Page 4867 – Christianity Today (2024)

“The leader who gets too far in front of his people is often mistaken for the enemy,” says Dennis Sawyer, quoting an old adage to describe how he feels about this article, first published in LEADERSHIP’s Winter 1984 issue. Obviously, this is a man who wants to see pastors lead the charge without getting shot in the back.

The first readers of this article responded so enthusiastically, we knew we’d have to include it in our series of classics. But after a decade and his move from the Midwest to Seattle, we asked Sawyer if the lessons still proved helpful in sparking a vision.

“No, not helpful,” he responded. “I’d say imperative. Serving a different church in a different region has only reinforced what I’d learned, especially the concept that everyone needs to be needed.”

Sawyer continued, “Building relationships is more important than vision. It’s through relationships that you inspire and encourage. Without relationships nothing happens.”

The warmth of the autumn sun through the bedroom window aided my mellow reflection. Sunday afternoon naps were a luxury of this interval in my life. I had resigned a productive but stressful pastorate ten months before to slow down, do some thinking, and await further direction.

The phone rang. I reached across the bed to answer it.

Eric Pearson introduced himself as an elder of Philadelphia Church in Chicago, two thousand miles away, and then inquired whether I would be interested in candidating for the position of pastor.

I took a deep breath. “Before I answer that, Eric,” I replied, “I need to ask two questions. First, are you planning to stay in the inner city or move to the suburbs? Second, if you opt for staying, are you willing to make the necessary changes to reach the community for Christ?”

“I can answer both of those now if you like.”

“Actually, I’d prefer an official response from the church leadership,” I said. My insistence grew out of what I knew about this particular congregation. It had begun under the name Filadelfia Forsamlingen in November 1925, in a storefront building three blocks south of Wrigley Field. A haven for Swedish immigrants, it had named itself after the mother church in Stockholm. For the first fifteen years, almost all of its services were in Swedish.

The church had grown steadily, made the transition to English, moved into a large building easily seating seven hundred-and filled every seat. But in more recent times, things had changed. An average Sunday morning was now less than 200. The neighborhood was still called “Andersonville,” but as you walked along Clark Street, the few remaining Swedish bakeries were widely separated by Korean, Thai, Mexican, Japanese, and Lebanese restaurants. Senn High School nearby was alleged to be the most diverse student body in the nation, averaging between forty-nine and fifty-two nationalities attending. Many of the church’s third-generation Swedes now lived in Evanston, Skokie, or Niles, leaving behind the second-generation stalwarts, some new residents from the area, and a few “colorful” urban types.

Was there a future to match the notable past of this congregation?

Eric Pearson called back a few days later to convey the leadership’s response: “We want to stay in the city, and we are willing to make the necessary changes.”

The only remaining question was whether I had enough of what God needed to lead this fifty-six-year-old church into the 1980s.

Learning the Hard Way

If so, the lessons of the previous six years would have to be maximized. Our church in the small village of Hammond, Oregon, had grown from 150 to more than 600 during that time, with Easter crowds of up to 3,200-but not without periodic upheavals. I remember the quarterly business meeting where I suggested that qualifications for membership be clearly stated in the constitution, not simply left to verbal tradition. The atmosphere soon became electric. Verbiage flew back and forth across the room like a meeting of the Teamsters union. Maybe this church needs a different pastor, I mused, someone who doesn’t care about the future. It became the kind of night that knots your stomach and makes you promise you’ll never try to initiate another change as long as you live. The establishment reactions were the usual:

“I like it the way it is.”

“I don’t think it’s necessary.”

“I heard about a church that did something like this, and it was a disaster.”

And then, of course, the old standby: “We’ve never done it that way before.”

In spite of resistance, we made progress. I had begun as the only paid staff person, and we gradually grew to five full-time pastors. But the repeated struggles over ingredients of the vision-going to two Sunday morning services, for example, or dividing the midweek service into home meetings, or enlarging the staff-drained me and often damaged individuals in the congregation. Eventually I grew tired enough to resign the church, take a job teaching public school, and try to analyze the successes and failures of my leadership style.

Any kind of growth in any kind of church, I saw, would require constant change. I began seeking for “natural birthing” procedures that would allow future changes to be more positive, less painful. What wisdom could I take with me to the next pastorate?

The call to Chicago was the test of whether I had learned anything. I would be only the second non-Scandinavian pastor in the church’s long history. But they said they were ready for a new vision. How would it go?

My family and I have just begun our third year of ministry here. The church has grown steadily since our arrival, and the congregation exhibits a multiplicity that matches the neighborhood. There’s an air of excitement and expectancy. The fact that transitions have been smooth can be largely attributed, at least from where I sit, to the following:

The Lesson of the Printing Press

Back in Oregon, I had come to the deacon board one night with an irresistible bargain. “A single-lever, self-washing offset press in good condition for only $500-we’d be crazy to pass it up.” I cajoled until finally I convinced them we couldn’t live without this soul-saving boon to literature evangelism, and they would be wise men to authorize the purchase.

It never occurred to me that to utilize an offset press, one should first secure an operator. Five years later, the press still stood unused in the attic, a silent reminder that church leaders must promote qualified people with a vision, not just good ideas or programs. A bus without a driver, an audiovisual library without a librarian, an organ without an organist is worthless. My best idea, plan, or solution is void of life until shouldered by a person with a genuine vision of how God could use it to further his kingdom.

When we support the person with a burden, we reflect the current concern of the congregation, not the burden of someone who died ten years before. If the burden dies, we should let the program die a quiet death as well. Otherwise, some well-meaning member of the church (or the pastor!) will be exhausted trying to maintain something for which he or she has no heart. This not only wastes valuable resource people but prevents them from enthusiastically entering an area of ministry for which they are perfectly suited.

I didn’t necessarily want a preschool in the Oregon church, but Jan Rea did. She and her husband visited our service while they were camping at Fort Stevens State Park nearby. I remember shaking hands at the door, and Jan asking if we had ever thought about having a preschool. I said we would if we had a person with a vision for such a ministry. The next Sunday as they were leaving she brought up the subject again, only a bit more fervently. I gave the same answer, and they left us to return to their home in Arizona.

I was surprised to see them again late that summer. I asked how they were able to take another vacation so soon.

“Oh, we’re not on vacation,” Jan replied. “We’ve moved here so we can start a preschool; we just love the church.”

I outlined all the problems and resistance she might encounter, but she was undaunted. I had to admit she was capable. She had soon done all the research on community needs, licensing, building codes, and so forth. She made presentations to various civic groups, the church board, and committees. She and her husband even dug the post holes for the needed fence.

The truth is that for more than five years now, that church has had a successful preschool because it has had Jan Rea.

Meanwhile, it’s still waiting for a press operator. . . .

Axiom: In rekindling vision, support people, not programs.

The Lesson of the Chandelier

This lesson came not from pastoring but from my earlier days as a teacher. I had been hired as a “specialist” to bring order to a junior high class that had already gone through four teachers in three weeks.

As the principal led me into the room, I caught sight of one particular student amid the chaos. From his perch on the bookcase, he sprang upward, caught the light fixture, and trapezed out into the room, dropping to the floor.

“Students, this is your new teacher, Mr. Sawyer,” said the principal, and quickly retreated.

Where should I begin?

So many things needed changing instantly, but some were of higher priority than others. It simply would not do for me to call out “Hey! You on the chandelier, spit out your gum!” I had to prioritize the needed changes, starting with the most obvious or intolerable, and work down the list. Gum chewing would be somewhere near the bottom.

The new pastor of an established church quickly sees many changes that must occur if the church is to regain its vibrancy. But everything can’t be overhauled at once. If we take time to think through the problems and prioritize them, we will make far more headway.

A friend of mine came to a church whose building was in poor condition. Paint was peeling inside and out. The carpeting was so worn that it was actually a hazard to women wearing dress shoes. Noisy folding chairs were used instead of pews.

The wise newcomer knew he couldn’t change everything. He elected to try to inspire one very visual change, in the hope that everything else would look so shabby by comparison that people would then clamor for a transformation. He asked the church board for permission to form a committee to investigate the possible need for new carpeting.

The selected committee agreed that such a need existed. A new committee began studying how much of the building to recarpet. A different committee decided quality and cost. The final committee, based on the recommendations of the others, selected the color. By this time, nearly everyone in the church had taken part in the Great Carpet Project.

Soon after its installation, people began to paint, scrub, redecorate, and repair. They even purchased pews. An air of excitement and change blew like a fresh breeze through every area of church life.

Axiom: For effective change, prioritize carefully.

The Lesson of the Lighted Cross

When I was only twelve years old, my pastor came to me with a serious statement: “Dennis, I have a problem, and I think you’re the only person who can help.” I was dumbstruck. Here I had been coming to Brookside Baptist Church in Oakland, California, just a few months and was the only church attender in my family. What could Reverend Appleberry possibly need me for?

With deep lines of concern in his face, he convinced me that no one else in the church could possibly be entrusted with the task of watching from the back pew for his secret signal, then creeping silently out the sanctuary doors, down through the basem*nt, back up the baptistry steps, and turning on the switch to illuminate the cross while the Sunday evening congregation sang its customary benediction, “Jesus, Keep Me Near the Cross.”

I didn’t even know people went to church at night. Nevertheless, I accepted the job, and for nearly five years I assumed my assigned seat on the last pew, awaiting my secret signal. Of course, I was also drafted into the youth choir, helped in the Sunday school, attended youth meetings, and grew spiritually. The church became my ballast as I navigated the stormy teenage years.

Wise old Pastor Appleberry knew that everyone needs to feel important.

