a taste of ekklesia but keep people within the structure. The meaningful experiences are because it’s the closest to ekklesia they’ve experienced, not because the program is good. But it’s still a substitute. It’s still within the structure. It’s still dependent on the system. It’s still not ekklesia.
What Ministry Actually Is
In the New Testament, ministry is not a program. It is relationship. It is presence. It is response to need. It is the body functioning.
“To each is given the manifestation of the Spirit for the common good.” (1 Corinthians 12:7)
“As each has received a gift, use it to serve one another, as good stewards of God’s varied grace.” (1 Peter 4:10)
“Bear one another’s burdens, and so fulfill the law of Christ.” (Galatians 6:2)
“If one member suffers, all suffer together; if one member is honored, all rejoice together.” (1 Corinthians 12:26)
Ministry in the New Testament is situational (responding to actual need), relational (person to person, not program to person), organic (emerging from the body, not imposed from above), mutual (one another, not one-way), gift-based (each using their gift, not role-based), and at scale (small enough for the body to function).
Modern ministry is programmatic (scheduled, structured, curriculum-driven), institutional (program to person, not person to person), imposed (from leadership, not emerging from body), one-way (leader to participant, not mutual), role-based (position, not gift), and at scale (large enough to require programs).
These are not the same thing.
You might say: But we’re seeing growth. But people are being transformed. But programs are working. And that may be true. But what kind of growth? What kind of transformation? What kind of work? Programs produce program-based growth. They produce transformation that fits the program. They produce work that serves the system. But the New Testament produces organic growth. It produces transformation that fits the person. It produces work that serves the body. These are not the same thing. The question is not whether programs produce results. The question is: What kind of results? And at what cost?
The New Testament pattern is clear. When James writes, “If a brother or sister is poorly clothed and lacking in daily food, and one of you says to them, ‘Go in peace, be warmed and filled,’ without giving them the things needed for the body, what good is that?”—this is not a program. This is seeing a need and meeting it. When he writes, “Confess your sins to one another and pray for one another, that you may be healed”—this is not a program. This is relationship. When Hebrews says, “Exhort one another every day, as long as it is called ‘today’”—this is not a program. This is ongoing presence. When Colossians says, “Let the word of Christ dwell in you richly, teaching and admonishing one another in all wisdom”—this is not a program. This is mutual participation.
The New Testament pattern assumes limits. It assumes a size where each one can speak, each one can be heard, each one can be known, each one can participate. Programs are not necessary at that size.
You might say: But people wouldn’t show up without a program. But people need structure. But people need something to commit to. You might be right, but not in the way you think. People do need commitment. But the New Testament assumes commitment to one another, not commitment to a program. It assumes presence with the body, not attendance at a program. It assumes relationship, not structure. The question is not whether people need something. The question is: What do they need? And the answer is: They need the body. They need relationship. They need presence. Not programs. The body.
How Programs Fit the Tangled System
By now, the pattern should be visible. Programs are not isolated. They are part of the system.
Programs require the system. They require professionals (to lead them), buildings (to house them), budgets (to fund them), schedules (to organize them), and curriculum (to structure them). But most of all, they require scale. Large numbers. Large gatherings. Large structures.
Programs are a response to scale. They are a management tool. They organize what cannot function organically.
You might say: But we need programs to reach everyone. But different people need different things. But programs allow us to minister to diverse needs. And you’re right that we need to minister to all people. But programs don’t minister to people. They manage people. They organize people. They structure people. But the body ministers to people. It knows people. It responds to people. It serves people. Programs allow you to reach more people by managing scale. But the body allows you to reach people by being present. These are not the same thing. Paul’s “becoming all things to all people” was about identification and presence, not
about creating different programs for different groups.
Each program creates another dependency. Another need for the system. Another justification for the building, the professional, the budget. Programs are not isolated. They are part of the system. And they serve the system by creating structure, dependency, consumers, and managing scale.
