Come And Go

Have you ever heard of the creature called a Push Me Pull You?

It comes from the old Doctor Dolittle stories—a curious animal with a head at each end. Each head knows exactly which direction is right, and each pulls with conviction. The problem is they’re attached to the same body.

Sometimes the church looks exactly like that.

One head is facing outward, shouting, “Go ye into all the world!”

The other head is facing inward, warning, “Come out of her, my people!”

And in the middle, the poor body of Christ twitches, jerks, and strains—but never really moves.

The Push Me Pull You isn’t wicked—it’s just divided. And that’s the risk of every congregation that forgets Jesus gave both commands. He told us to come out from the world’s corruption and to go into the world’s need. He never meant one command to cancel the other. He meant them to complete each other.

This message is about that tension—about the Minglers and the Isolationists. Both love God. Both read Scripture. But one believes holiness means separation, and the other believes holiness means participation. And when they pull apart instead of walk together, the body of Christ becomes a Push Me Pull You—earnest, exhausted, and stuck.

Both commands come from the same Savior. In Revelation 18:4, God calls, “Come out of her, My people, that ye be not partakers of her sins.” That’s a call to purity—to step away from the world’s values, pride, and compromise. Then in Mark 16:15, Jesus commissions, “Go ye into all the world, and preach the gospel to every creature.” That’s a call to proximity—to step toward people with the love of God.

One protects the truth; the other projects it. One withdraws from sin; the other engages the sinner. Both are necessary for a living church. But human nature loves simplicity. We pick a side. Some circle the wagons; others drop the gates. Some make holiness the goal; others make hospitality the gospel. And so, the church becomes divided—half holy, half helpful—but rarely whole.

The Minglers love people. They believe the best way to reach the world is to be among it. They’re the ones who invite neighbors to dinner, join the city clean-up, and make friends easily. They see every stranger as a potential friend and every conversation as an open door. They have big hearts and they mirror Jesus’ willingness to sit with tax collectors, eat with sinners, and listen to outcasts.

But their weakness? Sometimes the line between compassion and compromise blurs. In trying to reach everyone, they risk becoming just like everyone.

They forget that Jesus ate with sinners but never became one. He sat at their tables but never bent to their values. Minglers mean well, but sometimes their salt dissolves in the stew—they lose distinctiveness in the name of connection. The gospel becomes polite rather than powerful, and grace becomes a kind of sugar that hides the taste of truth.

The Isolationists love God’s Word. They guard truth like a treasure and defend holiness like a fortress wall. They remember that sin is contagious and that compromise starts small. They take seriously the call to “be not conformed to this world.” And that’s good—until protection turns into paralysis.

Isolationists can build their walls so high that no one outside can see the light within. They end up preserving truth in jars, keeping doctrine pure but people distant. The gospel becomes guarded but not given. They resemble light hidden under a bowl—still bright, but no longer blessing. Their salt stays in the shaker—pure, but purposeless.

Isolation keeps the faith intact but ineffective. They forget that Jesus, who prayed, “Keep them from the evil one,” also prayed, “I do not ask that You take them out of the world.” He wanted His followers safe from sin, not separated from sinners.

And here’s where it hurts. The church isn’t just split—it’s sparring. The Minglers shake their heads, saying, “Those Isolationists are so cold, so judgmental.” The Isolationists cross their arms and say, “Those Minglers are so worldly, so naïve.” Each group thinks it’s defending Jesus—but all we’re doing is dividing His body.

Salt and light were never meant to compete. They were meant to complete. Salt without light becomes flavor without direction. Light without salt becomes brightness without depth. And while we argue about methods, the world keeps decaying and darkening.

We fight to prove who’s right, not realizing we’re both wrong when we fight each other. The real enemy isn’t across the aisle—it’s in the shadows. It’s the rot of sin and the chill of indifference that we were both sent to confront. We don’t need to out-shout each other. We need to out-shine the darkness.

Jesus walked the narrow path between the two commands. He mingled without moral drift. He separated without spiritual pride. He entered homes the religious avoided—and left those homes transformed. He stood in synagogues, preached on mountains, dined with Pharisees, touched lepers, blessed children, and forgave adulterers. He was the purest life ever lived—and yet the most approachable man who ever walked. The holy One who was not hostile. The compassionate One who never compromised. He was salt that never lost savor, and light that never dimmed.