Several times a year, the church where my wife and I serve dedicates a Sunday exclusively to baptism celebration. People new to following Jesus tell their stories of resurrected hope and rejuvenated life. Then someone who has been influential on their spiritual journey speaks a benediction over them and dips them into the water of a converted cattle-feeding tank. While this is happening, their family and friends stand on stage behind them and then form a hugging line after they emerge from the water.
There are tears of joy and catharsis. You’ll hear hoots and hollers of celebration too. In some moments, you can hear a pin drop. At other times, it can be hard to hear you own voice or clapping over the surrounding din of worshippers. It’s beautiful.
On May 20, 2007, I was one of those wet recipients of bear hugs. I heard “I love you,” that day more than probably any other day of my life. My fellow parking lot greeters directed me onto the stage and formed a reflective-vest wall behind the tank as one of my mentors dunked me under room-temperature water. Afterward, we partied at a teammate’s pool. It felt like the best parts of a wedding, a graduation, and a church service.
I thought about that tonight as I set out the cones and signs in advance of Sunday’s baptism services. As the sun slipped under the horizon, I bent down to touch the rough asphalt where my teammates and I will greet parishioners and visitors during brunch hours. My eyes got moist, as I listened to evocative lyrics from different worship artists. I walked laps of our parking lots, praying every once in a while and opening my arms in surrender at other punctuation moments. These patches of asphalt, gravel, and grass hold so many ministry moments. These cones and signs have stood witness to beautiful moments of camaraderie and surrender.
These parking lots have shaped me, formed me, and grown me up.
Sixteen years ago this month, I joined this parking lot team. The roster has constantly changed over the years before and during my time as its co-leader. I don’t think it’s an exaggeration to say that somewhere between 70 and 100 men, women, and youth have worn one of our vests on the lots at one time or another. A number of those came to the team right after their baptisms or got baptized while serving on the team. We’ve shouted and fist-pumped as our teammates baptized their kids or while people we’ve greeted on the asphalt came up out of their baptismal waters.
One of our team rules is that you can’t serve if you aren’t in the pre-game prayer huddle, and we’ve seen so many answered prayers. Omnipotence and sovereignty have joined serendipity in heaping measures amidst the lives in those circles. We’ve seen addictions eradicated, marriages put back together, bodies healed, wisdom granted, vulnerable children fostered and adopted into safe homes, dreams and goals realized, and vulnerability rewarded.
In contrast, I’ve spent the past few months going on Christian podcasts, TV shows, and radio programs. I hired a big-time public relations firm that has represented almost a hundred New York Times bestsellers, and they did their darnedest to get me and my book, Scared to Life, onto popular shows. I got to peek behind the curtain of the Christian Industrial Complex® as I talked to consultants, producers, hosts, and my hard-working publicist. As I tried to build some name recognition in order to pitch my next book to agents and publishers, I was constantly reminded that my platform is too small to interest mainstream evangelical podcasts and publishers. One faith-based literary agency I researched said they were interested in authors who had at least 50,000 Instagram followers. Another source said that publishers want authors who can sell 10,000 books on their own.
Christian media want Christian celebrities, and I am not one of those.
I’ve read and listened to a lot of books, podcasts, and articles the past few years about the dangers of Christian celebrity. I didn’t need all of that content to know about the seduction, pitfalls, and almost-inevitable failures that accompany influencer culture. (I assume you don’t, either.) I’ve spent time on long drives and in the woods pondering if and how I want to engage with the businessification of ministry and evangelical entertainment. In order to publish the redemptive stories of my life to as many readers as possible I must engage at least in part with that machine. I believe in the ministry of the book I just wrote at an almost cellular level. People have asked me to write it, and the inspiration I felt while typing those 74,000 words felt just short of magical. There’s something special about my new manuscript, and I want to make sure it gets to everyone who could use it. So, I’m left to rely on a celebrity movement I don’t desire to join.
I don’t want to be famous. I love the adventure of public speaking, but I no longer pine to stand on a lime-lit platform with my face on posters outside. I’ve enjoyed this summer’s media interviews, but I’m not dreaming of a career as a Christian influencer. I don’t want a moment like I witnessed last September while serving with a parking team at a church in Nashville, when a driver in a dilapidated Dodge Durango asked the parking lot guy if [name of a Christian podcaster] was teaching there that day. Church was a show to that consumer Christian.
I’ve spent a summer, paying my way into recorded conversations because my life isn’t interesting enough to enough people—and in particular the “right” people. I got my money’s worth from this publicity tour, because I learned that the life I have offline is a full one, an enough one.
Tonight, while setting out my weekly cones, I’m content with that small life, that relative obscurity. On this Friday evening, while watching the sun turn the clouds purple, then pink, and then orange, I feel like I’m returning anew to a beautiful, asphalt ministry. During this twilight, as I ruminate on my years in a reflective vest, I hope baptism Sundays will always be my Super Bowl Sundays. I hope these parking lot prayer huddles and interactions with church guests always feel better than Instagram notifications and podcast appearances.
My books weren’t destined for a New York Times bestseller list. My name wasn’t destined for marques. I was, however, destined to disciple and be discipled in and around my church’s parking lots. Tonight, that sovereign calling overwhelmed me with gratitude. If I could influence anyone else, it’d be to chase a small life and ministry that are as rewarding as mine have been.