Accept the table, and you accept limits. Accept limits, and you reject the monopolized sermon. Reject the sermon, and you reject the professional. Reject the professional, and you reject membership. Reject membership, and you reject the building.
But what about programs?
Programs require the building. They require space, rooms, infrastructure. But if you’ve rejected the building, you’ve rejected all of these things. Programs cannot function without them.
Programs require the professional. They require leaders, experts, those with training and curriculum. But if you’ve rejected the professional, you’ve rejected the professional program leader. The professional program leader has no function the body cannot fulfill.
Programs require the economy. They require budgets, materials, curriculum, resources. But if you’ve rejected the economy, you’ve rejected all of these things. Programs cannot function without them.
But most of all, programs require scale. Large numbers. Large gatherings. Large structures. But if you’ve accepted the table, you’ve accepted limits. You’ve rejected scale. And without scale, programs are not necessary.
Each part depends on the others. Programs are not isolated. They are part of the system. And the system is one tangled ball. Pull one strand, and the whole thing tightens. Which is why reform always fails. And why only return works.
The Table and Ministry
So we return to the table. Not as a sacred object. As a place of one anothering. Knowing and being known.
The table is where ministry becomes visible. Not as programs. Not as curriculum. Not as schedules. As relationship.
At the table, you see the need. The brother who lost his job. The sister who can’t pay rent. The family who needs groceries. The child who needs attention. The youth who needs guidance. The man who needs accountability. The woman who needs friendship.
At the table, you don’t create a program. You respond. You serve. You share. You bear burdens. You use your gift. You meet the need. Not through a program. Through relationship. Through presence. Through the body functioning.
At the table, all ages are present. Children learn from adults. Adults learn from children. Youth learn from elders. Elders learn from youth. The body functions as a body. Without programs. Because the scale allows it.
At the table, you don’t need programs to see growth. You see growth because the body is functioning. You don’t need programs to see transformation. You see transformation because relationship is happening. You don’t need programs to see commitment. You see commitment because presence is required. The body functions as a body. Not through programs. Through relationship. Through presence. Through the body functioning.
At the table, ministry is not a program. It is relationship. It is presence. It is response. It is the body functioning. And it requires no program, no curriculum, no schedule, no professional, no building, no budget, no scale. Only relationship. Only presence. Only the body functioning.
At the table. Where ministry is not a program. But a way of life.
Ekklesia — The Brotherhood — the goal.
The goal is Brotherhood NOT membership
Our very first visit to the church began like most first visits do. We sat, we sang, we listened. Nothing unusual. Pleasant, even.
After the service, as we stood on the sidewalk in front of the building, we were approached by a man I would later come to know as an elder. Not a greeter. Not a host. Something else. If you’ve seen The Firm, imagine Wilford Brimley’s character. That energy. Calm. Direct. Unsmiling.
He wanted to know our background. Where we came from.
When I mentioned another church in the area, his attention sharpened. Why were we no longer there? Had we “made things right”? Were matters resolved?
This was our first conversation. On a sidewalk. After a single service. We had no idea what he was referring to.
He instructed us to return to where we came from and fix whatever needed fixing before we could be here.
At the time, it felt...good. Responsible. Like someone was guarding something sacred. Gatekeeping, but holy. Serious people doing serious spiritual work.
We left impressed.
The slow reveal
Twelve months later, I was invited to lunch with the senior pastor.
Pleasantries first. How are you. How’s your family. Glad you’re here.
Then the business.
You’ve been attending for a year now. It’s time to join or move on.
This time the feeling was different. Warmer on the surface, but with an aftertaste. A strange blend of affirmation and pressure. Like being told you’re welcome, but only if you sign.
A quiet thought crossed my mind. I didn’t say it out loud.
Is this a church... or a Costco membership?
We pushed the discomfort down. We forged ahead. This is what faithful people do.
They submit. They commit. They trust the process.