Here in Chicago, there’s a faithful member named Sigrid Peterson. We know she’s somewhere in her eighties; she doesn’t tell her exact age. She sang in the choir until just a few years ago, when it became difficult for her to stand for long periods of time. But she needed to be needed. That was when I began hunting for a genuine need (not a make-work job) she could handle. Sigrid now has a mail receptacle in the church with her name on it. All intrachurch correspondence goes to her for delivery before and after the Sunday services. She has an important task-important to us, and most of all, important to her. She is part of the new vision at Philadelphia Church.

Axiom: Everyone needs to be needed.

The Lesson of the Keys

Several years ago in Hammond, a young man named Danny volunteered to take care of the church lawn. I gave him a set of keys to the building and storage areas and told him his offer was greatly appreciated. He began doing an excellent job.

Then one day, I found him digging up the front lawn.

“Say, Danny, ahh, what’s going on?”

“Oh-I was hoping you wouldn’t see this till I’d finished. I wanted it to be a surprise.”

“Yes, well, it’s still quite a surprise. What are you doing?”

“I got this great idea,” he explained. “Wouldn’t it look great if we had a large cross of flowers growing here, surrounded with white rocks and log ends? I’ve already bought the rocks and flowers. Don’t worry-I used my own money, so nobody could complain.”

I began listing in my mind all the people who, along with me, would not be excited about Danny’s landscaping. But wait a minute-it was Danny’s responsibility to see that the area was well groomed, and he was volunteering the time and energy.

At that moment I created a homespun piece of church algebra: Responsibility + Time + Energy = Privilege.

That served me well when George approached me one day and stated he didn’t like the location of the Sunday school picnic. I asked him if he’d like to be the picnic chairman the next year. No, he wasn’t really interested in that.

“Well,” I responded, “generally it’s my feeling that the person willing to shoulder the responsibility should have the privilege of making most of the key decisions.”

Yes, there must be guidelines and limits, but in general, this approach turns on a congregation. People in Hammond began saying “my church” instead of “the church.” There was a marked increase in volunteering, and that’s when we began handing out keys by the dozen. Laverne needed one so she could arrange the altar flowers late on Saturday afternoons. Francis needed a key to have her bread and coffee warm before Sunday school. Delbert needed a key because he wanted to relieve the custodian from “doing windows.” Eighty percent of the new activity was valuable body ministry; 10 percent was all right but nothing special; the remaining 10 percent required close monitoring, correction, and sometimes cancellation. But it was worth it.

The giving of keys not only enhances feelings of ownership and commitment, but it also dilutes the established pockets of power in a church. In my present church, we probably have more than forty keys outstanding-which is crazy, given our innercity location. But people are changing, learning how to work together, exercising patience and forbearing one another in love.

Axiom: Responsibility + Time + Energy = Privilege.

The Lesson of the Platform

If the vision is valid, if the cause is just, it will often demand a hearing on its own. The best idea in the world, if presented prematurely, takes a great deal more effort to bring to fruition. But when people discover a need themselves, they feel a greater sense of responsibility to rectify the situation.

When Wes Niles became the Oregon church’s first minister of music, he did an excellent job of building up the ministry. Several times he said to me, “Pastor, we can no longer fit the choir, orchestra, piano, organ, and pulpit on the platform and still have room for you and me to function. You’ve got to get the deacons to remodel the platform.”

Finally I said, “Wes, as soon as you can, try to use both the choir and the orchestra together on a Sunday morning.”

“They’ll never fit. Pastor-that’s what I’ve been trying to tell you. I haven’t used them together for months.”

“I know,” I said. “But just squeeze them together anyway.”

He gave me an exasperated look. “You’re going to have people and music stands falling all over the place. There won’t be any room for you at all!”

“I know-but go ahead anyway. I’ll sit on the first pew instead.”

We followed my suggestion, and I must admit things were pretty chaotic. But before the week was out, several deacons stopped by with rough sketches of how the platform might be expanded to accommodate the growing needs of the music department.

On the other hand, I pushed that church into adopting a much-needed new constitution. It took months of heated discussion. People just didn’t see how the old system of checks and balances were too cumbersome for a growing church. The new constitution, when finally approved, streamlined the decision-making process, but the cost was high.

Here in Chicago, the same changes were needed. I wrote a new constitution more than a year ago, gave it to the elders-and now I am waiting. We still function under the old document. Whenever I can, I point out how much easier a procedure would be the new way. Lately, the elders have been pushing to get the new constitution approved and operational. The impetus is not the fact that the pastor wants it but rather that growth is demanding it.

The key to getting a nursery remodeled is to outgrow it. If your nursery is already over-crowded and the decision-makers don’t seem to care, make sure they (or their wives) have the opportunity to serve a few nursery duties. Additional people create the need for enlarged vision by their very presence. Thus, evangelism is not the only result of a church’s vision; it can also be the goad. As you bring in the unchurched from your community, their mere presence casts many things in a new light.

Axiom: Battling for change is less productive than letting the need become obvious.

None of the above is meant to demean the power of direct proclamation as an instrument for change. I believe in openly sharing my vision for the church and community. I work it into sermons, prayers, fellowship times, and casual conversations. As James reminds us in writing about the tongue, “A tiny rudder makes a huge ship turn wherever the pilot wants it to go, even though the winds are strong” (3:4, LB).

Some may think this is manipulation, but it is not-it’s leadership. The difference between manipulation and leadership is motive. Yes, if I want a big church, if I want a large Sunday school, if I want convert totals to notch into the spine of my leather Bible, it is manipulation. But if my motive is solely that the Lamb receive the reward of his suffering, that is leadership.

The first-grade teacher does not complain that the children do not know how to read. He teaches and inspires. He builds their self-esteem and helps them see their potential. By his words, he opens up a whole new world. “Death and life are in the power of the tongue” (Prov. 18:21).

So we teach that everyone has a place in the body of Christ. We teach that everyone has been gifted in some way for the benefit of the whole church. We teach that everyone is important to God. We also teach that Christians often work themselves out of a current job in order to move on to something more. We train our replacements, thus seeding greater growth in the future.

Rekindling vision in an established church is not just a matter of following a recipe. It is a developing of relationships-between the people and God, between the pastor and people, between one Christian and another, and between the church and the waiting world-to be the force God envisions to do his work.

Dennis Sawyer is pastor of Church by the Side of the Road, Seattle, Washington

88 SUMMER/93

Copyright © 1993 by the author or Christianity Today/Leadership Journal.Click here for reprint information on Leadership Journal.

“This is probably no surprise to you, Pastor, but the board has decided to ask for your resignation.” Frank, the board chairman John had always considered his friend, now looked cold and distant.

“Well, it is a surprise,” John stammered, feeling his pulse quicken and his face flush. “This is the first inkling I’ve had of any problem. There must be some mistake, Frank!”

“No mistake. We expect your resignation at the board meeting Wednesday night. We’ll give you a month to vacate the parsonage and three months severance pay. Are there any questions?”

There were lots of questions racing through his mind, but John heard himself whisper, “No, I guess not.”

This not-so-good-bye scenario is repeated in hundreds of pastors’ lives every month. Like John, they are often caught off guard and retreat in anguished silence, not knowing how to cope.

At some point, however, they must deal with their fear, their sense of failure, their anger. I’d like to suggest an approach for tying up the common loose ends after a painful parting.

Coming to closure

“The thing that hurts worst is the feeling of betrayal and powerlessness,” John said in our counseling session. “I’ve given my best years to those people and thought they were my friends. I still don’t really know what happened.”

That bewilderment and lack of closure inflicts the most lasting damage after a forced farewell. The loose ends need to be tied up so they don’t get snagged on the next rough surface.

Rather than simply withdrawing into angry silence, a pastor can take a more assertive posture, which may not reverse the decision of the board, but may initiate emotional and spiritual closure for the pastor and his family.

The keys are overcoming fear and using effective, straightforward communication. At John’s meeting with the board, rather than a vitriolic attack or a passive acquiescence, John had every right to some answers.

“Needless to say, I am stunned and deeply hurt by your request for my resignation. The truth is it has taken me totally by surprise. At this point I need your help. It’s hard enough to go through this, but it would really be sad not to learn something from it. Maybe I haven’t been listening, but quite honestly I missed the signals. I need you to review for me specific problems.”

Frank seemed to be the designated hitter. “John, we don’t intend to rehash . . .”

“Wait, Frank. I don’t feel understood right now. I’m not trying to defend myself or blame anyone. This is a life-shaking experience for Ann and me. I have no intention of sweeping this under the rug. I don’t think it’s good for the church either. Now, maybe each of you could just give me some valuable help in understanding myself better. Sam, what is your earliest recollection of some negative vibrations?”

Taking Frank out of the picture may help the process. Choose the least adversarial person available.

Recognize, however, that some individuals will not likely give you a straight answer. I talked to a board chairman of a prominent church that had sent their pastor to Marble Retreat for counseling. He assured me they had no intention of asking for his resignation but hoped they could help him develop better relational skills.

“No decision will be made on his position for nine to twelve months,” he announced benevolently. Four weeks later he asked for the pastor’s resignation. When I challenged him by phone, he denied having ever made such a statement. I’m reasonably sure neither I nor the pastor could have squeezed any useful information from him. Furthermore he negotiated a gag rule into the severance package.

It may be that in a group context individuals are intimidated into silence. John might have had better luck approaching Sam or any of the others in private.

Wherever or whenever, asking those questions is important for closure.

Parting in peace, if possible

Another common loose end: unresolved conflict. John told me about the ongoing tension with his music minister that eventually contributed to his termination. So often Christians attempt forgiveness without ever having identified the hurt. In tying up the loose ends of unresolved conflict, both are crucial.

