Tag: Wedgwood Church of the Nazarene

For Fleas and Floods, I’m Thankful.

Sunday, 6:46pm – One of the congregations that uses uses our church’s building Sunday evenings calls me. The main building is flooding. It’s bad. Real bad.

I text our youth director. He’s over in the gym with a few teens from our neighborhood. He walks to the building to help. I walk over a few minutes later, after I’ve helped my wife with our nightly bedtime/bathtime routine.

I walk in to see about an inch of standing water in a hallway. Our youth director, two members from our church, and the man who first alerted me to the water all working. They’re using shop-vacs and mops. It’s bad but could be worse. And then I open doors to our sanctuary.

It’s worse. Much worse.

Throughout the facility, an area larger than my entire house is now wet.

Over an inch of water stands at the base of our sanctuary platform.

I send out some texts and phone calls to our church members and leaders from the church that rents our sanctuary. Within 30 minutes, our associate pastor and a deacon from another church are working with us.

The deacon had made a phone call on his way over. A man in their church owns a company with carpet extractors. The man arrives an hour later to deliver two commercial carpet extractors and then leaves to pick up more equipment.

First, we focus on our sanctuary. We must work fast to dry carpets around the wood pews. Replacing drywall is cheaper than replacing 16-foot pews.

We’re a motley crew of carpet cleaners, using a commercial carpet extractor, a home carpet cleaner, and two shop-vacs. Our associate pastor is working barefoot in the inch-deep water.

Eventually, our youth director and associate pastor leave for home. They both have other jobs to pay the bills. We mainly pay them with appreciation!

By around 11pm, it’s just me and the two men from the church that rents our sanctuary.

The powerful shop-vac I’m using starts hurting my ears. Our equipment is loud. We have to off our machines to hear each other talk.

I’ve already been in here 4 hours. I’m bent over on my knees with a vacuum hose pressed tightly against the carpet. My body is always in pain, but my knees, back, and hands especially begin to ache.

I put in my headphones to quiet the noise. I continue listening to the newest audiobook I’ve borrowed from the library. I read The Hiding Place by Corrie Ten Boom a few years ago, but I wanted to read it again.

I’ve just heard Ten Boom’s account of 80 women jammed into a small freight car and transported to Ravensbrück concentration camp. Many women panicked in the claustrophobic space and fainted, “although in the tight-wedged crowd, they remained upright.”

I hear her explain how sitting required coordination with the entire group. All at once, each woman sat down with their legs outstretched around the woman in front of them, like a bobsled team.

The train made a slow trip from Holland into Germany over several days. A foul stench filled the smothering boxcar as the trapped women had to urinate and defecate where they sat.

And then, with my knees on the hard floor, I hear Betsy Ten Boom’s words of thankfulness. Betsy was Corrie’s sister.  They were both arrested for helping hide Jews in Holland and placed in the same prison and concentration camp. Always a frail woman, Betsy quickly developed a high fever on the train.

“Do you know what I am thankful for?” Betsy’s gentle voice startled me in that squirming madhouse. “I’m thankful that father is in Heaven today.”

The sisters’ elderly father had also been arrested by Nazi SS, but died only a few days into his imprisonment.

My body is sore but I continue extracting water, encouraged by Betsy’s attitude of gratitude. A little water is nothing.

Extract. Dump the water. Extract. Dump the water.

About 30 minutes later I hear Corrie describe their medical inspections, which occurred every Friday. The doctors only look down each woman’s throat, examine their teeth, and then check between each finger. Yet the malnourished women must strip naked for each inspection:

“We trooped again down the long, cold corridor and picked up the X-marked dresses at the door. But it was one of these mornings while we were waiting, shivering in the corridor that yet another page in the Bible lept into life for me: “He hung naked on the cross.”

I had not known. I had not thought. The paintings, the carved crucifixes showed, at the least, a scrap of cloth. But this, I suddenly knew, was the respect and reverence of the artist. But oh, at the time (itself on that other Friday morning) there had been no reverence, no more than I saw in the faces around us now.

I leaned toward Betsy, ahead of me in line. Her shoulder blades stood out sharp and thin beneath her blue mottled skin. “Betsy, they took His clothes too.” Ahead of me, I heard a little gasp. “Oh Corrie, and I never thanked him.”

