This is no cruise ship; it's a battleship. We aren't called to a lit, of
leisure; we are called to a life of service. Each of us has a different task.
Some, concerned with those who are drowning, are snatching people from the
water. Others are occupied with the enemy, so they man the cannons of prayer and
worship. Still others devote themselves to the crew, feeding and training the
crew members.
Though different, we are the same. Each can tell of a persona. Encounter with
the captain, for each has received a personal call. He found us among the
shanties of the seaport and invited us to follow him. Our faith was born at the
sight of his fondness, and so we went.
We each followed him across the gangplank of his grace onto the same boat. There
is one captain and one destination. Though the battle is fierce, the boat is
safe, for our captain is God. The ship will not sink. For that, there is no
concern.
There is concern, however, regarding the disharmony of the crew. When we first
boarded we assumed the crew was made up on others like us. But as we've wandered
these decks, we've encountered curious converts with curious appearances. Some
wear uniforms we've never seen, sporting styles we've never witnessed. "Why do
you look the way you do?" We ask them.
"Funny," they reply. "We were about to ask the same of you." The variety of
dress is not nearly as disturbing as the plethora of opinions. There is a group,
for example, who clusters every morning for serious study. They promote rigid
discipline and somber expressions. "Serving the captain is serious business,"
they explain. It's no coincidence that they tend to congregate around the stern.
There is another regiment deeply devoted to prayer. Not only do they believe in
prayer, they believe in prayer by kneeling. For that reason you always know
where to locate them; they are at the bow of the ship.
And then there are a few who staunchly believe real wine should be used in the
Lord's Supper. You'll find them on the port side. Still another group has
positioned themselves near the engine. They spend hours examining the nuts and
bolts of the boat. They've been known to go below deck and not come up for days.
They are occasionally criticized by those who linger on the top deck, feeling
the wind in their hair and the sun on their face. "It's not what you learn,"
those topside argue. "It's what you feel that matters."
And, oh, how we tend to cluster.
Some think once you're on the boat, you can't get off. Others say you'd be
foolish to go overboard, but the choice is yours.
Some believe you volunteer for service; others believe you were destined for the
service before the ship was even built.
Some predict a storm of great tribulation will strike before we dock; others say
it won't hit until we are safely ashore.
There are those who speak to the captain in a personal language. There are those
who think such languages are extinct.
There are those who think the officers should wear robes, there are those who
think there should be no officers at all, and there are those who think we are
all officers and should all wear robes.
And, oh, how we tend to cluster.
And then there is the issue of the weekly meeting at which the captain is
thanked and his words are read. All agree on its importance, but few agree on
its nature. Some want it loud, others quiet. Some want ritual, others
spontaneity. Some want to celebrate so they can meditate; others meditate so
they can celebrate. Some want a meeting for those who've gone overboard. Others
want to reach those overboard but without going overboard and neglecting those
on board.
And, oh, how we tend to cluster.
The consequence is a rocky boat. There is trouble on deck. Fights have broken
out. Sailors have refused to speak to each other. There have even been times
when one group refused to acknowledge the presence of others on the ship. Most
tragically, some adrift at sea have chosen not to board the boat because of the
quarreling of the sailors.
"What do we do?" We'd like to ask the captain. "How can there be harmony on the
ship?" We don't have to go far to find the answer.
On the last night of his life Jesus prayed a prayer that stands as a citadel for
all Christians:
I pray for these followers, but I am also praying for all those who will believe
in me because of their teaching. Father, I pray that they can be one. As you are
in me and I am in you, I pray that they can also be one in us. Then the world
will believe that you sent me. (John 17:20)
How precious are these words. Jesus, knowing the end is near, prays one final
time for his followers. Striking, isn't it, that he prayed not for their
success, their safety, or their happiness.
He prayed for their unity. He prayed that they would love each other.
As he prayed for them, he also prayed for "those who will believe because of
their teaching." That means us! In his last prayer Jesus prayed that you and I
be one.
Of all the lessons we can draw from this verse, don't miss the most important:
Unity matters to God. The Father does not want his kids to squabble. Disunity
disturbs him. Why? Because "all people will know that you are my followers if
you love each other" (John 13:35). Unity creates belief. How will the world
believe that Jesus was sent by God? Not if we agree with each other. Not if we
solve every controversy. Not if we are unanimous on each vote. Not if we never
make a doctrinal error. But if we love one another.
Unity creates belief. Disunity fosters disbelief. Who wants to board a ship of
bickering sailors? Life on the ocean may be rough, but at least the waves don't
call us names.
In the Grip of Grace
copyright [Word Publishing, 1996] Max Lucado, p. 160-163.
Used by permission
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