John rehearsed what he might need to say to the music minister.

“Tim, since I’m leaving, I’d like very much to resolve the conflict we’ve felt. I probably need your forgiveness, and I want to be forgiving, but it’s hard to put my finger on how I’ve hurt you. Please help me understand your perspective on our disagreements.”

That sounded pretty good to me. We worked hard at not becoming defensive as Tim lists his complaints. We practiced “shifting into neutral,” to really listen and avoid justifying ourselves or blaming the other person.

It’s also important to remember that agreement is not the goal-you may never agree-yet you can come to understand his perspective and genuinely empathize.

Grieving the loss

Whether you leave a ministry under duress or in totally positive circ*mstances, there is a death: the end of a dream, the breaking of relationships, even the leaving of physical things. All require some letting go.

A last farewell, a hug, a walk along a cherished path, a final dinner, a touch, and, at times, some tears.

John and Ann announced one day, “We’ve decided to have a funeral. It’s about time we buried this thing. We and the kids are all going to write something about what we’ll miss and how we feel.” Ann said, “I’m going to sing a song of farewell, and John’s going to lead the graveside service.”

“Graveside service?” I was curious.

“Yes. We’re going to dig a hole in the woods where we picnic and put what we’ve written in a box for burial. Then we’ll agree not to dig up the past again. We can celebrate the good, bury the dead, and move on to embrace life.”

And so they did. I think that was a good step. After bringing closure, they were free to reinvest their energy into new areas. Dusting off their sandals symbolically freed them. With heads held high, they could now walk with neither guilt, grief, nor gall into the next village.

-Louis McBurney

Marble Retreat

Marble, Colorado

Copyright © 1993 by the author or Christianity Today/Leadership Journal.Click here for reprint information on Leadership Journal.

Two decades ago the use of drama in Sunday services was relatively rare. When it was used, drama was usually limited to a children’s Christmas pageant or disciples in bathrobes and sandals appearing at the Easter sunrise service.

That was then. This is now.

Today, dramatic presentations in Sunday morning worship services are becoming as common as praise choruses or keyboards. Crossing geographical and doctrinal boundaries, the use of drama has mushroomed in recent years.

Why the sudden surge of interest? LEADERSHIP asked Steve Pederson, director of drama at Willow Creek Community Church in South Barrington, Illinois, about this renaissance in church drama.

Steve has been producing dramatic presentations in church settings for over twenty years. His early efforts included a Christian theater in the basem*nt of an urban church in Minneapolis. From there, he went on to earn advanced degrees in theater and served fourteen years as a faculty member at Northwestern College in Orange City, Iowa. Seven years ago, he made the transition from the classroom to the local church when he was invited to direct the drama ministry at Willow Creek.

Your job title, director of drama, is unusual for a church. It sounds like a risky career move! What persuaded you to leave teaching to come to Willow Creek?

When Willow Creek contacted me, my initial reaction was, “No, I don’t think so.” The little drama I had observed in church settings I didn’t like.

Churches tended to define the use of drama too narrowly. Either they would limit it to retelling biblical stories and dressing all the characters in bathrobes, or worse yet, they would attempt to preach a sermon through it, wrapping everything up with tidy answers in an eight-minute sketch. The drama didn’t reflect reality as most people experienced it.

But the model Willow Creek uses I found very appealing. Rather than trying to raise and answer all the questions through the sketch, they were content to raise the relevant issues, to show the tensions. Then the pastor addressed the issues in the sermon. So rather than using drama to solve the problem, Willow Creek was simply trying to expose the pain and get the audience to identify with the characters.

How does drama create identification?

By helping the audience see themselves in the characters. That’s why we primarily use contemporary drama based on real-life experiences. The characters talk, act, and look like normal people. The audience then realizes the characters are dealing with the same problems they do at home, at work, or in marriage.

Drama in that sense helps satisfy the desire within all of us to be understood, even the secret parts of who we are.

Drama is people revealing their hidden parts, enabling us all to understand better the human condition. It creates a beginning place for the Holy Spirit to work in people’s lives.

How do you answer the criticism that drama is “too worldly” to use in worship?

The main problem is a misunderstanding of the nature of drama itself. Art, at its core, is make-believe, though our job in drama is to make it seem as true to life as possible.

We use the techniques of drama-movement, positioning, and scripting-to give it an air of reality.

People often ask how someone can take on the character of an unsavory individual without becoming like the person they’re playing. They fear, for example, that if a woman plays the part of a prostitute, her own morals will become corrupted. They see it as tampering with sin and becoming “of the world.”

The performers, though, don’t actually believe they are the person they’re playing; they’re disconnected with their character. More often than not, they are just trying to remember their next line or whether they’re at the right spot on the stage to maximize lighting. So there is little danger of their assuming the character and personality of the person they are depicting.

Those watching the drama also understand what’s happening. They agree to engage in what art critics refer to as a “willing suspension of disbelief.” They consciously pretend it’s real.

Are you playing with fire when you have a man and woman who aren’t married play the role of husband and wife?

I get asked that question a great deal. Perhaps there is a danger. But I’m very careful about the people I choose to act opposite each other. I know their spouses, I know the strength of their marriages, and I try to be sensitive to the situations I place them in.

How do you answer the criticism that drama in church is more entertainment than worship?

Entertainment is a bad word in many churches today. It has suffered from guilt by association: we tend to think of it as tawdry, cheap, or titillating.

But the term itself is not evil. Entertainment can move us powerfully and touch us deeply with truth. When it paves the way for the pastor to deal with a significant, deeply felt issue, entertainment can be a positive addition to the service. It can be used to create a response of adoration or thanksgiving or confession, as a hymn or song might do. When it becomes showy, though, calling attention only to itself, it is wrong.

If drama is just for entertainment, then we wouldn’t do it.

How do you account for the great interest in church drama these days?

Drama has become an attractive option to those who are asking, “How can we do a better job in reaching people, both the churched and the unchurched, in a creative fashion without compromising the gospel?”

For too long the church has relied on talking heads and robed choirs to reach people. Given the changes that have taken place in our culture, those two strategies won’t work as well as they did in previous generations.

How much of the appetite for drama is the result of the dominant media culture in American life?

No question the media have helped create a taste for drama. People today are so bombarded with images and fast-paced appeal that we have to speak that language to be fully understood. It’s one of those “cultural cues” the church needs to read and take advantage of in reaching people.

How has the use of drama changed at Willow Creek over the years?

Overall I’d say it has become more sophisticated, less like a skit (we prefer the term “sketch”) and more substantive. We also use more serious drama than we used to.

A turning point came with a piece entitled “Great Expectations.” (See the script on page 55.) The story focused on an infertile woman who had been waiting to adopt a baby for years. She was just three hours from picking the child up when the birth mother changed her mind. It went on to depict the woman’s anger at God. It raised the question, “Why does God dangle a carrot in front of our nose only to yank it away from us?”

So many people identified with the pain of this couple. We’ve used it numerous times in various settings. We’ve learned that serious drama, when done well, can be even more effective than lighter sketches.

Can a smaller church with fewer resources do a good job with drama?

Absolutely. Many people who visit Willow Creek assume we use professional performers. That’s not the case. Most of our actors have had little or no prior drama experience.

One of our best female performers had never acted before. She came to what was her first audition when she dropped off a friend. She happened to be standing in the hallway when someone invited her to try out. She ended up making the drama team while her friend did not. Today she’s not only a terrific actress but also a top-notch writer.

Our associate drama director, prior to Willow Creek, was in only one play his entire life, and that was in fifth grade.

You don’t know who you might have in your church.

What does it take to do it well?

Qualified leadership. At least one person with a working knowledge of the craft must be willing to lead the charge. This person doesn’t need a Ph.D. in theater, but he or she does need to be gifted in the area of drama.

If the person lacks training, the church could invest in sending a promising person to a local college to take courses in directing and acting. I’ve seen too many church productions where some basic elements of good directing were absent.

Bad drama is worse than no drama, so if you’re going to do it, make sure it isn’t shoddy.

What if a church has only one or two individuals with natural talent?

You don’t need a large performing company to produce consistently good drama; you need a leader and a few good people.

Out of everything we do in the fine arts at Willow Creek, I believe drama is the most transferable to other churches. It can involve only one or two performers, and it takes only five or six hours of rehearsal. We rehearse twice a week, once on Tuesday evening and then on Saturday afternoon just before the service.

What makes for consistently good drama?

First and foremost, the sketch needs to work well with the message. If the sketch raises questions that the sermon doesn’t answer later on, then we’ve got a problem. A great deal of coordination between what the pastor is planning to say and what we’re preparing to present on stage is necessary for success.

What was your most powerful presentation?

Perhaps one on the topic of guilt and confession. The sketch involved a grown man going back to his boyhood school. There he is confronted by the painful memory of the day he and a few of his friends tied the class sissy to the radiator and then pulled his pants down. When the bell rang and the class entered, the victim was left standing there naked, alone, and humiliated.

The memory is particularly painful because the kid who was picked on committed suicide as an adult, and the man recalling the event had for years assumed some responsibility.

When I first read that script, I hesitated. The whole incident seemed too close to the edge to produce in church. But when we performed it, the audience reaction was immediate. They seemed to put themselves into one of three groups: (a) those who had picked on others, (b) those who had been picked on by others, or (c) those who had stood silently by as others were picked on.

Once after we performed the sketch in Europe, a missionary approached me and said, “That sketch was the most powerful dramatic experience I’ve ever had.”

“Really? What made it so powerful?”

“I grew up in a Christian boarding school,” he replied. “Things happened in that school that I’ve never shared with anyone. When I saw the sketch, I wept as it all came back.”