A few minutes later, I hear Betsy’s most famous expression of gratitude recorded in The Hiding Place. Corrie describes their entrance into their barracks. She recounts straw beds that are “soiled and rancid,” an overflowing toilet, a horrible stench, and wooden platforms for sleeping stacked so tightly together that women could not sit up without hitting the platform above them:

Suddenly I sat up, striking my head on the cross slats above. Something had pinched my leg. “Fleas!” I cried. “Betsy, the place is swarming with them!” We scrambled across the intervening platforms, head low to avoid another bump, dropped down to the aisle, and edged our way to a patch of light. “Here. And here another one!” I wailed. “Betsy, how can we live in such a place.”

“Show us. Show us how.” It was said so matter-of-factly, it took me a second to realize she was praying. More and more, the distinction between prayer and the rest of life seemed to be vanishing for Betsy. “Corrie,” she said excitedly, “He’s given us the answer before we asked, as He always does! In the Bible this morning…where was it? Read that part again.”

[Read The Hiding Place to learn the miraculous way God kept their Bible from being confiscated upon first entering Ravensbrück.]

I glanced down the long dim aisle to make sure no guard was in sight, then drew the Bible from its pouch. “It was in 1 Thessalonians,” I said. We were on our third complete reading of the New Testament since leaving Scheveningen [their first prison in Holland]. In the feeble light I turned the pages. “Here it is. ‘Comfort the frightened. Help the weak. Be patient with everyone. See that none of you repays evil for evil, but always seek to do good to one another and to all.’ “

It seemed written expressly to Ravensbrück.

“Go on. That wasn’t all.”

“Oh, yes – ‘to one another and to all. Rejoice always, pray constantly, give thanks in all circumstances. For this is the will of God in Christ Jesus.’ “

“That’s it, Corrie! That’s His answer…’Give thanks in all circumstances!’ That’s what we can do. We can start right now to thank God for every single thing about this new barracks.”

I stared at her, then around me at the dark foul-aired room.

“Such as?” I said.

“Such as being assigned here together.”

I bit my lip. “Oh yes, Lord Jesus.”

“Such as what you’re holding in your hands.”

I looked down at the Bible. “Yes, thank you, dear Lord, that there was no inspection as we entered here. Thank you for all the women here in this room who will meet You in these pages.”

“Yes.” Said Betsy. “Thank you for the very crowding here, since we’re packed so close that many more will hear.”

She looked at me expectantly.

“Corrie?” She prodded.

“Oh, alright…Thank you for the jammed, cramped, stuffed, packed, suffocating crowds.”

“Thank you,” Betsy went on serenely “for the fleas…”

“The fleas!!” This was too much. “Betsy! There’s no way even God can make me grateful for a flea.”

“Give thanks for all circumstances,” she quoted. “It doesn’t say ‘for pleasant circumstances.’ Fleas are part of this place where God has put us.”

And so, we stood between piers of bunks and gave thanks for fleas, but this time I was sure Betsy was wrong.”

I continue working. The work is monotonous. I’m exhausted. I keep listening.

If you’re familiar with the story, you’ll know the women later learn the reasons Nazi guards never enter their barracks… the fleas. This particular barracks was notorious among the guards for its severe flea infestation. No guard ever wanted to enter, for fear of getting fleas on themselves.

But Betsy and Corrie could keep their contraband Bible, hold Bible studies multiple times each day, and even sing worship songs, all without fear of inspection, confiscation, or punishment.

Yes, Betsy Ten Boom. I agree with you.

Thank you, Lord, for the fleas. For many years I have remembered this story. It has reminded me to thank God for all circumstances. It has reminded me our loving God may use even our most severe trials inconveniences as an unknown gift of grace to us.

I finish the audiobook that night and finally succumb to my weak body. I go home at 2:30am. I’m 32 and feel embarrassed to leave 55-year-old and 70-year-old coworkers to continue working.  As I walk in the dark early morning the few feet to my back door, I thank God for all my circumstances.

Thank you for a church that meets in our main building Sunday evenings. Without them, no one would have caught this flood until Monday morning.

