(Ir)religiosity

The following is a parable a wrote some time ago.  I am re-posting it here in its original form without revision.

There was once a very poor man, an addict in fact, who made his home on the streets of a very large affluent city.  Indeed, he lived off the leftovers of the rich.  All his life this man had never darkened the doors of a church, nor heard the message of the gospel, though many monolithic churches abounded in the city.

As it happens on a particular Sunday, for no particular reason, this man decided to attend a church service.  He chose a very ordinary looking church, one with red brick, a full parking lot, and a tall, white steeple rising high into the air, almost as if to reach the heavens.

The man arrived as the sermon was already in progress, he seated himself in a near empty pew in the back of the sanctuary and began to listen. He was quite surprised, indeed startled to hear the preacher angrily delivering a message of judgment and condemnation.  He sat petrified in disgust and even fear as the preacher began to bellow louder and louder about the in inherent wickedness of humanity and the impending damnation that awaited all persons in eternal torment.  The man began to wonder why he was put on this earth in the first place.

As the message of sin and death wore on and became more explicit, the poor addiction ridden man, who no doubt came to seek comfort and alleviation from his pain among these Christians, grew even more distraught and disenfranchised than before.  Having heard quite enough of this “good news,” the man stood up while the preacher was still pontificating and exited the church.

He walked away from the building and toward the outskirts of the city.  He approached a bridge spanning a massive river below.  He walked to the middle of the bridge and climbed outside the guardrail to the very edge.  He looked over the edge at the water below, waited a moment, and then stepped off falling to his death.

Are we brokering a gospel of restoration or one of death?