They even had a word for it.
Not membership.
Covenant.
Doesn’t that sound religious?
The thing remembered later
It wasn’t until much later, after we were invited to leave and ultimately shown the door, that I remembered that sidewalk conversation.
The interrogation.
The instruction to go elsewhere.
The assumption of authority before relationship.
And suddenly the pattern snapped into focus.
This was never about belonging.
It was about control of access.
This is not covenant
Covenant, biblically, is forged through shared life, not paperwork. Through faithfulness over time, not compliance up front. Through mutual knowledge, not institutional clearance.
What we called “covenant membership” was something else entirely.
It was a mechanism.
A way to define insiders and outsiders.
A way to determine who could stay and who must go.
A way to sacralize an administrative boundary.
The language was holy.
The function was bureaucratic.
Membership as sacrament
Once you call membership a covenant, you give it spiritual weight without relational substance.
You turn agreement into allegiance.
Process into priesthood.
Paperwork into permission.
And once that happens, the institution gains a powerful tool.
Those inside are obligated.
Those outside are suspect.
Those who leave are not just departing a place, but breaking something sacred.
Even when nothing relational ever existed.
The illusion of belonging
Membership creates the feeling of belonging without requiring the vulnerability of it.
You can be counted without being known.
Included without being seen.
Accounted for without being cared for.
You belong because you passed through a gate, not because your life is intertwined with others.
It scratches the itch of longing without healing the wound.
Gatekeeping before shepherding
In the New Testament, shepherds know sheep.
Here, the sheep are screened first.
Questions precede relationship.
Authority precedes trust.
Judgment precedes knowledge.
Gatekeeping replaces care.
Boundary enforcement replaces discernment.
And it all feels righteous, because it’s done “for the health of the body.”
What disappears quietly
When belonging is outsourced to membership, a few things quietly vanish:
- The obligation to actually know one another
- The patience to let trust grow slowly
- The courage to deal with conflict face to face
- The humility to admit the body is small enough to be personal
The church grows.
The relationships thin.
And loneliness survives, even thrives, inside full rooms.
This is not belonging
Belonging cannot be issued.
It cannot be granted.
It cannot be revoked by a meeting or a vote.
Belonging is forged in shared meals, shared burdens, shared histories, and shared wounds.
If your absence would go unnoticed, you did not belong.
You were registered.
And registration, no matter how religious the language wrapped around it, is not covenant.
This is not belonging.
A necessary clarification
Membership, as we practice it today, is entirely a-biblical.
Not anti-biblical.
Not condemned.
Simply absent.
There is no New Testament category for signing into belonging.
That alone does not make it wrong.
Electricity is not biblical.
Chairs are not biblical.
Projectors, HVAC, microphones, websites, schedules—none of these appear in Scripture.
They are modern solutions to practical problems.
So the question is not “Is this ancient?”
The question is “What does this do?”
The questions that matter
Once we acknowledge membership as a modern invention, a different set of questions presses in.
What weight does it carry in the institution?
What does it authorize or restrict?
What does it quietly replace?
Most importantly:
- Is the thing it replaces clearly present in Scripture?
- Is membership a neutral convenience, or a facsimile of something biblical
that gets thinned, damaged, or displaced? - Does it move people closer to one another, or does it introduce a buffer?
- Does it cultivate presence, or does it manage proximity?
These are not theoretical questions.
They are observable ones.
What membership displaces
In the New Testament, belonging is not formalized. It is relationally obvious.
Paul can assume visibility without explaining it.
“I know whom I have believed.” 2 Timothy 1:12
“We were delighted to share with you not only the gospel of God but our very lives.” 1 Thessalonians 2:8
“If one member suffers, all suffer together.” 1 Corinthians 12:26
These only work in a body where lives are interwoven, not merely aligned.
Membership, when elevated, subtly replaces:
- Knowing with enrolling
- Shared life with shared agreement
- Mutual responsibility with institutional oversight
- Face-to-face correction with procedural discipline
None of these replacements are announced.