That church’s pastor and leaders were away on a mission trip. But thank you, God, that you gave me the idea to share my cell number with the man in charge that night. You saved us precious time when that man immediately called my cell upon seeing the flooding.

Thank you, Lord, for three church members on the property who could immediately start working.

Thank you for our volunteer associate pastor, (a young man who accidentally entered our building two years ago when he meant to visit a different church!), who immediately drove to help upon receiving my text.

Thank you, God, for the two men from Abundant Life (the large African-American congregation that uses our building’s main sanctuary) and the men who came to help. And thank you for the commercial carpet extraction equipment they brought.

Thank you that our church, a historically ‘white’ church, have such a beautiful relationship with two Black churches that use our building.

Thank you for multiple churches and a funeral home who rent this building, allowing our congregation to keep the building when we, otherwise, would have had to sell it just to pay the bills.

Thank you for the simple ways you help us practice racial reconciliation, such as working next to these men, as we share this space.

Thank you for fibromyalgia. It daily reminds me my strength to endure comes from you.

Thank you for a frail and weak body. It reminds me I, alone, can’t save this building. It truly keeps me humble when men old enough to be my father and grandfather can work longer than me.

Thank you for the chance to serve you as I clean a building used by your Church.

Thank you, Lord, for the fleas. And thank you for this flood.

Pastor With A Plunger, Practicing the Presence


I woke up yesterday morning on the couch. A fussy, swaddled two-week old is finally asleep on my chest. Our 3-year-old sits next to me. He’s been watching train videos on the iPad for 30 minutes…while I slept. Whoops. Don’t tell his mother. She’s asleep in the bedroom, recovering from a very long night.

I hurriedly get our red-haired train fanatic ready for Mother’s Day Out. Momma does this faster than me. But she’s busy nursing the baby. I hear crying from the back seat during our entire 8 minute car ride. He wanted to stay home today. We arrive 10 minutes late.

On my way home, I stop by a homeless hideout. It’s behind a row of businesses. A man I’ve been working with is in his sleeping bag. He doesn’t think the help I’ve offered him is enough. So he’s back here again, trying to make it on his own, sleeping by the dumpsters.  I wake him up and we talk for a while.

A few weeks ago, a drug dealer came here and offered one of the guys $1,000/week, an apartment, and a BMW. All this homeless man had to do was make some weekly “deliveries.” He rejected the dealer’s offer and immediately called my cell. He needed encouragement that he’d just made the right decision. Fast food employees go in and out a back door, taking trash to the dumpsters. They recognize the homeless man, but not me. I wonder what they’re thinking as I see them steal furtive glances my way. Who do they think I am? Another drug dealer? A friend? 

I try having a meaningful conversation as I sit on the dirt. But I’m also watching out for ants that may bite my leg at any second.

My offer of help is politely refused today (but accepted later that night, before the rainstorm comes). I get back in the car and head for home.

I see I’ve missed two phone calls and two texts. I’m needed at church. A storage closet is locked and I’m the Keeper Of The Keys.

I pull into the garage just as someone else is pulling up to our front door. It’s a kind friend who’s donating her double stroller to us. She shows us how to use it, then asks me how to best help when people ask for money on the streets. That woman yesterday in the grocery store parking lot…should she have given her money? Is that just enabling addictions?

I encourage her to ask the Holy Spirit for guidance in each interaction. Lancaster Street has three organizations that can truly help them. Beyond that, I have no good answers.

Two more missed texts. I forgot about the locked storage closet. I’ve now kept a person waiting at church for 45 minutes. Whoops. I go unlock the door.

I’m now talking with a homeless man who’s working inside. I’m paying him a little to help us at church. We’re interrupted…The women’s bathroom in our building’s old section flooded.

A sink won’t drain. A slow stream of water filled the wash basin all night, even with the faucets turned off. And the shutoff valve underneath is rusted stuck. It’s a trifecta of plumbing woes.

As weird as it sounds, this is a pretty normal morning for me.

I grab a plunger. The wet carpet sloshes beneath my feet. I begin plunging the sink.

Down. Up. Down. Up. Down. Up.

Nasty brown debris comes out of the drain. It’s just rust…I hope.

