Unless the Seed Dies
Unless the seed dies
These words stick with me as we sing.
I look around. I see the faces. Some are stoic. Some have stained their cheeks with tears. Some are eager with excitement. Others raise their hands in rapturous praise.
A few are unfamiliar, though, having joined us only recently. Some were invited by friends; others drawn by curiosity when they saw the sign out front or found the website announcing to the world that we’re alive. They cannot know the pains we took to make it to this Sunday. Perhaps they wonder who we are and how we got here.
We come from unique backgrounds and paths of life as diverse as the potluck table: chile rellenos and chow mein sidled next to green bean casserole. We are white and colored, Asian and other, a mottled crew from nursery to our nineties. We vote on different ballots and think in different ways. Surely strangers who engage in such an intimate act of worship have no business with one another this side of glory as we learn again to be the church.
And yet our voices mix as they rise up to the heavens. Same Lord. Same Spirit. Same Scriptures as our common language. Same need for grace. Same love for Jesus. We would never meet together otherwise.
Unless the seed dies, it remains alone
Their former church had closed on Halloween, and for the first time in eighty years, it lay silent on a Sunday: no songs, no sermons, no chatter in the foyer. The neighbors noticed that the parking lot was empty, but did they know another church had died? Do churches flame out with sound and fury, or do they fade with just a whimper?
As we sing those time-worn hymns, I look around to see the elders who came from the church that closed. Some join with robust joy. Others bear the weary weight of runners at the finish line now called to start another race. They gave away the property, the church’s name, and governing authority. They died to self to give us room to grow.
It took them eighteen agonizing months to reach that point of holy desperation. And all the time, they dealt with angry questions and one member furious to the point of fists. It was a painful season to serve Christ’s church, yet their surrender was an act of faith.
In death, they sought new life. By closing the doors, they were granted a fresh start. In fact, by God’s providence, one church revitalization led to another, and then another, until eventually, we formed the Fresh Start Network.
But if it dies
Now we sit in rows of new, upholstered chairs—modern comforts to replace the wooden pews. So, why the protest to remove them? Why such anguish over furniture? Perhaps it was the memories that lingered as in a childhood home. Those polished pews had known familiar families who had come together every Sunday: moms and dads nestled close, children trying not to squirm. If pews could speak, they’d tell of worship and the Word, of decisions made and lifetimes dedicated to serving Christ. Do churches lose their souls when people stop remembering?
I was not present as a witness to the death, but I can see the lines of grief upon their faces. Many friends left for other churches, and some left the faith for good. So, these are but the remnant—an apocalyptic-sounding name for the gray hairs sprinkled through our congregation. Some will still be strangers when I conduct their funerals in just a few months’ time, yet we will grow to love these faithful saints who simply longed for shepherds.
Many pitched in shovels for the foundation of this church, and others helped to build it. All sacrificed their hard-earned offerings to support the ministry. Then, over decades, they met for Bible study and for prayer. They taught the children and played the creaky old piano. They heard a thousand sermons preached and they sang together Sunday after Sunday. They sent out missionaries and raised their families in the church. They witnessed countless weddings and funerals to mark the march of time.
Why should they trust this rookie preacher who stutters through his sermons like Moses on the way to Pharoah? What gives them strength to start again—to help us build—to once more make this church a light to our community? They didn’t ask for much. So, we met them in their homes. We prayed. We cast a vision for a church we called New Life. We listened to their stories and found our common love in Christ.
It bears much fruit
My wife holds our newborn son—a child of the intervening months between the closing of one church and the resurrection of another. Like many, he will never know the seed that died.
It hurt to leave our sending church—to sacrifice our friends, our pastors, the ministries we’d helped to grow. We had been thriving in many ways. Yet we left one love to revitalize another, to take back territory lost for Christ and minister to hurting saints.
Such churches cannot start again without the sacrifice of others—without “goodbyes” and farewell tears—without a mindset for the Kingdom.
At first, the Sunday school room lies empty. But soon, young families trickle in as they see the signs of life. Our nursery bustles with more babies. Children totter through the courtyard and teens now seek a youth group. We find ways to partner in community, to reach the lost, to once more send out missionaries and church planters. We seek more workers for the harvest and bear much fruit from this soil of a church that died.
Unless the seed falls into the earth and dies
Our Lord first spoke these words to ready his disciples for his death upon a cross, his body buried, his promised resurrection.
His death brought life. His fall produced the fruit in us. Because of Christ, we can forgive and be forgiven. Because of Christ, sin holds no power to keep us down.
He gave his life to gain that greater harvest, and calls us to deny ourselves.
Sometimes he even shuts our doors so we can live again.
Such is the hope of resurrection: a Savior buried. Sinners needing grace. A church revived.
But not unless the seed first dies.