Jesus lived, worked, and died within 25 miles of his birthplace. His ministry, while it has become a worldwide movement that transcends heaven and earth, was largely a local ministry. He was born in a forgotten town of 100 people or less, apprenticed in a trade with a man that barely gets a mention in history, died in-between two criminals, and then was buried in a borrowed tomb.

In modern terms, Jesus was absolutely the worst at branding a legacy.

Even when things were gaining some real momentum—about the time we would be meeting with publishers about potential book deals—Jesus was trying to thin out the adoring crowd with unpopular sermons. “Eat my flesh & drink my blood.” Unsurprisingly, the crowds weakened. Too hard of a teaching, I guess. 

By the time Jesus went to the cross even his most trusted and loyal disciples made their exit to watch in the wings for collateral damage. Jesus essentially died alone. Was raised to life alone. And while his resurrection was and is big news for the world, Jesus spent much of his ministry concealing his identity and choosing to walk in the shadows.

It got me thinking about where the church (the gathered and organized variety) has landed in this time of pandemic. Now, more than ever, the church is visible. It makes sense. There’s now a camera being pointed at almost every church stage on every Sunday morning in America. Every pastor is preaching to an audience. It’s no longer just the souls in the building we’re speaking to. A man in Toledo and a family in Wisconsin are now watching. Likes and reshares and online metrics are driving a church branding machine. 

I’ve been wondering though, is this good news? I don’t think so.

THE HYPERLOCALITY OF THE CHURCH

Our church building sits neatly between two realities. On one side, not 200 feet from our auditorium entrance, is a sacred cow in our city—a locally-owned meat & three where you can get your fill of mac-n-cheese, greens, chicken fried steak and the required sweet tea. It’s the kind of place in which the waitresses called you Honey and most of the patrons don’t even have to order before theirusual is delivered to their assigned seat. It has a scent of familiar to it. A feeling of family. 

On the other side of our church building is a cemetery. Some of the graves date back to the early 1800’s. It’s true. A couple days a week I walk through it and read the gravestones. I take a minute and imagine what it might be like to bury a one-year-old. I keep walking and find myself lingering on the man who buried three daughters before he himself passed away. All of these graves are from local residents. Our church building literally sits between places of life and death. 

This kind of church locality makes sense to me. Incarnational not technological. It is the sure reminder that I am not an internet pastor. I do not pastor in the ether. I pastor a church that has a physical address. The people that gather every week have names I know and stories that intersect my own. I see these people in Target. I carry their very unique burdens with me. I don’t know that guy in Toledo. I’m sure he is nice enough. Even if that family from Wisconsin sends in a check for our church food pantry, we can’t ever really pastor them. 

Pastoral theology it turns out—from the likes of Eugene Peterson and Richard Baxter—say life, death, resurrection must be applied to a single place. The same place. Over and over and over. Gospel has a far-reaching effect. It surely is to be taken to the nations. But for local pastors like myself, it should smell like the neighborhood I live in. A whiff of mac-n-cheese and greens and a waitress that calls me Honey.