I suddenly remember Brother Lawrence, a 17th century monk. A priest compiled a list of Lawrence’s personal resolutions, from what we would call ‘journal entries.’ The man also transcribed several conversations he had with Brother Lawrence. Lawrence’s writings and conversations became known as a work entitled The Practice of the Presence of God.

Brother Lawrence served as a cook in his monastery for many years. An old injury and limp eventually forced Lawrence to take a job with less standing — mending monk’s old and sweaty sandals. In a hot kitchen, Lawrence first learned to “practice the presence of God” while preparing food, cleaning pots, and cooking over fires.

My sink plunging continues. Am I plunging the way my preaching professors taught me in seminary?

Down. Up. Down. Up. Down. Up.

Brother Lawrence once said:

“Men invent means and methods of coming at God’s love, they learn rules and set up devices to remind them of that love, and it seems like a world of trouble to bring oneself into the consciousness of God’s presence. Yet it might be so simple. Is it not quicker and easier just to do our common business wholly for the love of him?”

Renovating and repairing our church’s old facility is “common business” for me. Can I plunge this sink wholly for the love of God?

The lowly kitchen monk also said:

“Nor is it needful that we should have great things to do. . . We can do little things for God; I turn the cake that is frying on the pan for love of him.”

The sink is still clogged and now the water looks disgusting. I stick my finger down the overflow drain near the sink’s top.

Now my finger stops the plunger from pushing dirty water up through that hole and making a bigger mess.

Lawrence said:

We ought not to be weary of doing little things for the love of God, who regards not the greatness of the work, but the love with which it is performed.

A church leadership expert would probably say I should delegate work like this. Maybe I should. But the carpet is wet now. It’s too late to delegate this. Didn’t one professor say I should spend 20 hours a week preparing my sermon? Whoops. No time this week.

My hands are filthy. Water splashed on the fake marble sink and wallpaper. We really should renovate this bathroom. 

The humble monk encouraged us:

“Along with this total abandonment must go a complete acceptance of God’s will with equanimity and resignation. No matter what troubles and ills come our way, they are to be willingly and indeed joyously endured since they come from God, and God knows what He is doing.”

I’m not there yet, Brother Lawrence, but I’m getting closer. I’m learning Jesus uses these broken items in our church building for his glory. In my last post, I mentioned how Jesus gives me a new story to share each time an a/c unit breaks. This man sold us refrigerant at cost, this company gave us an amazing deal on labor. The pastor of the newest church to use our building just told me his buddy owns an a/c repair company, etc, etc.

As I stood on soggy carpet plunging the sink, a Facebook message was waiting for me in my inbox. It was from a licensed plumber. I’ve never met him. He doesn’t live in my neighborhood. We have no Facebook friends in common. Yet, he somehow heard about our church’s past plumbing problems. He messaged to say he was available this week to work for us. As I write this sentence, he’ll be here in two hours.

I’m finally learning to obey Jesus’ command about not worrying. I’m doing exactly what Jesus called me to do. I’m serving his Church. This church building is simply one more tool God uses for his Church. And Jesus will build his church. We strive to faithfully use this old, dilapidated building in ways that glorify Jesus. So, of course, Jesus would put a plumber’s random offer of help in my Facebook inbox!

Just like Brother Lawrence said, “No matter what troubles and ills come our way, they are to be willingly and indeed joyously endured since they come from God, and God knows what He is doing.” My God knew what he was doing when he allowed that trifecta of plumbing woes to come my way. He knew what he was doing when he put it on a plumber’s heart to seek me out and offer his services.

As long as I continually follow where Jesus leads, he will provide my every need. I’ll keep doing my best to love people like Jesus loves. I’ll keep seeking out the homeless behind buildings. I’ll strive to be a husband and father who honors Jesus in all I do.

I’ll continue to be a pastor with a plunger, practicing the presence of God in all I do. I haven’t reached my goal yet, but I’ll keep practicing. I’ll keep inviting God’s presence into my daily, sleep-deprived and hurried pastor’s life. And I know he will never reject my invitation to join me.

