Burn the Ships

The Church Isn’t Dying from Conflict. It’s Dying from Casual Belonging.

I’m not sure if you’re a blueblood history buff, but the year 1976 was a big deal in the United States—a time of fireworks, parades, and polyester. Largely because Elvin Bishop chose that year to issue a public mea culpa about his theretofore romantic escapades—a development a watchful nation could not overlook. Technically, it was Mickey Thomas who belted out the confession—you probably know him better from his declaration that he “Built This City on Rock and Roll”. But it was Elvin’s chronicle. He told us that he “must’ve been through about a million girls,” though no one took him literally. Additionally, he admitted he hadn’t treated them with the utmost respect and, worse, was indifferent to it all.

But that wasn’t the headline. No, Elvin shared with us that at one point—amidst cavalier, routine philandering—he carelessly and irreparably let his guard down. His amorous insecticide had been breached. Turns out he’d been bitten by the love bug. He’d “Fooled Around and Fell in Love.”

This marked a nearly miraculous transformation. For a man who’d built his identity around non-attachment and emotional distance, he suddenly found himself apprehended. He’d grown accustomed to avoiding vulnerability, proudly maintaining a defensive posture. Still, it wasn’t just an experience; it was repetition without fulfillment.

With no warning, what started as just fooling around unexpectedly turned into genuine tenderness and attachment. He had crossed an emotional line without meaning to, and instead of fighting it, he accepted it. The song depicts love as gentle and irreversible—conspicuously absent of panic or denial. The once carefree “player” realized he was now capable of true commitment. Something real had taken hold, and he was changed, for the better.

Of course, that was just a cheesy ‘70s Yacht Rock love song. But there’s real insight in that ballad. Most of us have fallen head over heels for that special someone, even to the point of marriage. Many of us remember the initial romance between a Bride and Groom fondly. And we instinctively recognize this dynamic in almost every meaningful relationship. The ones we consider the most valuable—those that truly shape us—are accompanied by clear expectations beyond mere proximity and feelings. They require consistent presence, patience, and a sense of obligation. They involve risk as an essential element.

We understand that marriage isn’t a subscription service. And no one views the Bride-Groom metaphor as casual, unilateral, or provisional. We agree that it requires commitment, good-faith intentions, and a great deal of work.

Yet somehow, when it comes to the Church, we have decided that all such expectations are optional. We have adopted a model of Christian participation that resembles casual dating at its worst: come and go as you please, avoid obligation, maintain emotional distance, and quietly leave if the experience no longer meets your immediate needs. Attendance replaces allegiance. Consumption takes the place of covenant. The question no longer asked is, “To whom do I belong?” but rather, “Are you offering the experience I’m looking for this weekend?”

I’m hard-pressed to think of any other valuable domain where this is acceptable. We don’t see this attitude as fundamental to success in our careers, families, marriages, teams, citizenship, or craft. Yet in church, we not only allow it, but we also design around it—we go out of our way to accommodate it.

But I don’t see this approach reflected in the New Testament.

Why is that?

The marriage metaphor is compelling. Sure, we’ll sometimes use the word “betrothal” and tap into its poetic imagery. But in reality, and after examining our usage of it, we almost provoke an involuntary response (in our best Inigo Montoya voice), “I don’t think that word means what you think it means.” It’s as though we took The Princess Bride’s “Mawwiage” scene as prescriptive, and like Prince Humperdinck, want to check the legal boxes and skip straight to the payoff.

We’ll use other New Testament words like “Community,” “Family,” and “Body,” but the functional reality has become “Subscription,” “Audience,” and “User Base.” The vocabulary of Scripture is “inconceivable” to a culture that views church as just one of many weekend appointments.

But a wedding is a public declaration of dependence, not of convenience. No one cries tears of joy when they split a Netflix monthly bill. They cry when two explorers, intent on building a new life together, pool everything they have and burn their ships.

We accept this kind of aspirational struggle—and the pain that accompanies gain—in nearly every meaningful domain of life except when it comes to church. Instead, we’ve traded shared destiny for shared expenses—division of labor for divided agendas. And by “designing around” the casual visitor, we’ve signaled that the church isn’t worth the extra effort. If, in fact, the church is as easy to leave as it is to join, we’re not a Body. And this can happen when we’ve asked, “What does it offer us?” instead of “What does belonging require of us?”

Charles Spurgeon put it plainly: “After a true Christian has given himself or herself to the Lord, the very next act should be to give themselves to the Christian Church.” I don’t know about you, but that doesn’t sound like dating to me.

This is why the New Testament so persistently uses the metaphor of a body. In 1 Corinthians 12:14, 24-25, Paul doesn’t describe the Church as a collection of independent parts that work together loosely for mutual benefit. You’re thinking of Legos. But bodies don’t function that way. And members don’t simply come and go. They don’t detach when the arrangement becomes inconvenient.

They’re more like a nervous system. They either belong—or they don’t. And their belonging carries obligation, limitation, and shared risk, not because the body is cruel, but because it is alive and instinctively wants to stay that way.

“Independent Christianity” isn’t a difference in degree; it’s a difference in category. For a Church Body, it’s a biological impossibility. The Independent Christian, like a nerve, has no identity, no purpose, and no life apart from the circuit. The nervous system indeed carries pleasure, but it also carries pain. Otherwise, it can’t protect the body from damage.

We keep trying to “design” a low-resistance church that won’t bite, won’t sting, and won’t cost us our autonomy. But a nervous system that can’t feel pain is a body that is already dying. What if the ‘Love Bug’ that breached Elvin’s defenses wasn’t a bug after all? What if it was the first sign of a pulse? And what if that’s precisely what the Church could use?