I recently read the story of a young woman who took her car to an automatic car wash facility to have its dirt and grime removed. Sitting on the front seat beside her was her pint-sized poodle. When the mechanical monster began to make its march around the car spewing soap, water, and wax, the poodle switched on his bulldog DNA and (in his own mind) was instantly transformed into Superdog.
When the soapy water had covered the entire windshield, he became totally agitated. He lunged at what he perceived to be a dangerous enemy, barking as loudly as he could. Round and round inside the car he chased the encircling monster until he had scared the invader off.
Triumphantly he looked at his mistress as if to say, “If I had not been here to protect you from this fire-breathing and soap-spitting dragon, it would probably have opened the car door, grabbed you, and carried you away to its secret lair somewhere. Aren’t you proud of me?”
As the young lady drove her car out of the carwash and onto the street the self-imagined hero turned toward his owner and shook himself, as if to dislodge the heavy fall of water from his well-combed hairy coat. He had protected his friend in a time of grave danger. The truth, however, is that it had not taken much courage at all to challenge the threat happening outside the car while he remained on the inside.
Why do I share this shaggy dog story? It reminds me of what often happens in our churches. We gather in church from separate directions on Sunday morning to join fellow church members in worshiping God. We sing lustily hymns like “Amazing Grace,” “Washed in the Blood,” and “There’s a Sweet, Sweet Spirit in this Place.” But we fail to work up a sweat over the world around us that is bleeding and dying.
It is why Dr. Elton Trueblood, Quaker theologian, described the modern church as “a stained-glass foxhole.” His analogy, in reality, describes the church as being like the poodle challenging the carwash monster. Inside our church walls on Sunday we bark vociferously at the monsters a safe distance from where we are. Then, after the benediction is spoken, we get in our cars and go home. Not one frill or piece of fluffed lace is out of place.
The poodle could demonstrate lots of courage to his master because he was on the inside and the mad mechanical monster was on the outside. One wonders how much fight he would have had in him if he had been standing on the hood of the car when the spraying dragon passed directly in front of the car’s grill.
It is not difficult for us to say to the world that we are Christians while we are on the inside of a church building. It costs little or nothing and sounds courageous to bark at the monstrous evils on the outside. It gives the impression that we have taken seriously the challenge Christ gives to every follower to take up His cross daily and follow Him. Giving an impression is worthless unless it is backed up by follow-through.
The poodle, once he was driven outside the carwash, shook himself as if he had had a bath. A church fulfills its divinely assigned mission only when its’ members demonstrate to the world that their lives have been genuinely cleansed by the power of God’s forgiving love – not just on Sunday inside the church building, but in between Sundays through everything we say and do.
There is a difference between playing church and being a church – a big difference!
The Paper Pulpit 