I’m a fair-weather philanthropist

umbrella

Jesus always makes provision to obey his purposes. I’m constantly preaching some variation of that message in our church. I regularly remind the people I serve “money comes from God, not people.” I talk about following Jesus wherever he leads, even if you think that will make you poorer. I say, “since everything you have is God’s, you can’t hoard his money.” I talk about doing what Jesus commands, even if you don’t have the money at the time to do it. I remind people of how Jesus multiplied one little lunch to feed over 5,000 people.

Last week, I had to practice what I preach.

It seems I’m becoming known in our Southwest Fort Worth community as the crazy pastor who practically gives away facilities space to other churches. Including the church I pastor, four churches and a funeral home currently use our building. It’s a beautiful thing.
But welcoming others into our building comes with a high wear-and-tear cost: the parking lot, door hinges, carpet, light bulbs, toilet handles, faucet valves…pretty much everything. It also costs us, and every other group in our building, scheduling flexibility. We can’t just plan a special event when we want. We first check that others aren’t using our space at that time. But the biggest cost in Texas is probably the wear and tear on our old, inefficient a/c units.

A/C specialists have recommended we replace almost every a/c on our property. So, adding several hours of usage each month is no small thing. These a/c units and their expensive bills used to cause me stress. Now I (usually) see them as one more way God is glorified in our church. Every time a unit breaks, I share another story of how someone gave us a great deal, we bought refrigerant at cost, another church paid the bill, etc.

In two weeks, a fifth church will call our building “home.”  Once again, I had to discuss the cost of using our facilities. It will cost us more wear-and-tear, and requires turning 3 more rooms for children’s classes, including my office. Our church has 22,000sq feet, but it’s pastor has no office. Jesus leads in strange ways.

As a leader, I have two choices when discussing rent amounts. Either I recommend we charge as much rent as possible to replenish our bank account or I practice what I preach.

I texted a church board member my thoughts on what we should charge:

“I would like us to be as generous with [the new church] as others have been with us. It leaves much more room for God to work. [One of our current renting churches] raising the rent on themselves twice and paying for things they’re not required to is a more powerful testimony of God’s provision for us than if we simply required more rent. One way leaves room for God to place it on other believers’ hearts to be generous and trust Him with money. The other way puts us more in control of money and creates more “room” for potential resentment.”

Super-spiritual generosity, right? I’d clearly seen God work, and I expected him to work again. The church I mention in the text decided they should start paying more in rent. They then raised the rent on themselves a second time a few months later! Who does that?? A few months ago, I learned they paid over $300 to service a few of our a/c units! I only learned about it because they thought I should have proper records for all maintenance work on property. God blessed our generosity by bringing a generous church to rent space from us.

But last Monday, the same day I was discussing rental payments with the incoming church, I learned another a/c compressor went out in our main sanctuary. That’s the second sanctuary air conditioner to fail in three weeks. It turns out, I don’t feel so generous after something expensive breaks.

I’m a fair-weather philanthropist.

I know God has the power to raise Jesus from the dead, but does he have the power to supply all our needs if I’m generous with this new church? The first Christians in the Bible sacrificial gave to others, but we can’t do that. We need to look out for ourselves. I haven’t had a pay raise in over three years!

Even pastors get confronted with their own hypocrisy. Do I believe what I preach? The Apostle Paul, one of the earliest Christian writers, told a group of Christians, “God shall supply all your needs.” Do I believe that?

In the Bible, Acts 20:35 says “it’s more blessed to give than to receive.” But my sweat glands tell me it’s more blessed to feel cold air against my skin than help another church. Medicaid just picked up the entire delivery bill for our new baby. Shouldn’t I try to get a pay raise before I think about helping another church find cheap meeting space? Isn’t that just good business? Isn’t that being a good father?

But Jesus already reminded me he is a Good Shepherd. Practicing Christ-like hospitality hasn’t yet hurt our church, or my family. Why should it hurt us now? So, I left that meeting, and talking with our church treasurer, with a firm decision of Faith. We will trust Jesus.

We can trust him with broken a/c compressors. We can trust him with our church’s finances. I can trust him with my family’s finances. Jesus will never fail us when we follow his example of radical generosity. Just yesterday, I told our congregation my firm belief God has a purpose for keeping our church in our building instead of selling it: to be a blessing to other churches that need space. And Jesus reminded me that he always

And so, this fifth church will also pay very little to use our space.