They simply happen.
The New Testament assumes nearness
Notice how often instruction assumes proximity, not policy.
“Confess your sins to one another.” James 5:16
“Exhort one another every day.” Hebrews 3:13
“Admonish one another.” Romans 15:14
“Bear one another’s burdens.” Galatians 6:2
These commands collapse under distance.
They require:
- Regular presence
- Mutual familiarity
- Relational safety
- Ongoing access
You cannot outsource these to a structure without losing their substance.
Discipline without membership
One of the most common defenses of membership is discipline.
But even here, Scripture does not appeal to enrollment.
“If your brother sins against you, go and tell him his fault, between you and him alone.” Matthew 18:15
The phrase is not “If a member sins.”
It is “If your brother sins.”
Family language.
Not organizational language.
A facsimile feels like the real thing
A facsimile is dangerous because it resembles what it replaces.
Membership looks like belonging.
Covenant language sounds like commitment.
Enrollment mimics devotion.
But resemblance is not equivalence.
A photograph of a table is not a meal.
A name on a list is not a life shared.
And yet the institution often treats the facsimile as sufficient.
Returning to the table
So we come back again to the table.
Not metaphorically. Literally.
The table does not ask:
- Have you joined?
- Have you signed?
- Have you completed the process?
The table asks:
- Are you here?
- Are you hungry?
- Will you stay?
- Will you pass the bread?
Paul does not say,
“When you gather as an approved membership...”
He says,
“When you come together to eat...” 1 Corinthians 11:33
Presence, not paperwork.
A supper club requires enrollment.
A body requires participation.
One filters access.
The other creates belonging.
The final measure
So membership itself is not the crime.
The measure is simpler:
Does this practice move us toward visible, shared life?
Or does it allow us to feel committed while remaining distant?
Does it lead us to the table?
Or does it stand guard at the door?
Ekklesia — The Temple — the space.
This Is Not God's House - An Autopsy of the Church Building
We Say God Is Everywhere
But We Don’t Live That Way
We insist the building is just a building.
But we do not gather in living rooms.
We do not arrange our lives around tables.
We do not expect God to meet us in kitchens, garages, or backyards.
We drive past one another’s homes
to gather somewhere else.
We speak differently there.
We act differently there.
We leave parts of ourselves at the door.
If God is everywhere, this behavior makes no sense.
Unless we don’t actually believe it.
“If I were hungry, I would not tell you, for the world and its fullness are mine.”
(Psalm 50:12)
God does not need our buildings.
We need them.
Because we cannot bear the weight of His presence without a structure to contain it.
This is not biblical faith.
This is paganism baptized.
The Tent Was Not the Goal
When the tabernacle appears in Scripture, it is often treated as a triumph.
God gave instructions.
God filled the space.
God dwelled among His people.
All true.
And still not the point.
Before there was a tent, there was a mountain.
God descended.
He spoke directly.
He invited nearness.
And the people recoiled.
“You speak to us, and we will listen; but do not let God speak to us, lest we die.”
(Exodus 20:19)
They asked for distance.
They asked for mediation.
They asked not to hear His voice again.
So God gave them a structure.
Not because He needed a house.
But because they could not endure Him without one.
The tabernacle was not intimacy perfected.
It was intimacy deferred.
The Temple Hardened the Pattern
When David wanted to build God a permanent house, God’s response was revealing.
“Are you the one to build me a house to dwell in? I have not lived in a house since the day I brought up the people of Israel from Egypt to this day, but I have been moving about in a tent for my dwelling.”
(2 Samuel 7:5-6)
Did I ever ask for one?
God had been moving.
Walking.
Dwelling among His people.
The temple changed that.
Now God had an address.
A center.
A place that could be managed, guarded, and defended.
The prophets protested almost immediately.