What’s amazing is that it’s only a seven-minute sketch, not a major production. Such is the power of drama.

Are you saying, “That which is most personal is also most universal”?

I happen to have that particular saying hanging above my desk. That’s one reason why I urge our writers to write from their own experience.

One of our writers wrote a script that portrayed an angry father, criticizing his daughter for the way she was raising her kids. I read it and thought, Wait a minute, this is too much. This guy seems too vindictive and mean.

But I went ahead with it and was literally overwhelmed by the response. Numerous people approached me and said, “That was my dad.”

How do you know if a particular sketch has had the audience impact you were hoping for?

I watch the audience for attention, and I also place “thermometers” out in the congregation who tell me how they think we did. I’ll also evaluate the “laughter quotient” in some cases. If people didn’t laugh at a line I thought they would, then I make adjustments. If something falls flat the first service, I won’t hesitate to change it before the second one.

Audience reaction, though, is an inexact science. When we touch on sensitive topics, such as abortion, we know we may get mail. We make a concerted effort to be realistic, and that offends some people. Others are upset because the sketch itself isn’t more polemic. But again, our main purpose is to raise issues that the pastor will answer, not us.

Where do you draw the line to avoid offending some people’s sensibilities?

Each director needs to be attuned to his or her congregation. Respecting your audience, not trying to push them as far as you can, is important. Artists are often unwilling to make concessions to people’s sensibilities.

Today we do sketches we couldn’t have done five years ago. That doesn’t mean today’s dramas contain vulgar language or offensive content. Far from it. But the audience has grown and matured in their willingness to consider difficult and sensitive topics.

If I were trying to launch a drama program in a church, my first sketch would not be a monologue on a highly sensitive issue, such as the one we did recently on hom*osexuality. The basic rule is to use common sense.

Who makes the tough call when you know you might be close to the edge?

In our efforts to be honest, we do face hard calls. When I have questions, “Is this word proper?” or “Is this subject matter too volatile?” I run the piece by the staff programming team. If we aren’t sure, we’ll take it to a pastor or an elder.

If I know the content is on the edge, I make sure I have broader support than just from my writers or cast. I won’t make that type of judgment call on my own. The beauty of a team decision is that we all share the responsibility for the calls we make.

How can a pastor build support for a drama ministry in the church, particularly if the church is a bit skeptical of the whole idea?

Again, start with relatively safe material. Start with a sketch that contains clear gospel content, such as a mime we do entitled, “The Lane of Life.” Introduce it on a Sunday evening, or as part of a youth night, or at an alternative service.

Showing sensitivity and wisdom might be all it takes to get Aunt Tilly to give you the green light to do more. And you may need Aunt Tilly on your side. By all means, don’t get thrown out of the saddle in the first go-around.

Where can interested people find good material for this kind of drama?

That’s one of the most frequent questions we receive. We presently have four collections of sketches titled Sunday Morning Live. Each volume contains six sketches. We also have companion videos of each volume, which show all the sketches in performance. All of these resources, as well as individual scripts, are available through Zondervan Publishing Company, or by calling 1-800-876-SEEK and requesting a catalogue.

50 SUMMER/93

Copyright © 1993 by the author or Christianity Today/Leadership Journal.Click here for reprint information on Leadership Journal.

Administration constitutes another type of work for which a head is responsible. In this regard he should commit some tasks to others and reserve some to himself. As much as possible, however, he should avoid and excuse himself form any superfluous duties. Thus Christ put his disciples, including Judas, in charge of obtaining the material necessities of life, while he personally retained the duty of preaching and healing. But when he was asked to divide an inheritance among several heirs, he answered, “Who made me a judge or divider over you?” (Luke 12:13-14).

A good head delegates purely administrative responsibilities to others as much as possible. The ordinary necessities of life must indeed be taken care of, but a head who takes charge of them himself risks losing sight of the more important, nobler part of his job. In his mind’s eye he will tend to see less of the interior realities that are more necessary for salvation.

We see this in Scripture: “Choose able men from all the people, such as fear God, men who are trustworthy and who hate a bribe … and let them judge the people at all times; every great matter they shall bring to you, but any small matter they shall decide themselves; so it will be easier for you, and they will bear the burden with you” (Exod. 18:19-22).

And “It is not right that we should give up preaching the word of God to serve tables. Therefore, brethren, pick out from among you seven men of good repute, full of the Spirit and of wisdom, whom we may appoint to this duty. But we will devote ourselves to prayer and to the ministry of the word” (Acts 6:2-4).

Some leaders find it easier to delegate pastoral responsibilities than administrative work; this is a serious error. If the head has no one to whom he can safely commit his temporal duties, it is better that he even risk being defrauded in these matters rather than devote his own attention to them. Christ has given an example of this; knowing that Judas was a thief, he still allowed him to make the purchases for the whole group of disciples (John 12:6).

It is an incomparably greater loss to endanger souls than to lose material possessions.

The head should take personal responsibility for the spiritual concerns of his community. As their pastor and the guardian of their souls he ought to devote his energy chiefly to the things that pertain to spiritual progress and eternal salvation. These matters are at the heart of the shepherd’s office.

These especially are the concerns for which a head will render account before God’s judgment seat:

The head preserves discipline within the community, so that the kind of life to which all are committed is maintained.

He sees to it that the community lives together in peace and love.

He should know the moral condition of every individual in the community and help each person resolve any difficulties. He should foresee and take action against the dangers into which his brethren may be led by their sins. He warns the members to improve their conduct; he throws light on doubts and corrects what must be corrected. He gives each member suitable formation for his work, so that everyone can do what he should for the whole community, and do it correctly, without involving himself in any wrongdoing. But when men cannot be satisfied except by offending God, we owe God our obedience; we owe only patience to men who misunderstand or find fault. “We must obey God rather than men” (Acts 5:29).

For this reason, both the head and the members of a community should avoid preoccupations and excessive involvements with buildings, studies, legal actions, and other matters; these things are foreign to our call and we live more fruitfully without them. When we are taken up with them, not only do we neglect better things, but very often we fall into wrongdoing. The use of exterior things reduces the mind’s ability to perceive spiritual and interior realities, so that our desire for supernatural life grows lukewarm.

When the body suffers a wound, infections that set in at the site of the injury must be treated at once to prevent the development of ulcers or tumors; so too, one who lets himself become wholly taken up by distracting business affairs, which are like untreated and infected wounds, promotes his own spiritual extinction.

The wise head, therefore, ought to foresee the probable consequences of every project and set careful limits both on the business affairs that he lets the community take up and on the degree of involvement in such affairs that he permits. No more should be allowed than is clearly beneficial to the life of the community.

He is a careless steward in the Lord’s house who, when he already bears a heavy load in his proper work, takes on several extra burdens that he could well do without.

-Bonaventure

Copyright © 1993 by the author or Christianity Today/Leadership Journal.Click here for reprint information on Leadership Journal.

I continually have to monitor my spiritual life. How much of it is form without substance?

We stood by the casket and looked at what remained-the seemingly premature death of a good and notable theologian.

After weeks and hours attending his brother-in-law, helping him die, Tom’s emotional wounds were obvious. “This is terribly wrong,” he groaned. He strained for words to express his grief. “It’s … it’s form without substance.”

Those words, form without substance, worked their way into my mind. That is what makes death so awesome. This man should be substance, but we saw only form. The implications seemed outrageous. Form without substance is the essence of sin and its terror.

In the days that followed I was haunted by that phrase-form without substance. I thought of it as we counseled a couple, married some ten years, who had never connected in ways that bring genuine intimacy. The husband’s hierarchical definition of marriage demanded that his wife meet his needs. In the beginning she had agreed, but as she matured she became more her own person and a threat to him. He raged against her spirituality; she dug her heels in to protect her identity. The more they talked the more we realized they had the form of marriage but no substance.

The fraternity man who played the role of Lothario, boasting of his conquests, came for help far too late. He had left a trail of brokenness. His own sense of self was fractured. He spoke of “making love,” when he knew nothing of love. His involvement with p*rnography, first found in his father’s closet, had led him to see women as two-dimensional fantasies. Addicted to “form without substance,” the act without the relationship, the outline without the interior reality-could he understand the awfulness of such sin?

At dinner in a posh restaurant one evening, a young man who used to live with us, now a successful doctor, filled the conversation with namedropping. “Do you know so-and-so? He’s a friend of mine.”

His repetitions became almost a liturgy, so intent was he on convincing us of his wide influence and many friends. His climb for prominence, his ego needs, his fast-paced lifestyle: he had no real friends. When everyone is a friend, no one is. With his dollars he kept up the charade. He had people around him, but no one really knew him.

My sadness grew as I listened. More form without substance. And the emptiness of it spoke of sin.

Is this why Jesus cursed the fig tree? Is this why he spoke so bluntly to the Pharisees, calling them “whited sepulchres.” I looked again at Jesus’ warnings, his rebukes. That is what he hates-form without substance. Pretense. Words without meaning. Doing without being.

I still wince remembering the first time I had to admit my own such sinfulness. I had gone with a team of university students to lead a church’s evening service. On the way, the team leader asked me if I would give a brief testimony of what God was doing in my life. I drew a blank. I couldn’t think of anything anyone would want to hear. But I did remember something I had read that had impressed me. So I took the experience that belonged to someone else and made it my own, and came off looking good. The form of walking with God brought me praise; the awful lack of substance haunted me. I remember asking God that night how he could put up with me.