Even more well-meaning friends will recommend raising rent. But I will trust Jesus. 

Air conditioners will break. But I will trust Jesus.

Family expenses will continue racking up. But I will trust Jesus.

After that meeting, I went home to my wife, 3-year-old, and 3-day-old. I checked the mail. A couple who used to attend our church sent us a card. They moved away 6 months ago and we haven’t spoken since. Enclosed in their card was a check to my family for $1,000. If those friends are reading this, thank you.

I am learning to be a husband, father, and pastor who seeks the Lord, before seeking financial security, peace of mind, or anything else. Jesus said “Seek first his kingdom and his righteousness, and all these things will be given to you as well.”

I don’t need to raise rent on other churches serving their communities to pay our church’s bills, or for my family’s bills. I don’t need to guilt church members into giving (but disguised as a sermon series on stewardship). I don’t need to scare people Sunday mornings into thinking we’ll close tomorrow if they don’t put enough in the offering plate. God is providing for all of my family’s needs (and most of our ‘wants’) in this simple life we’re living. And just like Jesus’ gentle whisper last week from the laundry room, he spoke to me again…

“I will always make provision to obey my purposes.”

Jesus’ purpose is that I lead our church in the way of Christ-like hospitality towards other churches and ministries in need. And he will always provide ways to obey that purpose, including sending $1,000 checks from across the country.

The question is not, “Will God provide?” but “Are we obeying his purposes?”

 

 

Food he daily gives the hungry,
sets the mourning prisoner free,
raises those bowed down with anguish,
makes the sightless eyes to see.
God our Savior loves the righteous,
and the stranger he befriends,
helps the orphan and the widow,
judgment on the wicked sends.

–“Praise the LORD! Sing Hallelujah!” 1887

Jesus Is Calling Me to the Laundry Room

washing-machine

I turned down an invitation to apply for pastoral openings at some good churches this week.
Our denomination has a title called District Superintendent. One of the many jobs they do is help churches on their district find a new pastor when the previous pastor leaves.
A DS from another state sent me an email. He asked me to send him my résumé. He heard one of my former ministry professors speak very highly of me. Of course, he’s never heard one of my long-winded sermons!
He requested I consider applying for some of the open pastoral positions in this other state.

A terrific recommendation and a request that I apply for some job openings. Isn’t that the clear voice of God saying it’s time to go pastor a different church?

In the Gospel of John, Jesus describes himself as the “Good Shepherd.” He says “My sheep listen to my voice; I know them, and they follow me.”
I heard my Good Shepherd’s voice this week. But he was not calling me to another church. He was calling me to my laundry room.
Our church is 20 minutes away from the homeless shelters near downtown Fort Worth. You’ll always find homeless up there around Lancaster Street. But, if you pay attention, you’ll find many homeless in our neighborhood. They get cups of free water from the gas station, pick up leftover food as the restaurants close each night, and hide behind dumpsters. I see the “regulars” as my son and I walk to the dollar store. The regulars in our area know our church now.
When a new homeless person asks the Goodwill store across the street for help, the employees send them to the Parsonage (the house in church property where we live– where the “Parson” lives).

The “regulars” have used our church overhangs for shelter during the rain. They rarely join us Sunday mornings because crowds now make them jittery after years of living alone.

But they stop and talk to me as I work out in the yard. I sometimes pay them a little cash for odd jobs around our dilapidated church buildings. They mow the lawn, mop the floors, dig ditches, and throw away years of accumulated church clutter.

As they work, I make them a sandwich and wash their dirty clothes. It always takes two, sometimes three, wash cycles to remove the smell. If they have both light and dark clothing, I wash them separately to insure their darks aren’t covered with white fuzz balls after drying. As the second load waits by the washing machine, their smell overpowers our small laundry room. We open the window.

There’s a story about one of God’s ancient prophets. God said he would soon show himself to Elijah. As the prophet waits for God to appear, a cataclysmic wind “tears the mountains apart,” an earthquake strikes, and a sudden fire appears. But the Bible says the “LORD was not in them.” The Bible says God finally shows up to speak with Elijah in “a gentle whisper.”

