Be devoted to one another in love. Honor one another above yourselves. (Romans 12:10)
It is no longer I who live, but Christ who lives in me. (Galatians 2:20)
Truth be told, getting along with people often gets harder the better we know them.
Eventually, we begin to see things in one another—and ourselves—that aren’t so attractive: the need to be right, to win, to impress, to control, or to change what bothers us in others. Genuine fellowship sounds wonderful. Actually, living it out is much harder.
- Scott Peck, in The Different Drum, described a progression groups often go through on the way to genuine community:
Artificial harmony → Exposed differences → Surrender of ego → Genuine relationship
Interestingly, that looks a lot like the Christian life. Something must die before something new can live.
Jesus said, “Unless a kernel of wheat falls to the ground and dies, it remains only a single seed. But if it dies, it produces many seeds.” (John 12:24)
For genuine fellowship to emerge, something in us must die—our ego. Peck called this “emptiness.” Paul describes Jesus as one who “made himself nothing” (Philippians 2:7).
Then he describes what that same surrender looks like in his own life: “I have been crucified with Christ and I no longer live, but Christ lives in me” (Galatians 2:20).
Christian fellowship grows as there is less of ourselves to protect, prove, and defend—and more room for Christ in us.
An old story called “The Rabbi’s Gift” captures this beautifully.
A once-thriving monastery had dwindled to five aging monks. Discouraged, the abbot visited an elderly rabbi, hoping for advice.
The rabbi had no solution. But as the abbot was leaving, he offered one mysterious thought:
“The Messiah is one of you.”
The abbot returned and told the monks. They were stunned. The Messiah is one of us? Who could he mean?
Maybe the abbot? Surely not. He could be bossy and arrogant.
One of the others? Impossible. Their faults seemed endless: irritable, pessimistic, petty, argumentative, superficial.
Eventually, each monk wondered, “Could he possibly mean me?”
That seemed the longest shot of all. Each knew himself too well.
But because no one knew for certain, something began to change.
They began treating one another with extraordinary respect, looking beyond each other’s shortcomings. After all, one of these men might be the Messiah. And they began seeing themselves differently as well, because perhaps—just perhaps—the rabbi had meant them.
Visitors noticed. There was something different about the monastery—a spirit of love, dignity, peace, and grace. People wanted to be there. Eventually, young men began joining the order.
The dying monastery came alive again.
We don’t gather because we’re alike, agree about everything, or have somehow become perfect. We gather around Jesus, seeking to become more like Him in the way we see, love, and extend grace to one another. And as we do, the Messiah becomes increasingly visible in us and present in our fellowship.
As we surrender our need to defend ourselves and fix one another, we begin to see each other differently. Love replaces judgment, honor replaces criticism, and grace becomes the foundation of our fellowship.
It’s then that something artificial begins to die—and something genuine comes alive: authentic, Jesus-centered fellowship that brings life not only to those within it but to everyone it touches.
Prayer: Lord, help me look beyond my own interests and needs. Teach me to honor, love, and serve the people You have placed around me.