I had to talk with him the other night about another way I faked my way through a situation. My intuition picked up quickly that one of our dinner guests, a woman I was meeting for the first time, desperately needed someone who cared about what she was experiencing. I sensed her giftedness and emotional needs had been trampled in the rush of her husband’s ministry. I offered her impeccable hospitality in matters of food, comfort, and graciousness, but I stopped short of touching her real need. I was praised for my hospitality, the form was there. But the substance of what I believe God expected me to offer was missing.

It’s a sneaky business. I continually have to monitor my spiritual life. Ho much of it is form without substance My prayers. Singing the hymns. My skill in teaching the Bible.

I can say all the right words, even impressive words. But I need reminders about what impresses God. “A broken and a contrite heart, O God, you will not despise.” I do well to speak less and listen to his Word more.

“Your heavenly Father knows,” Jesus reminds us, telling us that what we are in private is more important to God than our public performance. His press reviews are the only ones that count.

Form without substance. These words persist in warning me. I determine anew not to let my leaf structure outgrow my root system. Not to preach to others more than I have put to work in my own life. Instead, to be more concerned with what God thinks about me than what people do.

That’s integrity: the biblical vision of wholeness, the single eye.

This matter is so important to God that he will raise our bodies from the disintegration of death to make us whole again, to unite form and substance. He purposes to do that in our minds and spirits now to get us ready for heaven.

Gladys Hunt works with university students through Inter-Varsity Christian Fellowship in Ann Arbor, Michigan.

Copyright © 1993 by the author or Christianity Today/Leadership Journal.Click here for reprint information on Leadership Journal.

Preaching from the Inside Out by Charles B. Bugg, Broadman, $14.95

Preaching can become routine. In the pressure to get it done, we can lose sight of why we do it and how it could be done better.

One remedy is to come at preaching from the inside out; that is, ask about the what and why of preaching before tackling the how of it. Chuck Bugg’s infectious passion for preaching shines through the what and why. His disarming candor about his own mistakes gives authenticity to his discussion of how. The result is a delightful, inspiring conversation with this professor of preaching at Southern Baptist Theological Seminary in Louisville, Kentucky.

Preaching to Strangers by William H. Willimon and Stanley Hauerwas, Westminster/John Knox, $9.99

William H. Willimon, dean of the chapel at Duke University, speaks there to people who are largely anonymous to each other. Often skeptical of Christianity, they pose a challenge. How should he (and we) preach to such people? In Preaching to Strangers, we get ten of Willimon’s sermons and responses to them from Willimon’s friend and colleague, theologian Stanley Hauerwas.

Willimon longs to preach convincingly by meeting people where they are. In contrast, Hauerwas emphasizes the radical change of life that discipleship requires. Together they reject the idea of making Christianity seem familiar to strangers; they want people to encounter the historic faith in all its distinctiveness (an implicit critique of user-friendliness?). The result of their collaboration is a good collection of sermons and some heady discussion of theology and preaching.

Preaching the Topical Sermon by Ronald J. Allen,Westminster/John Knox, $11.99

Ever have an issue arise that no concordance mentions? Ever need to address a community tragedy when time for exegesis is scant? In these cases, Ronald J. Allen argues, you may want to preach “topically”-addressing the issue from the perspective of the gospel as a whole, not from a single text or texts.

Allen, associate professor of preaching and New Testament at Christian Theological Seminary, offers a thorough method for preparing the message, describes possible sermon structures, and gives wise counsel for dealing with controversial subjects. Sample sermons demonstrate his suggestions at work.

Nature, God and Pulpit by Elizabeth Achtemeier, Eerdmans, $16.99

The environment is a hot topic. Unfortunately, many people have been influenced more by New Age pantheism than by biblical teaching about the created order.

Elizabeth Achtemeier, adjunct professor of Bible and homiletics at Union Theological Seminary in Virginia, has stepped forward with a corrective. She offers a summary of biblical teaching about the nature of the Creator and creation. She exposes the errors of New Age thinking while constructing a positive alternative.

She also includes several sermons designed to show how preachers can speak out about God, nature, and the environment from a solidly theological, scriptural understanding.

Speaking from the Heart by Richard F. Ward, Abingdon, $10.95

We all know how deadly passionless sermons can be. Is speaking with contrived zeal any better? We may have to face a tough choice: be flat or be false.

Richard F. Ward, assistant professor of speech communication at Candler School of Theology, points the way out of the dilemma. He helps us tap into our experience with Christ as part of developing an authentically passionate style. He suggests exercises to help us discover our own native strengths as communicators, then refine those in light of timeless principles of good speech.

-Grant Lovejoy

Southwestern Baptist Theological Seminary

Fort Worth, Texas

97 Summer/93

Copyright © 1993 by the author or Christianity Today/Leadership Journal.Click here for reprint information on Leadership Journal.

One pastor’s toughest call.

He’s never really asked for much. He’s not the kind of boy who thinks about what you should get him for his next birthday or how much you owe him. He is happy with a hug and an occasional wrestling match with Dad.

That’s what made the whole thing so ugly. If he were the type of kid who nagged or complained all the time, it wouldn’t have been so traumatic.

In the spring of ’89, he asked for one thing: he wanted to play little league baseball.

His request surprised me; he wasn’t particularly overpowering at the plate or nimble in the field. Surely, I thought, he’ll change his mind after he realizes his brother wasn’t interested in playing this year. But no, he still wanted to play.

“No problem,” I told him. “You can play ball this year.”

I smiled along with his mom as he ran down the hall clapping and laughing. He was surprised and excited when I took him to Costco to try out the aluminum bats and leather gloves (he hadn’t thought to ask me to buy him a bat and glove). My heart felt boyish as he described in detail his strategy for improving his batting average and his preference for being assigned to a team that wore his beloved Dodger Blue.

His requests were so easy and his attitude so pure-even on that day a few weeks later when I sat across from him in the living room. Facing him was more difficult than I anticipated.

“What’s up. Dad?” he asked as he bounced and flopped sideways into the blue chair. Normally I’d have reminded him not to do that and to sit straight forward in the chair, but not today.

“I’ve made a mistake that directly affects you,” I told him. He stared at me with those trusting, curious hazel eyes. “I didn’t get you signed up for baseball in time, and now the teams are full. You won’t be able to play ball this year.”

I wish he had lashed out at me or done something to show that, if only for that moment, he was worthy of my neglect. But the simple-hearted, 10-year-old boy who never has asked for much just sat there and stared at me. It was, I’m sure, the same look Jesus gave Peter after he had heard his disciple deny him on the night of his betrayal.

“How do you feel about this?”

“I really wanted to play. Dad,” he answered in a half-whisper, daring not to blink his eyes for fear of tears.

“I blew it. I’m sorry, Scudder.”

“I know, Dad,” he said softly. And, looking down, he got up from the blue chair, walked to his room, and quietly closed the door behind him.

Hate is a strong emotion. It’s an ugly word with dark ramifications. But if I ever hated myself and my “call to ministry,” it was that evening. I had been so busy “pastoring” and “succeeding” I had forgotten to care for my own son.

I failed that day. I broke his heart. I gave him a reason to despise the church and resent the Lord. He never really has asked for much, and little is exactly what he got from his dad that day.

May God have mercy on me-and him!

* * *

Contrition can come easy. The “acts befitting repentance” can be something else. Even when guilt has left its unmistakable impression, doing the right thing the next time isn’t automatic. Consider the sequel to the episode above.

I could be working on my sermon, I said to myself, or calling on that new couple that has been visiting the church. Either of those would have been acceptable options for the use of a Sunday afternoon, easily affirmed by both my superintendent and the church council. But instead I felt cornered by the competing demands of what I needed to do and what I should do.

“Wanna play a game of catch. Dad?” the boy asked. “I’ll pretend I’m a major league pitcher and you can pretend you’re my all-star catcher. You can call balls and strikes for me.”

In this dungeon of conflicting priorities, the Holy Spirit paused to listen and see whether or not anything at all had been learned from the last challenge this son and his love for baseball had afforded.

Sensing the hesitation and his impending failure to lure his father outside, the boy tried to sweeten the pot.

“Tell you what, Dad. You can pitch to me. You can throw as hard as you want to ’cause I can catch just about anything.” He paused a moment before trying to close the sale. “It’ll be fun, Dad.”

More out of paternal obligation than honest desire, the tired pastor took his mitt from the outstretched hand. The youngster exploded out the back door to set up a makeshift infield with the house as a backstop.

The reluctant all-star took his preferred position behind home plate.

“Play ball,” he mumbled with little emotion. Then he loosened his necktie, flipped it over his shoulder, gathered his slacks at the thigh, squatted down, and asked for the first pitch from a grinning, wide-eyed young rookie pitcher.

“Ball one, low!” barked the umpire/catcher as he tossed the ball back in the direction of the old shoe that served as a pitching rubber. And the game was on.

The two went on, pitching, catching, shaking off signs, and visiting at the mound only to be chastised by the umpire-the boy in his dirty socks and the man in his shirt and tie. The rookie pitcher and the old all-star catcher were enjoying each other as never before. But then, in the bottom of the ninth . . .

“The bases are loaded, Scudder. You can’t afford to walk this guy or you’ll walk in the tying run. You have to pitch to him.” And then, after throwing five good pitches but only seeing two called for strikes, the pitcher called “time.” As the catcher trotted out to the mound, the boy couldn’t help but grin.

“Let’s throw this bum the best fastball he’s ever seen,” said the catcher. “Keep it low and away and throw it as hard as you can. Okay?”

The answer came back through a smile as wide as the infield. “No problemo. This guy is history.”

