By: Becky Wilson
I have often heard people (including myself), in an effort to hold things loosely and avoid materialism, say things like:
“Don’t worry about spills. It’s just carpet.”
“The car doesn’t matter as long as you’re okay.”
“Your kids are fine to play in here. Nothing is sacred or irreplaceable.”
And the list could go on and on.
Translated to our churches, we might hear (or say), “Oh, it’s just a building. It’s not *the church.*”
In theory, all of these things are true and even admirable. We should never become tight-fisted or possessive regarding material things of any kind. I’ve believed this for quite some time. I still do. Mostly. But do y’all remember this thing called COVID that forced all of us away from each other and into our respective “just buildings” for much longer periods of time than any of us likely anticipated? Yeah. Me too. Suddenly my home seemed to lose a huge part of its purpose. Years ago I had promised the Lord that I would share this building--the home that he had given me--with everyone I could. That I would open its doors wide and often and fill it as full and as frequently as my human limitations would allow. But March 2020 abruptly ended that practice.
My husband, Jared, leads the Pastoral Training Center ministry residency through our church. It’s an 18-month program during which he leads a group of young men through fairly intensive training for future pastorates. We always hope to have at least a couple gatherings throughout the program to bring all of the families to our home together, but for our last group of PTC participants, COVID prevented that entirely. Even after strict quarantine ended, the in-home group limit was 10 people for quite a while and the seven families involved quickly exceeded the 10-person limit.
But April 2021! Finally, the in-home gathering limit was lifted completely, and on Saturday, April 10th, we finally had the entire group of PTC families over for the celebration we had been longing to have for months. It was all that you might imagine--loud, energetic, full of eager conversation and heartfelt laughter, and maybe even a little chaotic. Not really conducive to pregnant pauses or peaceful reflection of any kind. And yet… At some point in the midst of it all, I turned around and noticed a massive pile of shoes in my foyer. I paused for quite some time. And I cried. A bittersweet mixture of tears for all that had been lost in recent months and all that I had taken for granted pre-pandemic, but mostly tears of joy and gratitude for the purpose my house could now serve again.
My house is nothing special. It’s “just a building” made entirely of material things, none of which have any eternal value. But this is what I learned during 2020 and 2021: it’s what happens within that building that affects eternity. My house is a ministry tool within which people can learn to love Christ and each other better. It’s a place where lives can merge in ways that encourage all kinds of ministry opportunities and deploy hearts fully devoted to spreading the good news of the gospel. In these ways, it’s so much more than a building!
Recently our church has experienced pretty rapid growth. We are so thankful for the people God has brought to our church family, but our building is too small to house everyone at the same time. We had to move to two services on Sunday mornings, so the growth has separated us. Many faces I used to see weekly, I now haven’t seen in many months. And I’ve barely met the many new faces we have welcomed into our covenant family in recent months. This is the best we can do under our current circumstances, but it’s far from ideal! So my heart keeps revisiting that scene in my foyer. All of the shoes piled up there. All present on the same day at the same time. All together. And I can’t help but anticipate what the Lord might do within our church when we are once again finally able to inhabit a space big enough for the whole family.
There is perhaps a fine line between coveting a big fancy building and simply desiring a space that’s big enough to fit our entire family. We should certainly pray through every step of this process, asking the Lord to help us honor Him with every decision we make regarding future plans for land and building. But here’s the thing I don’t want to do anymore: I don’t want to pretend like a church building isn’t important.
A church building isn’t of utmost importance. It certainly isn’t more important than the people who inhabit it. But the ministry opportunities it allows can and should impact eternity. The boards and bricks will not last, but the lives transformed within the walls made of boards and bricks certainly will. The ministries built and multiplied. The missionaries nurtured, sent out, and supported. The fathers strengthened to lead their families well. The pastors trained and linked together but released into churches all over the world. The children raised up in a community that loves them so well they will never settle for less than Christ. The broken hearts brought back to life. The dead raised to new life. These are the things that we can hope for together. And these are the things that we should rightfully desire to cultivate in a new building where we can not only meet together as a whole covenant family, but where we can welcome many more into that family. We can impact eternity together, and our building is one of our greatest ministry tools.
Let’s imagine together that first morning we turn around in the foyer of a new building and see the signs of our entire family gathered. What an amazing day it will be when all of our voices are finally lifted together again in glorious praise to Christ, when we can finally all look each other in the eye and worship together. Let’s dream big. Let’s ask the Lord to lead us to give and to pray, to live sacrificially with the end goal in mind: a home and a launching place for the ministry of our church family that is far more than just a building.