Every apparent act of God…isn’t.

A homeless man’s clothes were in our laundry room when I received that email. But my Good Shepherd’s voice was not in that email. He wasn’t telling me to leave my current church.
Instead, I heard Jesus’ voice calling out from the laundry room. I heard him repeating the words he said 2,000 years ago…”whatever you did for one of the least of these brothers and sisters of mine, you did for me” (Matthew 25:40). Once again, Jesus said he did not come to be served, but to serve” (Mark 10:45).
And so, I washed the dirty clothes of a homeless man. Jesus washed feet. I wash clothes. I washed, dried, and folded them with care.
As I folded this man’s underwear, I suddenly pictured Jesus’ last supper with his disciples.
I pull the underwear from the dryer last. Will this man be embarrassed when he receives his clean underwear? I fold it and place it underneath other clothes. Where the disciples embarrassed when Jesus held their dirty feet in his hands? The Bible says “love covers a multitude of sins.” Did the human embodiment of Perfect Love try to cover each disciple’s wet, dirty feet from the view of other watching disciples? Would Jesus have hidden the underwear in the middle of the folded pile, as I just did?
Other pastors will receive an email similar to the one I read last week. ‘Their name came up…would they like to interview?, etc.’ A few pastors will hear their Good Shepherd’s voice in those emails. They will hear a call, like ancient Abraham, to leave a familiar home and follow God where He leads them. But, to borrow a phrase from Elijah’s story, the LORD was not in my inbox.
The email was flattering. But it was not the voice of God. I believe I already heard God’s voice 10 months ago say I would serve the people at my church for a very long time.

Most of us want God to show up in the windstorm or the fire from heaven. Am I the only one who reads into every big life event as some sort of special sign from God?
How easily I could have claimed God sent me a message, right there in my inbox. Finally! I’ll go pastor somewhere my family doesn’t have to use food stamps and Medicaid for survival. Thank you Jesus!

If you go looking for it, you’ll always find that “greener grass” on the other side of some fence. I spent last Tuesday morning praying about my family’s finances. I told God he had to do something to cover the extra expenses we’re incurring as we expect our second child in only a few days.
Maybe I could pastor somewhere else, where I don’t have beg God for money.
Kelly checked the mail Tuesday afternoon. She found a letter from the state of Kansas. They tracked us down even though we changed addresses twice. We have $320 in unclaimed property from the state.
And I heard my Good Shepherd remind me of Psalm 23….”He makes me lie down in green pastures.”

I need not search for greener grass on the other side of a fence. That’s God’s job. Jesus is my Good Shepherd. He will always lead me to green pastures. I need only follow his voice.
Jesus led me to pastor a church that now looks as diverse as our community. Jesus led me to a church building that now houses 3 other churches (soon to be 4), a funeral home that serves poor families, and an incomplete gym that serves thousands of meals to needy children each summer.
Jesus hasn’t mistakenly led me to the wrong pasture. I am exactly where he wants me, doing exactly what he intended. He knows our financial situation and will always provide what we need. He knows our building is leaking from that rainstorm He sent this morning. He knows the difficulties of continually serving poor people who can’t afford to repay us. My Shepherd is Good. He knows what he’s doing. I trust in the One who gave his life for me. And I will live in this green pasture until he leads me out of it.

As I type these very words, another homeless man’s clothes just finished the spin cycle in our donated washer. Jesus is calling me from the laundry room, “Go start another load.”

“I heard the voice of Jesus say,
“Come unto me and rest;
lay down, O weary one, lay down
your head upon my breast.”
I came to Jesus as I was,
so weary, worn, and sad;
I found him in a resting place,
and he has made me glad.”
— “I Heard The Voice of Jesus Say” 1846 Horatius Bonar

Whites Were Minorities At My Church Sunday

I’m a white pastor. As I spent years in undergrad and graduate school preparing to be a pastor, I generally had the mindset of a typical white middle-class male. I grew up in a wonderful white middle-class church and always assumed I would serve in a church similar to my upbringing.
I usually ignored discussions and learning opportunities in school about multicultural ministry. I (thought I) recognized how important those issues were. But I didn’t think they applied to my future context. I assumed I’d serve at a church where most everybody looked like me. I’d be a pastor who welcomed everyone, but I wouldn’t actively seek to pastor a multicultural church.