Neither of them really knew what went wrong. The stretch looked good and the delivery seemed smooth. But somehow the ball decided to sail wildly toward the backstop. The catcher employed every muscle trying to reach the errant pitch, evidenced by the fresh grass stains on his shirt and slacks. But this fast ball eluded even an all-star. The ball bounced once and then crashed through two panes of glass and into the basem*nt.

A happy, carefree catcher dove for the ball, but the tumble must have reminded him that he never really wanted to play in the first place. He looked back to see his son fall to his knees and cover his head in grief. So far as the man was concerned, the boy had assumed the proper position.

Repairing the window would cost both money and time. The man had an abundance of neither. He could already feel the passion working its way from his stomach to his mouth. And this wild young pitcher would receive its full effect. He would be yelled at, sent to his room, and told to put away his glove for a week!

But as he turned and opened his mouth, something caused him to pause. Maybe it was compassion, maybe guilt. Maybe the earlier contrition was being applied.

Whatever it was, the pastor suddenly realized his son, who could have been riding his bike, watching television, or playing with other kids, had asked for time with his dad.

As the man viewed his son, still in a fetal position, another image came to mind. It was the distant memory of a ball game on Los Palmas Street where Mike Dipietro was trying to stretch a single into a double. In his haste to get the ball to second, a younger version of the man threw it straight through the middle of Mr. and Mrs. Shields’ new station wagon. He expected a good whipping from his own dad. After all, he had been warned about playing ball in the street. He received, instead, a recommendation that he be sure he was properly set before he threw the ball the next time.

Only a second had passed since the ball had crashed through the basem*nt window.

With his son still folded and quivering on the grass, the angry, busy, pastor/father picked himself up off the ground, pondering what he should say.

He grabbed a spare ball, walked back to the dog dish that functioned as home plate, gathered his grass-stained slacks at the thigh, and resumed the catcher’s position.

The boy looked up and saw the ball lobbed back to him.

“Ball four,” said the catcher/umpire. “Next batter.”

The game continued, but the pastor wasn’t aware of just how long. He was lost in the enjoyment of the sound of the hardball being sucked into his mitt and his son’s laughter after a perfect pitch over the middle of the dog dish was called a ball.

And each time he watched his son, with dirty socks and wrinkled cap, come to a stretch to check a ghost runner’s lead, the catcher/umpire/pastor/dad could hear the clang of another chain as it fell to the infield.

When the game finally ended, in extra innings, he realized that the request he’d seen as another chain of his enslavement had actually become his catapult into freedom.

-Art Greco

Tigard Covenant Church

Tigard, Oregon

116 SUMMER/93

Copyright © 1993 by the author or Christianity Today/Leadership Journal.Click here for reprint information on Leadership Journal.

My introduction to local church ministry, nearly twenty-five years ago, was a baptism by fire, or perhaps I should say, by sickness. A number of the people in the church were hospitalized, and I went to visit, to encourage, to pray. But I felt horribly out of place.

This was a world of science and medicine. What good could I possibly do? Of what value were Scripture and prayer compared to surgery, therapies, and miracle drugs? I was intimidated. Still, I faithfully visited the sick and sat with their families during those critical hours in surgery when things could go either way.

I did what I thought was expected of me-administered Scripture and prayer. Not knowing what else to do, I just tried to be there. I listened, without saying much, mostly because I didn’t feel I had a lot worth saying.

Then I began receiving thank-you notes. “It meant so much to have you there when I was facing surgery.” “I can’t tell you how much strength I gained from your visit.”

I couldn’t believe it. The little I did had helped?

About two years later, I learned firsthand the dynamics of pastoral care.

Nine days after our daughter was born, my wife, Brenda, hemorrhaged. I rushed her to the hospital. By the time we arrived, she was nearly unconscious from loss of blood.

Immediately she was whisked away to surgery, and after I signed the consent forms, I was left alone with my fears. A host of terrifying possibilities set upon me. I paced the floor in agitation.

Then my mother arrived. She didn’t say anything, at least nothing I can remember, but I felt better just knowing she was there. Somehow I was strengthened, comforted, and encouraged by her presence.

The surgery was successful, and my wife recovered. But I have never forgotten the ministry I received from my mother’s presence that day.

Since then I’ve become highly sensitive to what makes for a welcome presence and what types of pastoral presence are definitely unwelcome.

The New World Order of the Sick

I find it helpful to remind myself what seriously sick people are experiencing.

First, there’s the pain, constant and unrelenting, as persistent as gravity, blotting out all else, until their world is reduced to the size of their sterile room.

Then there’s the weakness, the inability to control their body, which no longer functions on command. It, too, becomes an enemy, undermining their morale, even their faith.

On a psychological level, the sick experience a loss of power. Their familiar environment is gone. Now they live in a hospital, where they have little or no control over their lives. Before, they set much of their schedule. They decided when to get up and when to go to bed; what to eat, how to prepare it, and when to eat it.

Suddenly all of that’s changed. They may receive the finest medical care possible, but they’re no longer free to come and go. They’re told when to sleep, when to wake up, when to shower, and on occasion, they must even relieve themselves on command. They’re subjected to humiliating procedures, stripped of all modesty, poked and prodded and experimented with, all in the name of medicine. Eventually the medical vandalism may produce healing, but initially it can be demoralizing.

Finally, there’s the fear. Fear of the unknown. What’s going to happen to me? Will I get well? Will I be able to provide for my family, care for my children? Will I still have a job when I get well? Will insurance cover the hospital bills? Do I have enough sick leave?

Interlaced with these concerns is the ever-present possibility that they may not recover, which only creates more questions. Am I going to die? What will become of my family if something happens to me? Who will look after the children?

Faced with such naked need, I, as a minister, may fall prey to my own unrealistic expectations. Although I know that I cannot work miracles, I still feel somehow diminished when there seems to be so little that I can do. Not infrequently, I am tempted to revert to platitudes, false assurances, or a premature prayer in a misguided attempt to provide comfort.

The Unwelcome Presence of Premature Prayer

One lady, a victim of cancer, told me that when her pastor came to the hospital to see her, he would breeze in and out of her room, chatting all the time, hardly giving her a chance to get a word in edgewise. He did ask how she was doing. But she didn’t feel encouraged to respond honestly. After a few short minutes, he would pray and then leave.

She quickly tired of his insensitivity, and being an assertive person, she determined he was going to hear her out. When he arrived for his next visit, she was ready. He breezed in with his usual chatter and hurried questions: “How are you feeling today? Did you sleep well? Are you having much pain?”

When he paused, she unloaded, not angrily, just honestly.

“My pain is absolutely intolerable,” she said, looking him straight in the eye. “I’m afraid of dying. I pray day and night, but it seems that God has forsaken me. He never answers me, never makes his presence known.”

By now her pastor was visibly uncomfortable, and when she paused for a breath, he said, “Let’s pray.”

Before she had meekly followed his lead, but not today.

“Don’t do that to me,” she said. “You’re always using prayer like some kind of escape hatch. Every time I start to tell you what it’s like being barely thirty, the mother of two, and dying with cancer, you want to pray.

“But your prayer isn’t real. It’s just religious words, a smoke screen, so you can make a quick exit. Today you’re going to hear me out; you’re going to walk with me through my valley of the shadow of death. That’s what you’re supposed to do, you know. That’s why you’re here-so I don’t have to face death alone!”

He stayed until she finished, but it was a long time before he visited again.

Premature prayer can effectively isolate a sick person. The seriously ill have taught me the importance of timing and sensitivity.

One grieving father, following his son’s untimely death, said, “I know all the ‘right biblical passages.’ While the words of the Bible are true, grief renders them unreal.”

The same can be said about prayer. Nothing is more powerful than prayer; yet prayer can come across as unreal, too, if it doesn’t reflect the seriousness of the suffering. Prayer is appropriate in the sickroom, of course. But prayer should usually follow a time of listening deeply, and with compassion, to the sick and their families.

This is hard for those of us who are used to getting things done. It’s hard to sit and wait, to watch-powerless-as disease does its dirty work. We want to do something, anything. We are often gripped with an almost irresistible urge to exert our authority, to regain control of our world.

When we can’t bring a quick solution to the situation, our discomfort tempts us to flee the situation, at least emotionally. Or else we respond the wrong way. Patients frequently say things like “I don’t have much to look forward to anymore” or perhaps even “I think I’m going to die soon.”

We may respond by changing the subject or with false assurances: “Don’t talk like that. You’re going to live for years. Why, you’ll probably outlive me!”

While our intent may be to bring cheer, it seldom works. Instead, such a response effectively isolates the patient. It invalidates the fear, leaving him or her to face sickness and suffering alone. What patients need in that moment is someone who will honestly listen to them, understand their feelings, and not hasten to change the subject.

This Present Comfort

Not long ago I received a telephone call from a young woman named Diane, telling me that her 3-year-old daughter was in intensive care. For eleven days she had maintained her bedside vigil, and when she finally called, she was nearly frantic. I comforted her as best I could and promised to come to the hospital as soon as I finished my appointments.

By the time I arrived, her daughter, Carrie, had been moved from intensive care. Her condition was still serious, but the prognosis was positive.

Now that her daughter was out of immediate danger, Diane tentatively voiced another concern. It involved her husband, Dave. He hadn’t been to the hospital for three days and was barely civil when he called.

The trouble had begun four nights earlier. He had insisted that she leave Carrie alone at the hospital and spend the night at home with him. “You’re going to get sick if you don’t get some rest,” he repeated.

Reluctantly she had agreed. Once they were in bed, his “real” motive became obvious. When she resisted his advances, a terrible argument ensued, and she returned to the hospital in tears.

“What kind of a man would do something like that?” Diane demanded.

