Walking With Christ

The parking lot was full.

Bright white lamps buzzed overhead, stretching shadows across rows of cars that all looked the same.  The doors slid open and closed in a steady rhythm, too smooth to be human, too precise to be accidental.  A low hum rolled out from inside, the sound of machines keeping time, like the heartbeat of something vast and alive.

People poured in, carrying lists written in haste, eyes fixed on what they expected to find.  Nobody asked where it came from, only that it was always there.  The promise was simple:  everything you could ever need, under one roof.

It hadn’t always been this way.

The Beginning

The first store was small.  A bell over the door, a clerk behind the counter, dust on the shelves.  Prices were fair, the owner remembered your name, and if you lingered too long, someone would ask how your family was doing.  There was warmth then.  It was uneven, imperfect, human—but it was real.

People said, “This place is different.  This feels like home.”

The store grew, not because of ads, but because people told their neighbors.  Word spread:  here was a place you could trust.  And in time, growth came—bigger aisles, brighter lights, more shelves, more choices.

The warmth never disappeared all at once.  It faded, slowly, like breath on a mirror.

The Expansion

Expansion looked like blessing.  The new stores gleamed.  The doors opened wider, the shelves stacked higher.  Prices dropped lower than anyone thought possible.

Competition couldn’t keep up.  Mom and pop stores closed one by one.  Windows went dark on Main Street, while the superstore parking lots filled.

People cheered. “It’s so convenient,” they said.  “Why go anywhere else?  Everything is here.”

And so, they stopped looking anywhere else.

The Machine

The hum grew louder.  Workers wore uniforms.  Smiles stayed fixed, but eyes grew tired.  The shelves were never empty, but the goods weren’t the same.  Food that filled the stomach but not the soul.  Clothes that wore out too soon.  Tools that broke before the work was done.

But still, the crowds came.  They said, “Where else would we go?  Here, everything is under one roof.”

Nobody noticed the smell at first.  A faint sweetness in the air, like fruit gone bad in the back room.  A whiff of rot behind the walls.

The Blindness

The more the smell spread, the louder the music played.  Commercials drowned out the whispers.  Shoppers hurried through the aisles, clutching their bargains, eyes forward.

Some slowed down.  They sniffed the air, frowned, and said, “Something isn’t right here.”

But they were shushed.  “Don’t cause division.  Don’t tear down what God is building.  Look how many people are here.  Look how alive this place is!”

And so, the shoppers quickened their pace.  They turned up the music in their earbuds.  They chose to believe the slogans instead of their senses.

The Watchmen

But not everyone could ignore it.  Some voices rose above the hum.

“The flame is gone,” they cried.  “The lamps are cold.  The shelves are full of hollow things.  This isn’t life—it’s a machine!”

The watchmen spoke with urgency, sometimes shouting until their lungs gave out, sometimes whispering until their tongues bled.  But their words were drowned out by louder voices.

They were branded troublemakers, traitors, even heretics.  They were cast out into the parking lot, their warnings dismissed.

The slogans won out:  “Always open.  Always full.  Always alive.”

The Counterfeit Flame

What nobody saw—what few could admit—was that the lamps had burned out long ago.  The hum wasn’t life, it was momentum.  The machine ran on its own, wheels spinning without power.

But people mistook the noise for vitality, the smoke for fire.  They stood in the fire of judgment and thanked God for the warmth.

The truth was darker:  when God’s Spirit departs, the enemy props up the shell.  Crowds roar louder, numbers climb higher, money flows thicker—all while the rot grows deeper.

The lampstand is gone, but the lights are still bright enough to fool the blind.

The Rot

The store looked alive, but it smelled of death.  The shelves gleamed, but the goods crumbled in your hands.  The workers smiled, but their eyes were hollow.

Some still said, “This is proof the enemy fears us.  Look how much attack we endure.”

But the attack wasn’t from without.  It was rot from within.

Like a hoarder’s house, it didn’t collapse overnight.  It took years of neglect, layer by layer of compromise, until the floor sagged and the walls bowed.  By the time the neighbors noticed, the place was already unlivable.

The Propaganda

The loudspeakers never stopped.  They drowned out the whispers, rewrote the story, and covered the rot with slogans.

“Stronger every year.”
“Look how many people come.”
“Look how blessed we are.”

It was North Korea with shopping carts.  The citizens starving but calling it paradise because the glorious leader told them it was so.  The shelves were empty, but the crowd kept cheering.

And anyone who said otherwise?  They were branded liars.

The Final Call

The hum slowed.  The music grew louder.  The slogans grew sharper.

And then, one day, the loudspeakers crackled, and a smooth voice rang out across the aisles:

“Come on in.  We’re always open.  You can find anything you need to believe here.  Faith is on aisle three—half off, clearance priced, while supplies last.”

The crowd surged forward.  Nobody noticed the ash in the air.

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⚔️ The Watchman’s Warning

The superstore always grows the same way:  find the healthy little shop on the corner, open a gleaming box across the street, and wait.  Crowds shift.  Shelves empty.  Windows go dark.  One more light snuffed out.

It’s no different now.  Churches plant themselves beside churches, not because the harvest is empty but because the pews are full.  They don’t compete for truth—they compete for traffic.  And where competition replaces covenant, the body of Christ tears at itself like a predator feeding on its own flesh.

This is the sign no one wants to see:  when churches fight over attendees, they are already fighting over money, not doctrine.  The store may shine.  The aisles may overflow.  But the light that matters is gone.

Faith is stacked in the clearance bin.  Salvation is pitched as a perk—free, of course, with the purchase of the pastor’s latest book.