“Heaven is my throne, and the earth is my footstool. What is the house that you would build for me, and what is the place of my rest?”
(Isaiah 66:1)
Even Solomon, dedicating the temple he built, acknowledged the contradiction:
“But will God indeed dwell on the earth? Behold, heaven and the highest heaven cannot contain you; how much less this house that I have built!”
(1 Kings 8:27)
The temple was permitted.
It was never the ideal.
The New Testament Does Not Renovate Sacred Space
It Abandons It
God does not return to a better building.
He takes on flesh.
He walks roads.
He eats meals.
He forgives sins without consulting architecture.
When He leaves again, the Spirit does not descend on stone.
He fills people.
Not symbolically.
Not metaphorically.
Literally.
“The God who made the world and everything in it, being Lord of heaven and earth, does not live in temples made by man.”
(Acts 17:24)
“Yet the Most High does not dwell in houses made by hands, as the prophet says, ‘Heaven is my throne, and the earth is my footstool. What kind of house will you build for me, says the Lord, or what is the place of my rest?’”
(Acts 7:48-49)
The scandal of the New Testament is not that God has many buildings now.
It is that He does not need one at all.
We Rebuilt What God Dismantled
We insist the building is not holy.
But watch what happens.
Ministry happens there.
Authority flows from there.
Belonging is measured by presence there.
Budgets are justified by square footage.
Faithfulness is confused with attendance.
Community becomes adjacency.
We sit in rows.
We face forward.
We leave without being known.
Then we wonder why we are lonely.
Jeremiah warned against this exact confusion:
“Do not trust in these deceptive words: ‘This is the temple of the Lord, the temple of the Lord, the temple of the Lord.’”
(Jeremiah 7:4)
We repeat the same mistake.
The building becomes the guarantee.
The structure becomes the security.
The address becomes the assurance.
But God never promised to dwell in our buildings.
He promised to dwell in His people.
Buildings Change What We Expect From One Another
When space becomes sacred, people become replaceable.
The room carries the weight.
The structure sets the tone.
The program does the work.
No one needs to be fully present.
No one needs to bring much.
No one needs to stay long.
The building will hold everything.
Until it doesn’t.
Jesus Never Built One
Jesus did not leave behind a blueprint.
He left behind tables.
Homes.
Upper rooms.
Hillsides.
Ordinary places made holy by presence, not designation.
At the table, everyone had a face.
At the table, everyone had a voice.
At the table, God was not approached.
He was among.
When the early church gathered, they did not go somewhere sacred.
Bread.
Wine.
Stories.
Confession.
Prayer.
The holiness was not in the room.
It was in the people.
“So then you are no longer strangers and aliens, but you are fellow citizens with the saints and members of the household of God, built on the foundation of the apostles and prophets, Christ Jesus himself being the cornerstone, in whom the whole structure, being joined together, grows into a holy temple in the Lord. In him you also are being built together into a dwelling place for God by the Spirit.”
(Ephesians 2:19-22)
The building is not the temple.
The people are.
What We Forgot
The tragedy is not that we built buildings.
It is that we forgot we were already the house.
“Do you not know that you are God’s temple and that God’s Spirit dwells in you?”
(1 Corinthians 3:16)
“Or do you not know that your body is a temple of the Holy Spirit within you?”
(1 Corinthians 6:19)
“For we are the temple of the living God.”
(2 Corinthians 6:16)
Not someday.
Not symbolically.
Now.
Your kitchen table is sufficient.
Your living room is sufficient.
Your backyard is sufficient.
Not because they are special places.
But because He is present there.
“But Where Will We Meet?”
The objection arrives quickly.
If we don’t have a building, where will we meet?
Whether it’s two hundred people, two thousand, or twenty thousand, the question feels urgent.
But the question itself reveals the problem.
It assumes the gathering must be one thing.
One place.
One event.
One size.
And that assumption is the lie we’ve swallowed.
The Tangled Ball
These articles are not isolated critiques.