I breathed a prayer for wisdom before I ventured an answer. “Although Dave’s behavior seems extreme, it’s not that unusual. In times of stress, men often seek intimacy with their wives, especially if they have a healthy marriage.”

“But how can he even think of sex at a time like this? I mean, Carrie is in the hospital-practically at death’s door-and I’m totally exhausted. Making love is the farthest thing from my mind.”

“His behavior was insensitive, I’ll grant you, but he’s probably not as unfeeling as you think. He’s hurting, too, and undoubtedly afraid to face the possibility of Carrie’s death. Making love with you may have been his way of coping.”

Before she could respond, Dave walked in. Ignoring me, he said, “I’m sorry, Diane. I’ve been acting like a fool.”

Illness of any kind produces stress, especially a critical illness. No member of the family is immune, and research indicates that many marriages fail under the pressure. In addition to the obvious difficulties of maintaining a normal home life, there are also enormous psychological pressures, which men and women often react to in decidedly different ways, creating additional tension and misunderstanding.

The overriding feeling is often a sense of helplessness. A beloved spouse or child is suffering, perhaps even facing death, and no one can do anything about it. Men often respond in one of two ways: anger or escape.

An assertive man, who is used to taking charge and getting things done, will grow angry because of his inability to rectify the situation. He may take his feelings out on the doctors and other health professionals, accusing them of incompetence or worse. Or he may direct his anger toward his own family.

His rage is really directed toward the disease that threatens his loved one or toward God who has “let” this happen or even toward his own helplessness.

Other men try to escape. They lose themselves in their work or in household chores. Frequently they deny the seriousness of the situation, refusing to face the possibility of impending death. This, in effect, isolates them from both their family and the patient. The resulting loneliness and resentment further strains the already over-stressed family.

A woman, on the other hand, tends to invest herself totally in the sick person, especially if the patient is her child. For her there is no world outside of that small hospital room, no concern except the welfare of her suffering child. When other concerns press upon her, she thinks, Others will have to understand. This is an emergency. Nothing else matters. The resulting jealousies and tensions add to the family trauma.

I understood these things, at least in theory, but could I help Dave and Diane come to grips with them?

I suggested to Dave and Diane that we go to the hospital cafeteria for coffee. Once we had our cups and were seated, I leaned toward Dave and asked, “Been pretty rough, has it?”

For a long time, he didn’t say anything, just stared at the steam rising from his coffee. Finally he took a deep breath and said, “I feel so helpless. The two people I love most in all the world are hurting, and I can’t do anything. It feels like I’m losing them both.”

“Can you tell me about it?”

“When Carrie got sick, I was scared. Real scared. But I put on a brave front for Diane. Then it seemed she shut me out, too.”

“What do you mean?” I asked.

“She was, you know, so preoccupied with Carrie. She would hardly leave her bedside, even to eat. It was like no one else existed, not me, not anyone.”

I nodded, and he continued, “I care about Carrie, too, but life goes on. I still have to get up, go to work, and make a living. For Diane, none of that matters. When I try to tell her how I feel, she just clams up, or else she accuses me of not caring about Carrie.”

Many couples coping with a serious illness face similar tensions. By being there, I try to feel their hurt and anger and help them understand each other.

I suggested to Diane that Dave is not an unfeeling brute in desiring sexual intimacy; it’s his way of trying to connect with his wife at this time.

And I told Dave, “Diane does not have an abnormal fixation. She is simply responding as mothers have always responded. Her child is deathly ill, and all her maternal instincts demand that she be near her. The fact that she can do nothing but maintain her bedside vigil does not, in any way, diminish her sense of responsibility. She does not explain her feelings, doesn’t even imagine that she should. To her way of thinking, you must surely feel the same way. After all, Carrie is your child, too.”

Once a couple accepts the legitimacy of each other’s feelings, they can better understand what is happening to them. Such understanding enables them to face the common enemy of illness united, rather than mistakenly attacking each other.

Although, in the case of Dave and Diane, explanation was part of the ministry I provided, the real power was my presence. They were able to hear my explanations because I first was willing to share their pain.

God’s Presence in My Presence

A few weeks ago, a young wife in our congregation learned she had a malignant tumor. It was, of course, disconcerting news, though the doctor’s prognosis was quite positive. On the morning of the scheduled surgery, my wife, Brenda, and I drove to the hospital, arriving just as the woman and her husband were getting out of their car. We accompanied them as she was admitted to the hospital and prepared for surgery.

It was a tense time. Jerry, her husband, was quietly attentive to her, not daring to miss a single moment of this precious time. She was brave, glad the waiting was almost over, eager to get the whole thing behind them.

Brenda and I listened as they made small talk about their boys. Just that morning, the car had rolled out of the garage and was at that moment straddling the mailbox in front of their house, awaiting the tow truck.

After a while the room grew still, each of us silently entertaining our thoughts. Finally, I shared some Scripture, and we all prayed. Soon the attendants came for her, and she was wheeled away to surgery.

Just yesterday we received a note from her. To Brenda she wrote, “Thank you for loving, caring, crying. … It meant so much to see you before my surgery. Your presence, prayers, and concern made a difficult time bearable.”

To me she wrote, “Jerry and I were touched and loved when you and Brenda came to the hospital the morning of my surgery. I think it was neat of God to send you there early enough to escort us from the parking lot. We drew on your strength just having you there.”

Years ago I might have puzzled over her card. Not anymore. I still don’t fully understand how my presence helps, but I know it does. Even when it seems we aren’t doing much, when it seems that the best we can manage are silent tears, a quick hug, and a shared prayer, God makes it enough.

Copyright © 1993 by the author or Christianity Today/Leadership Journal.Click here for reprint information on Leadership Journal.

Different ways to observe the Christian discipline of prayer.

The executive of a large corporation once called the Episcopal bishop of Chicago. The bishop’s secretary answered.

“The bishop is not able to come to the phone right now,” she said. “He’s praying.”

“Praying?” the executive exploded. “He should be working!”

His response isn’t surprising. Prayer and work are often viewed as mutually exclusive. But our fundamental work as pastors is prayer. Everything we do takes shape and direction from it.

Prayer is easily relegated to a small segment of a busy day. We’re like those busy disciples coming to Jesus with the request, “Lord, teach us to pray.” We want to pray but discover prayer means work.

The hardest part may be knowing where to begin. How do we set the pace and the priority for a life in the Spirit? I’ve been helped by the variety of Christian traditions and have found each to enhance the importance of prayer in my life.

From head to heart

In my Episcopal tradition, a blend of Catholic and Protestant devotional style, we speak of people “saying their prayers” from the Book of Common Prayer. I like the structure my tradition brings to prayer. It releases me to deeper communion with God. Structured prayer is like a road map. If I know my destination and the directions to get there, I can relax and enjoy the scenery. A prayer book or a devotional manual does not tell me what to pray, but rather provides prayer form and direction.

Reading the “Collect for Purity” in the Book of Common Prayer lifts me into God’s presence. I pray, “Almighty God, to you all hearts are open, all desires known, and from you no secrets are hid: Cleanse the thoughts of our hearts by the inspiration of your Holy Spirit, that we may perfectly love you, and magnify your holy Name, through Christ our Lord.”

After the prayer, I choose different aspects of the prayer on which to focus. I might, for example, focus on its theme of purity: “Lord, you know my heart. Purify it, cleanse it by your Holy Spirit. Purify my heart, Lord.” Or, I might emphasize the latter part of the prayer: “Lord, let me love you more perfectly today. Give me specific ways to love you and magnify your Name.”

I also find strength by returning repeatedly to certain prayers. As words and phrases are memorized, they take root in my heart and become a subconscious prayer language. I found a similar thing happened during my years of professional vocal training as I memorized many scores of music. In time, some of the words stuck in my head became more familiar. My teacher stressed that memory was a means to communicate, not to perform.

Repetitive prayer can communicate with God powerfully, in a conscious way. First it engages the intellect and then becomes integrated with the heart.

Once a spiritual master asked me, “What do you really want God to do for you?”

After a long pause, I replied, “I want him to teach me to celebrate.”

For a long time in my private devotions, I would pray repeatedly as I inhaled a breath, “Holy Father, Holy Son, Holy Spirit.” I was aware of drawing into myself the Holy Trinity. Then I’d exhale these words: “Teach me to celebrate.”

A year later, several friends commented on my countenance.

“John, there’s something different about you, they said. “You seem happier, lighter.” God had indeed responded to my heart’s cry.

Spontaneous and image-filled

Others may need a more spontaneous way to pray. Perhaps spontaneity frees them from the compulsion to organize life in order to control it.

Guided meditation on a verse of Scripture is one way to nurture spontaneous prayer. Another way relies on brief conversational prayers of individuals in a group. This is free prayer at its best-a prayer that does not seek organization but an openness to the Spirit’s movement in the moment. Spontaneous prayer is not necessarily charismatic in form but takes its cue from the Spirit. It originates from the heart and seeks to be integrated with the intellect.

Reading Jesus’ words in John’s Gospel, for instance, can become the impetus for a spontaneous prayer: “I am the light of the world,” then, might prompt me to pray that his attributes would become real to me: “Lord Jesus, you are my light in my world; enlighten my darkness.”

In addition to spontaneous prayer is prayer sparked by paintings and other images. The Orthodox tradition employs icons to train and focus the mind on God. Admittedly, icons have stirred anger and controversy in church history. Some charge that those who use icons are praying to images. They in turn defend themselves, saying that they pray to God through the icon. The image draws them to the Spirit and away from themselves. Paintings can have a timeless quality that absorbs the viewer’s consciousness. Icons can be compared to windows into heaven that lift the worshiper into the Almighty’s grandeur.

