The Church is a Charter Boat

The church is a charter boat. She is built for the sea--for the wave slap, the salt brine and the chase. In dock she rests, rusts, and rots. She tugs at her moorings,
longing for the open skies and the deep.

The church is a charter boat. She is heaven's hunter, the sea's lady, and her Captain's lover. She dreams of the flash of heavy silver at forty fathoms--and fishermen shouting for joy thirty miles from land, dancing knee-deep in albacore
on her decks. She aches for arched poles at her rails, the singing line tugging on every side, and the sea bird's eager cry as the catch is cleaned on the homeward trip.

The church is a charter boat. God is her maker and owner. The patriarchs laid her keel. The prophets set her spars. The apostles hammered her hull and decking. The Spirit christened her at Pentecost. Her anchor is faith. Her engine is truth. Her Captain is Jesus, high on heaven's bridge--steering her course for the choice catch in every age.

The church is a charter boat. The Bible is her locker stocked with nets, poles, lines, hooks, weights, and lures for every need. The bait well stands mid-deck teeming with lively big-eyed squid and blunt-nosed anchovies that melt on the hook. Inside the cabin fishermen crouch, relaxed yet ready. They warm fingers around steaming mugs. A father stoops to lace his son's shoe while the others speak in low tones of fishing past and soon to come. Only the seasick sleep when there are poles to rig and fish to catch. (Is your line in the water?)

The church is a charter boat. The pastor is the bait boy. He takes orders from the Captain and works for everybody. He rigs poles, replaces lost tackle, and encourages the beginners. He clubs the occasional shark, cuts the greedy seabird free from the line, and unhooks bug-eyed bottom fish for the squeamish. He gives bait or advice, gaffs the big ones to the deck, and announces when it is time to reel up or let down the lines. His duty is the fisherman's need. His pleasure is the fisherman's catch. His reward is the fisherman's delight at their heavy sacks of fish, and the big one hanging by his tail at the wharf.

The church is a charter boat. She longs for grew dawns edged with the promise of rose. She yearns for the brilliant blue blaze of deep noon. She trembles for storm-torn peaks of foam and dizzy green chasms of brine. There is life in her.
It strains at the rope as the worms bore holes in her belly and the barnacles weigh her down.

The church is a charter boat. Her passion, the sea. Her purpose, the chase. Her passenger, the fisherman. (Is your line in the water?)

Pastor Skip Johnson

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