The Church is a Charterboat

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

The church is a charterboat.
She's heaven's hunter,
the sea's lady,
her Captain's lover.
She dreams of the flash of heavy silver
at forty fathoms--
and fishermen shoutiong for joy
ninety 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 gull's eager cry as the catch is cleaned
on the homeward trip.

The church is a charterboat.
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 charterboat.
The Bible is her locker
stocked with nets, poles, lines, hooks, weights,
and lures for every need.
Inside the cabin fishermen crouch,
relaxed, yet ready,
warming fingers around steaming mugs.
A father stoops to lace his son's shoe
while others speak in low tones
of fishing past and soon to come.

Below in the hold nestle the bunks,
reserved for early-rising anglers
and battle-weary veterans
exhausted from the day's work.
Only the sea sick sleep
when there are poles to rig
and fish to catch.
(Is your line in the water?)

The church is a charterboat.
The pastor is the baitboy.
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,
gives bait or advice,
and announces when it is time
to reel up or let down the lines.

His duty is the fishermen's need.
His pleasure is the fishermen's catch.
His reward is the fishermen's delight
at their heavy sacks of fish.

The church is a charterboat.
She longs for gray 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 the 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 charterboat.
Her passion, the sea.
Her purpose, the chase.
Her passenger, the fisherman.
(Is your line in the water?)

c2009 Skip Johnson
All rights reserved

"Come follow Me," Jesus said, "and I will make you fishers of men." Matthew 4:19 NIV