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.
Out in the dark on Sunday mornings, my heart’s been buoyed. The people showing up before the sun aren’t disgruntled. They haven’t given up. Even if they’ve chafed under a mask indoors, they’ve counted that small inconvenience as a tiny sacrifice for their mission. Having seen Jesus move in their midst, they remained driven to keep chasing kingdom advances. These folks weren’t trudging with slumped shoulders through a weekend morning on which they’d rather be sleeping in. No: they had smiles on their faces, pep in their step, and joy in their greetings. They radiated an energy that I absorbed and tried to take to my now-smaller asphalt team an hour later.
Doing things God’s way often takes longer and requires more patience. Staying inside Jesus’ cones makes us feel like we’ve lost our autonomy. Going where the Holy Spirit points sometimes doesn’t make sense to us. But I can tell you as someone who has set out cones weekly for a decade, those cones are there for someone’s safety or the community’s benefit—or both.
If that’s a mile too far, I’d ask whether you’re a fan of Jesus or a follower. If these temporary restrictions are unbearable, I’d ask whether your greater identity is anchored in the Bill of Rights or the Gospel. If church for you is just sitting in rows on a Sunday or chatting with friends in its foyer, I’d invite you to imagine that church can be more. Much more. And it’s only two miles from where you’re standing right now.
If an angel called you something, it’d probably stick. That’s your nickname now. Even if nobody else ever used that name for you, you’d probably say it when you looked in the mirror. It’d definitely make it into your journal.
This morning, I was prompted to walk around to the various lots of our church and pray specifically for the distinct populations that fill them. For those of you who attend Blue Ridge, here is what I prayed for you in each of these spots. For those who don’t attend my church, here’s a peek into why the parking lot ministry is so critical to the mission of Jesus.
For me, it’s a been a hard factory reset on my hardware. It’s led to more time in nature, where I feel Jesus most and closest. It’s asked me how much of my identity is wrapped up in my commercial value and what those paychecks afford. It’s confronted my privilege, my arrogance, my condescension. It’s alerted me that I’m not as good of a friend as I had previously thought. It’s reminded me that I’m not in control.
Before you discount Emory’s service, know that he represents all of us. We’re all only part way on our journey of serving. We’re all proud to wear our safety gear. We all look forward to Sunday mornings.
One of the sayings we have on the parking team goes back to my driver ed instructor. “There are no accidents—only collisions.” I don’t think it was an accident that all of these situations intersected as they did. I prefer to think God planned a collision with her that night.
It’s not numbness. I’ve just moved on—like I do on the highway after I pray for the family involved in the wreck I just passed. It was such work to “hold this trip loosely with open hands” that I barely felt it eventually leave my hands.
Wherever Jesus and his truth comes alive most and best to someone is probably where they should congregate—whether at my church or not, a megachurch or not, a contemporary church or not. While you can learn a lot about any church on a Sunday morning, you’ll understand more after diving into its culture outside of its auditorium. Especially mine.
Small things matter in both first and subsequent impressions. Small things like facial expressions, intuitive conversations, and remembering someone’s name or parking preferences—they matter. So do authentic, calm interactions in a frenetic situation and a sense of empathy when trying to leave quickly. We get emails, social media comments, and face-to-face conversations that tell us that these small things contributed to watershed moments or at least mile-marker events in someone’s spiritual journey. Some even say that just seeing us in our pre-game prayer circle gets them excited for what they’re about to encounter in the building.
Rick and I weren’t in a boat at the time. We weren’t standing anywhere near water. In fact, we weren’t even standing outside. He dropped this sentence while grabbing gear in an oversized closet at our church that we’ve affectionately dubbed, “the parking room.”
In that same mirror, though, reflected the face of a finisher. I had finished last by a large margin, but I had crossed the finish line. I had done it, but I wouldn’t say I had conquered it. My impetuousness had been tempered with humility, and yellow-vested prayers had been answered.
Pastors like to talk about Jesus’ first published miracle happening at a wedding, but I’m not a pastor. I just play one on TV. And pastors like to mention that God attended the first wedding in the Garden of Eden. But I read that story last week, and Jesus didn’t make Eve repeat any vows or have Adam get a ring for his bride. He just brought Eve to Adam.
The challenge, especially for those of us who consider ourselves self-sufficient, is to reach out to our friends. The reward for this vulnerability is more than refreshment. It brings a renewed sense of purpose, a sense of belonging, an appreciation of the Sovereign.
It was an emotional moment for me, yet I didn’t know how to feel. I was moved by the gesture, but I felt awkward for being the sole recipient. Love, respect, and appreciation wafted with the smell of bread, protein, and dairy; but I didn’t feel like what I love to do needed to be rewarded. In a welcome moment on the horizontal level, I felt something vertical in motion.
So, for the last three days, I’ve been talking to God about it, asking for something worthy of John, worthy of his mom, worthy of answered prayer. Today, I interviewed John for an hour about his mom—a woman I’ve never met.
But this week brought a different sentiment to the uninspiring rental car experience. This week, I wasn’t renting a car from a distant airport. This week, I was driving four wheels’ worth of milquetoast on roads I drive everyday.
Almost every week, someone getting out of their car says, “You look like you love this,” or “You have way too much energy!”