Growing up my family moved around quite a bit. Reflecting on some of the residences that we stayed in, two stood out the most. We resided for a short period of time in two different apartments in the same city. The odd thing about our apartment locations was that each one was located over a funeral home.
I still recall how in one of the apartments, when my mother went shopping, my brother, cousin and I decided to head downstairs into the funeral home. The door to the main funeral parlor was open and we went in and did what children do. We began snooping around.
As my brother, cousin and I tip-toed through the darken parlor, my heart was fluttering. I at the time had been known as a “scary cat. ” I was fearful of clowns, scary movies (i.e., vampires) and riding in the car at nighttime through farm areas.
While I was virtually in a state of panic, my brother disappeared. I couldn’t conceive where he could have gone, seeing, that I never saw him go pass me. My cousin on the other hand insisted that my brother had returned upstairs to the apartment.
“Come on, let’s see what’s over there,” my cousin said to me. She reached out her hand towards me, assuring me that I had nothing to be afraid of. “Come on. I’m with you,” she told me with great confidence.
Being led like a small puppy, I could feel my bony knees squeaking from the thought that either my mother would be coming back at any moment or the owner of the funeral home would catch us in his place of business and tell my mother. Neither of the two prospects gave me peace of mind.
Approaching the back of the funeral parlor, there sat a long, dark piece of furniture. Or so I thought it was a table until we got closer to it. Much to my shock and horror, it turned out to be a casket.
I remember as if it was yesterday, how fear pierce my heart and perspiration streamed down my forehead.
At my cousin urging, she kept tightening her grip around my puny wrist. “Come on. Don’t be afraid, ” she told me, as she forcibly pulled me toward the casket.
The thought of getting near a casket was heart wrenching. I could only think of screaming to the top of my lungs for God to come and rescue me.
By the time we got closer to the casket, I nearly peed on myself.
Just as my cousin let go of my wrist, the closed casket door opened, and with a loud roar, my brother popped out from the casket. I screamed at the top of my lungs and ran straight out of the door.
Of course, my brother and cousin found the whole scene to be a great prank; until I told my mother and they got an old-fashioned laying-out and a sore behind.
Now, I share this bit of personal history with you because it may help if you are attending a church that doesn’t appeal to the spirit of Christ.
A church that resembles a funeral home with no intention to bring in the living but is fine with keeping the dead based on tradition and Pharisee mindsets.
Refusing to change, despite the fact that Jesus is life, even among the dead, is a death sentence for any church that prefers to live on their past victories and not for God’s glory.
Once a church becomes a funeral parlor, it repels the lost not to want to come in and partake of the greatest Living gift that walked on earth. Jesus Christ.
Beware of funeral home churches!
“And to the angel of the church in Sardis write,
‘These things says He who has the seven Spirits of God and the seven stars: “I know your works, that you have a name that you are alive, but you are dead. Revelation 3:1
In Him Alone
The Counterfeit Christian
2015 the Year of our Lord