I started serving in the parking lots of my church twenty years ago this week.
My church has evolved through different seasons, and each version has been reflected in my team and in the energy of the parishioners in the parking lot.
Over those two decades, I’ve gone through even more versions of myself. I’ve rearranged my bucket list, my theology, and my habits. I’ve morphed through different personas in moments of insecurity. I don’t attend church for the same reasons as in years past, and I have different expectations for the experience.
But one thing has been a constant across 900± weekends: my worship starts on the asphalt. Church begins at dawn while I’m welcoming fellow servers, often in the dark. It continues in a prayer huddle where I’ve routinely seen men and women unburden their hearts—sometimes in tears. It spills out onto the asphalt, where we prepare souls arriving from very different weeks and different life stories. By the time my worship makes it indoors, what happens in the service can only be a force multiplier for what was already in motion.
For most parishioners and even servers, their few minutes in the parking lot are moments of transition. It’s the cordial walk or quiet time between a climate-controlled vehicle and an air-conditioned building. For those of us in safety green or neon yellow—or whatever you call this color—the space between the SUVs and minivans is a place where our hearts feel at home.
There are spots dedicated for new & expecting moms, those with physical handicaps, and those who ride motorcycles; but the rest of that lot was destined for me to roam until I found purpose. Between the curbs and the light poles, I’ve often felt the smile of heaven and a peek into my legacy.
The Apostle Paul said that God “gives us the power to live, to move, and to be who we are.” [Acts 17:28 CEV] For the past twenty years, I’ve consistently found that to be true between trucks and cars.
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