Then…Jesus called me to pastor a historically white church in, what is now, a very diverse community.

For 3 years, I’ve been praying our Sunday morning services would “look” as diverse as our community. I’ve never had an agenda to become a multicultural/multiethnic church. My agenda was that we look like our community, which happens to be multicultural/multiethnic.

I’ve made decisions as a pastor that would actively push us towards greater diversity, including: 1) deciding against selling our our building to find a new location and 2) moving my family into the neighborhood.

When I noticed our white members weren’t interacting as much as I hoped with our non-white guests, I brought in round tables and forced people to sit across from each other during service. One Sunday each month, we do nothing but eat breakfast together. I creatively called this breakfast time on Sunday “Breakfast Sunday.” We’re a diverse bunch, but not the most creative. Creative types, come join us!

When I noticed our veteran members couldn’t remember the names of our newer members, I started inviting people to speak up with prayer requests, praises, answers to questions during sermons, etc. Each time I call on a person to share, I say their name. When they finish speaking, I thank them and say their name again.

I regularly talk about race. I keep reminding our people I don’t have plans on leaving.

I’m fighting hard to create a sense of community in our increasingly diverse church. Some people don’t care for the tables. Some feel uncomfortable when I say I plan on being here 20 years. Some don’t care for the breakfasts, and a pastor who can’t say anyone’s name just once. But these things seem to be working.

*Note: I believe God gave me all these ideas, which could be why they are working for us. They might be awful ideas for your church if Jesus doesn’t lead you to do them. *

The journey to change has been long and, at times, painful. For some people, the changes were more than they could bear. It often felt like more than my wife and I could bear. I praise God for good Christian counseling. Several people recommended I quit. I turned down two other ministry positions and refused to put out my resume to other churches.

I wasn’t trying to be a martyr. I just believed I was exactly where God wanted me. I thought it would be a sin for me to leave. I still believe that. In fact, I think God wants me to stay here for at least another 20 years. We’ll see if I heard him correctly regarding the timeline.

Last Sunday, we hit a milestone that’s been 3 years in the making…whites were a minority at church last Sunday. Ok, it was only by 1. But still, they were a minority. More non-white people attended our worship service than white people.

The children attending our church’s summer day camp and the volunteer teens running it with me are almost 100% non-white — predominantly African-American.

Our congregation now shares our building with two Black churches and one Korean church. A funeral home, owned by a Latino man, now resides within one corner of our church building. Mr. Garcia provides funeral services to everyone, regardless of their ability to pay. This has become a valuable resource to poor families in our community.

My wife, our son, and I live in the house on our church property (called a “Parsonage”). Almost every single neighbor on our street is African-American. A family from Kenya just moved into the tri-plex across the street.

Well-meaning people told me to buy a gun before moving in. I did not. Instead, I almost cleaned out our savings to renovate and furnish the Parsonage. I was happy to show our church and our community we weren’t going anywhere. We’re committed to this church and to this neighborhood. And we’re not afraid to live here. Besides, why would I be afraid to live on the same street with fellow church members and people I call friends?

Many of our neighbors live in Section 8 duplexes and/or receive housing vouchers.  Although God has provided above and beyond what we need, we, too, have learned the unique challenges of being on government assistance in our country.

As I walked the dog this morning at the park by our church, I passed other walkers who were either Black or from India. I’ve even been working with two others on a plan to use our church building as the location for an Indian church. The first Spanish-speaking church we planted now meets 25 minutes away. We’ve been praying for the last 3 months how we can, once again, serve our Spanish-speaking neighbors.

For me, following Jesus led us to a place I never would have imagined, trying my best to serve people who have experienced things I will never understand. Jesus usually leads us to places we wouldn’t pick for ourselves.

I don’t know how to solve the racial, poverty, and immigration issues in our country. But I do know that following Jesus down this path, where I live among and serve people who don’t look like me, has changed me for the better.

“Trust and obey,

For there’s no other way

To be happy in Jesus,

But to trust and obey.”