An icon does not necessarily have to be an ancient painting. Some people focus on a natural object-a flower, a tree, a body of water-looking beyond the creation into the presence of the Creator.

Emptying silence

Others seek to empty themselves in order to pray. For them, images distract from the simplicity of God’s presence. The Quakers, for example, adhere to this form of spirituality, sitting in silence together in a simple room, waiting on the stirrings of the Spirit of God.

The monk’s cell is another locale of an imageless, silent spirituality. The Trappist monk, for example, seeks a life of silence in order to be formed and shaped by the Word of God.

For me, a silent retreat meets this need. A retreat is not another seminar, a clergy conference, a busy or perhaps “useful” meeting. I head off for a period of silence over three or four days. I do not bring my sermon planning form, correspondence, music, or any other distraction. This is a period of waiting, watching, and listening.

The bishop of my area requires clergy to participate in a retreat before Lent. We gather to hear meditations by a retreat conductor, and then we go off on our own. Listening to the Lord is difficult. Recently one retreat conductor admonished the silence-breakers by asking, “What gave you the idea that you had anything in particular worth saying? How can we speak the Word of the Lord if we do not first listen for his Word?”

If a retreat is too daunting, a single, quiet day can be helpful. A leader might give meditations for reflection rather than information to be processed. Ample periods to be quiet and alone can be offered. At mealtime, the conductor might read from a spiritual work.

In past days of silence, I have read portions of Oswald Chambers, A. W. Tozer, and Eugene Peterson. The readings maintain silence between participants and continue the spiritual focus. A debriefing near the end of the quiet day allows us to share common reflections and to prepare to reenter our noisy world.

Recently, I conducted a quiet day for a group of clergy in a nearby town. We rented a Christian camp, where we knew the staff would respect our need for silence. As we began, I asked each pastor to put his watch in a basket. Not only would we be silent, but timeless as well.

We prayed together, and I gave three brief meditations on a general theme. Time for silence followed where we could walk, sleep, read, or do nothing and wait. At lunch I read from a Christian classic. We ended at mid-afternoon.

When permission was granted to talk once again, everyone remained silent, waiting. When the comments came, they were offered gently and slowly. These were vulnerable, heartfelt words. In our silence, God had formed a community. The pastors did not want to leave it.

That quiet day restored our relationships with God, ourselves, and our colleagues.

Daily walking with our God

How much time should we give to prayer?

Martin Luther said he would pray an hour a day, and then, if he discovered that he was becoming too busy and preoccupied during the day, he would pray another two hours.

I’m no Luther, but I spend an hour each day in prayer, praying both at home and at the church. I’ve always been an early riser, so around 5: 00 A.M. I pray at home, sometimes while walking or running. At church, I use my tradition’s prayer book for form and structure. I also engage in daily intercession for needs and for quiet contemplation of the Lord’s presence.

I’ve used elements of all these approaches to prayer-the disciplined and the spontaneous, the intellectual and the emotional, the image-filled and the empty style of prayer. And while I may favor a particular style, nothing need prevent you from favoring another. But whatever our style and path may be, we will grow in it through regular practice.

Without focused times of prayer, even the deepest well runs dry. That’s why I try to guard my walk with God and give time for God to walk with me.

-John R. Throop

St. Francis Episcopal Church

Chillicothe, Illinois

Copyright © 1993 by the author or Christianity Today/Leadership Journal.Click here for reprint information on Leadership Journal.

Easter 1987 was fast approaching, when we would hold our church’s first service. With eight other adults, we were planting a church where no Protestant church had been started for more than 125 years. The community had grown considerably since then. Surely it would see the need for another congregation.

One week before Easter, everything seemed in place. Our 23,000 hand-addressed invitations had reached everyone’s mailbox, announcing our service times and location. We had rented a room in a beautifully restored, forty-four-room mansion now serving as an office complex. It had not yet opened to the general public; curiosity alone would bring people to such a unique setting.

Then the mayor called: “Our zoning laws do not permit a church to meet in that building.”

A certified letter the next day warned, “You’ll have to cancel your services and meet elsewhere or be fined $5,000 for every week you violate the zoning laws.” The office complex we were so excited about now wore our not-to-be-removed zoning violation sticker on its front door. And we had not yet held our first service! Easter was only three days away! What could we do?

Suburban wandering

We thought we had done our homework. Unknown to us, though, we had targeted a community anxious to keep out a certain religious sect. Zoning laws began to restrict and even prohibit worship in public places by any religious group.

Initially the idea of canceling something to which we had invited 23,000 households seemed almost funny.

But we had to put together a plan. First, we regained our bearings. We believed God wanted a new church in this community, so we called others to pray-our denominational leaders, other churches, and friends. Then, we tried to persuade the zoning committee to give us one week’s grace so we could hold a grand opening. We promised to leave after that.

They granted us the exception.

On Easter Sunday the weather was wonderful, and the mansion made a great statement. Many came, a number from unchurched backgrounds. Nine adults professed faith for the first time.

The only hitch came when we had to tell our instant congregation that we could not meet there the next week due to zoning laws. Also, since we had no idea where we would meet, would they please fill out a card with their name and address? We promised to have a letter in their mailbox by Saturday with information about our next location. What a way to plant a church!

Since most of our new congregation came from unchurched backgrounds, few realized how unusual these events were. Many sympathized with our plight and followed us around town as we moved five times in the next two months, meeting in the chapel of a nearby Catholic retreat center, in a tent in the outdoor courtyard of that same retreat center, in a Methodist church building (an 8:00 A.M. service, our lowest attendance ever!), in classrooms at the local community college, in the outdoor grassy area at that same community college. We ended up in another building at the college.

The way of peace

The situation with the zoning board could have easily gotten ugly and counterproductive. We learned several lessons during this time that helped us find a constructive solution.

Be gracious and patient. People can become suspicious when something new comes to their community, especially when they perceive no benefit to themselves.

Several dozen recipients of our initial 23,000-household mailing immediately picked up the phone to express their offense that we were trying to convert them. The typical conversation, after the caller had vented his anger, went like this:

“How’d you get my name, anyway?”

“From the phone book. We mailed the invitation to every household in the phone book.”

Long pause. “Oh.” Another long pause. “Well, you should have noticed that my last name is Jewish (or Italian, or Irish).”

“We had no desire to offend you, sir. We merely wanted to reach anybody interested in a more personal faith in God. One of my neighbors, named Cohen, is Gentile. Another, named Wallison, is Jewish. Many marriages have a husband of one religion and a wife of another. We have such a rich diversity in our community that the only solution we could think of was to mail our invitation to everybody.”

“Well, I understand. But would you please take us off your mailing list?”

This approach seemed to diffuse their hostility. They saw that our intentions were honorable and that we were appealing to our entire community, not just to them.

Carefully research local zoning laws. Our wires had gotten crossed when we trusted someone who didn’t have the authority to give us access to the building. The manager of the office complex had drawn up a legal contract, assuring us that if H&R Block could bring a crowd to study the tax book the week before, certainly we could meet to study the Good Book. He was wrong. His word that local ordinances would permit our “public forum” for worship was simply not true.

Our Easter experience taught us not to accept any information secondhand. After that, we became regular visitors at the town hall office of zoning.

Learn what other “non-profits” have done. We asked around and learned, for example, that the YMCA used public schools to provide day care for working parents. Even though the YMCA in our community behaves as a secular organization, we verified that its legal charter is indeed a religious one. We also learned that certain Jewish temples in our area had rented various meeting halls (community college, Masonic hall, private country clubs, restaurants) for seminars and bar mitzvahs.

Our fact-finding efforts broadened our range of opportunities and emboldened us to conduct our negotiations with confidence. The more information we had on our side, the easier it was to persuade community opinion leaders that we had a solid legal basis for renting public facilities.

Choose battles carefully. When we tried to rent a local school building, the school board rejected us. We could have fought the matter in court and, we are convinced, overturned their ordinance. However, if we had won, the community would have hated us because we would have opened the door to the other religious sect.

So, like Isaac with his wells, we did not fight. Instead we kept looking for that right spot. We kept reminding ourselves of the big picture of why we were there: we had come to serve the community, not to invite their hatred.

Develop trust. We invited movers and shakers into our home. The more we seemed to fit into the community, the warmer people became toward us.

After we found a good spot to rent for our Sunday worship, we still needed an office for midweek events, administration, and storage. That proved to be a challenge. After selecting an appealing office site, we invited the owner of the building to our home to demonstrate that we were relatively normal people. Our time together went so well she even lowered the rent!

But the zoning board remained vigilant. Our strategy was to maximize every opportunity for positive public exposure, so before we signed the rental agreement for our office, I received permission to hold a grand opening ceremony. We publicized it in the county newspaper.

When the photo and story appeared, a town official saw it and launched an investigation into whether our church office was violating zoning laws. He found that we were not but that our landlord lacked a valid certificate of occupancy. We and the one other tenant were legally notified that we were participants in this illegal occupancy. After two court hearings in which the landlord did all the speaking, however, the certificate was granted.

Over time, trust developed and bridges were built. Our son went to the same public school as the mayor’s son. They became best friends. A few years later, the mayor told us, “Listen, if the village can ever do anything to help your church, don’t hesitate to ask!”

Pray, pray, pray. At times, the zoning battles seemed like spiritual attacks meant to frighten and discourage us. Prayer helped us remember that God is bigger than any zoning board.

As time passed, the town board turned its attention to other groups. We had won that battle and were now free to devote more energy to making disciples of Jesus Christ.

– Michelle and Warren Bird

Suffern, New York

Copyright © 1993 by the author or Christianity Today/Leadership Journal.Click here for reprint information on Leadership Journal.