by Jessica Fields | Sep 16, 2026 | Doctrine, The Church Defined
We are living in the age of doing it yourself. Self-checkout everywhere. Meal prep for one. Productivity hacks so you never have to ask anyone for help with anything, ever. Independence is the brand, and nobody needs anybody.
And some of that is healthy. Knowing how to be alone matters. But somewhere along the way we started applying that same energy to our faith. “It’s just me and God.” “I don’t need a building full of people to have a relationship with Jesus.” “I can worship in my car, on my couch, on my own schedule, with my own playlist.”
Sounds independent. Sounds strong. Go find it in Scripture. I’ll wait…
You won’t find it, because it isn’t there. Not once. Every person who walked with God did it with others — messy, complicated, occasionally infuriating people. Nobody in the Bible pulls off the faith-of-one life.
Take Elijah. A guy who called down fire from heaven in front of an entire nation and watched 450 prophets of a false god get exposed as frauds. Certified prophet-of-the-year material. And within about a day he’s curled up under a bush wanting to die, telling God, “I am the only one left” (1 Kings 19:10, CSB).
God doesn’t pat him on the head and say, “You’re right, you special lone warrior, keep at it solo.” He feeds him (snacks, 10/10 recommend), lets him sleep (naps, also 5-stars), and then tells him flatly he’s not alone at all — there are 7,000 others who’ve never bowed the knee to a false god (1 Kings 19:18). Elijah wasn’t losing his faith. He was losing sight of his people. Those aren’t the same problem, but they feel identical when you’re the one under the bush.
That’s the danger of going solo. Not that you’ll stop believing — you might keep believing plenty. It’s that you’ll burn out convinced you’re the only one carrying it, because nobody’s around to remind you otherwise.
Solomon put words to this centuries before Elijah ever had his moment under the bush: two are better than one, because when one falls, the other can help them up — but pity the person who falls with no one there to lift them (Ecclesiastes 4:9-10). He goes further: a cord of three strands isn’t easily broken. Not two. Three. You need God in this, obviously. You also need the people He puts around you. Pull one strand out and the whole thing frays a lot faster than you’d like.
That’s what a local body of faith (church) actually is. Not a building you attend. Not content you consume on your own time. It’s the specific, nearby, sometimes-frustrating group of people God has planted you next to, so you have somebody to hand the rope to when you fall, and somebody whose rope you’re holding when they do. You can’t do that through a screen. You can’t do that alone in your car with worship music and good intentions.
The writer of Hebrews knew people would be tempted to drift away from gathering — it’s why he wrote, “And let us consider one another in order to provoke love and good works, not neglecting to gather together, as some have made a habit, but encouraging each other” (Hebrews 10:24-25, CSB). Not a suggestion. Not a nice-to-have if your schedule allows. Provoke each other toward love. Show up. Encourage somebody. That’s the job.
Growing close to Jesus by yourself has a ceiling. Not because His power is limited — because your ability to see what you can’t see is limited, and you were never built to catch everything on your own. You need other people’s eyes, other people’s prayers, other people’s “hey, I noticed you’ve been quiet” text messages.
Because nobody in Scripture ever did this alone. Not one person. So don’t be the exception this week — text somebody, sit with somebody, show up somewhere. Provoke somebody toward love, on purpose.
by Jessica Fields | Sep 9, 2026 | Doctrine, The Church Defined
I’ve been rewatching every single Marvel movie — all 65-plus of them — getting ready for the new Avengers movie that comes out later this year. Yes, I have a plan. Yes, it’s color-coded. Don’t judge me.
Recently, I arrived at Avengers: Endgame, and even knowing exactly what happens, that one scene still got me. 7-year old Spoiler Alert, years of movies, dozens of characters, an entire universe building toward one final battle. The good guys have lost. Half of everyone they love is gone. The villain is standing right there, seemingly unstoppable. And then, one by one, every hero who’s ever fought in this story — the ones you thought were gone for good — starts stepping back onto the battlefield. All of them. Together. For one last stand.
Then Captain America, the guy who’s spent the whole story trying to hold this team together, looks around at everyone who just showed up, and says two words: “Avengers, assemble.”
I got chills. Again. For probably the tenth time watching this movie.
What actually gets me in that scene isn’t the fight — it’s everyone showing up. Not one hero saving the day solo while everyone else watches. All of them. Together. On purpose. For one mission.
And I couldn’t stop thinking: this is what it’s supposed to feel like when the people of God assemble.
The word “church” in the New Testament is ekklesia — a word that, before it ever meant anything religious, referred to an assembly of citizens gathered for a common purpose. Not spectators. Not an audience. A people summoned together to actually do something. That’s what the word meant before Christians ever picked it up: assemble, because there’s a mission, and no one does this one alone.
God’s been building this idea long before Captain America picked up that shield. He told Israel, “you will be my own possession out of all the peoples… you will be my kingdom of priests and my holy nation” (Exodus 19:5-6, CSB). A people, assembled, for a purpose. Peter says the same thing to us: “you are a chosen race, a royal priesthood, a holy nation, a people for his possession” (1 Peter 2:9, CSB). That’s not a description of a building. That’s the call. Church, assemble.
And just like in the movie, showing up isn’t optional if you actually care about the mission. You don’t get to sit this one out and let everyone else do the work. If you’re part of the assembly, the mission is yours too — not the staff’s, not the elders’, yours.
And it doesn’t end when the service does. Sunday’s just the moment the assembly gathers in one room. Monday, that same assembly goes to work, goes to school pickup, goes to the grocery store — still fully on mission, still fully the church, whether or not anyone’s watching.
That’s the church. Not perfect, not finished — but still assembled, still called, still fighting for something bigger than any one of us, because our King already stepped onto the battlefield, already faced the real Villain, and already won. Not “will win eventually.” Won. Past tense. Finished. We’re not showing up hoping for a miracle. We’re showing up because the miracle already happened, and now we get to live like it.
That changes everything about why we gather. It’s not a last stand. It’s not a desperate rally before the credits roll. It’s a victory parade for a battle that’s already been won, and you get to be part of it — not because the odds finally turned in our favor, but because they were settled the moment Jesus walked out of that tomb.
Where has God been calling you to show up and assemble — not solo, not from the sidelines, but shoulder to shoulder with the rest of His people?