They are one tangled system.
Like a ball of Christmas lights handed down year after year, pull one strand and the whole thing tightens.
The table, the sermon, the professional, the membership, the building—they are not separate failures.
They are one structure, each part holding the others in place.
Which is why reform always fails.
And why only return works.
The Methodical Unraveling
Accept the table, and you accept limits.
Why? Because the table is a meal. Meals require faces. Faces require proximity. Proximity requires limits. You cannot feast with strangers at a distance. The table itself demands a size where people can see, hear, and know one another.
Accept limits, and you reject the monopolized sermon.
Why? Because the monopolized sermon requires scale. It requires an audience. It requires distance. It requires people who can be managed, not known. But if you’ve accepted the table’s limits, you’ve accepted a size where each one can speak, each one can be heard.
“When you come together, each one of you has a hymn, a word, a revelation, a tongue, an interpretation.”
(1 Corinthians 14:26)
The monopolized sermon cannot function in that space. The form collapses.
Reject the sermon, and you reject the professional.
Why? Because the professional’s primary role is the sermon. Remove the monopolized sermon, and you remove the professional’s primary justification. Teaching still exists, but it emerges from the body situationally, not from a platform permanently.
“To each is given the manifestation of the Spirit for the common good.”
(1 Corinthians 12:7)
The professional requires the platform. The platform requires the sermon. Without the sermon, the professional has no function the body cannot fulfill.
Reject the professional, and you reject both the authority structure and institutional belonging that membership requires.
Why? Because membership depends on institutional authority—someone must approve, someone must validate, someone must determine who stays and who goes. That someone is the professional. Without the professional, membership’s authority structure collapses. It becomes paperwork without power.
And membership creates belonging through institutional approval—you belong because the institution says you belong, because the professional validated you. But if you’ve rejected the professional, belonging can no longer be granted institutionally. It must be known relationally. You belong because you are known, not because you are approved. Membership, which depends on both institutional authority and institutional belonging, becomes unnecessary.
Reject membership, and you reject the building.
Why? Because the building exists to support the very things you’ve already rejected. A stage? You rejected the platform. Forward-facing stacked chairs? You rejected the audience. A sound system? You rejected the monologue. A place to manage access? You rejected gatekeeping. A place to contain scale? You rejected the scale. The building has no function left. It becomes an empty structure supporting nothing.
The Forms Answer the Question
The objection “But where will we meet?” assumes the gathering must be one thing.
But the New Testament gives us forms, not formulas.
“When you come together to eat, wait for one another.”
(1 Corinthians 11:33)
“Each one of you has a hymn, a word, a revelation.”
(1 Corinthians 14:26)
“Let the word of Christ dwell in you richly, teaching and admonishing one another.”
(Colossians 3:16)
“Exhort one another every day.”
(Hebrews 3:13)
“Confess your sins to one another.”
(James 5:16)
These commands assume a form.
A form where faces are visible.
Where voices are heard.
Where lives are known.
Where participation is possible.
That form has limits.
Not arbitrary limits.
Limits built into the commands themselves.
You cannot “wait for one another” if you cannot see one another.
You cannot “each one speak” if there are too many ones.
You cannot “exhort one another” if you do not know one another.
The forms themselves answer the question.
If you accept the forms, you have already accepted their limits.
Returning to the Table
So we return to the table.
Not as a sacred object.
As a place of one anothering.
Knowing and being known.
The table is where the body becomes visible.
Where faces matter.
Where voices matter.
Where presence matters.
Where you cannot hide behind attendance.
Where you cannot outsource responsibility.
Where you cannot confuse adjacency with community.
At the table, the question “Where will we meet?” becomes irrelevant.
Because the table is not a location.
It is a form.
A form that can happen in a home, a backyard, a park, a rented room.
Anywhere people can gather around food, face one another, and participate.
The building was never the answer.
It was the problem disguised as a solution.
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