At last Saturday's Rivergate concert, I briefly stood next to a man who struck up a conversation with me.

"You came to my house a couple of years ago to invite us to church," he said. "And I just want you to know that we've been coming ever since."


Now: that visit was part of what we call "Bless This House," a high-touch, low-threat approach to sharing our faith in which we visit newcomers to the area and give them a refrigerator magnet, an invitation to church, and, when appropriate, a prayer over their new home.

I had some memory of that particular visit from 2009.

But I had no idea it bore fruit.

That's the way it is with a lot of ministry, I think. You scatter seed, hope to do some small things well, pray that the accumulation of small things will lead to big things, and then leave it to God.

Many times, the results are negligible.

But every so often, grace breaks through and it gives you the encouragement to do one more small thing well.

As I listened to some of the leading pastoral voices in Methodism speak on such subjects as avoiding burnout, staff relationships, and time management, a question kept running through my mind:

Is what it took to get us where we are what it will take to get us where we are going?

Here's what I mean. Part of the reason for whatever effectiveness Good Shepherd has had through the years has been its ability to maintain a small church feel while becoming a large church.

That involves things like hand-written notes, pastoral availability, hospital visitation, and a dedicated effort to remember not only names of people but facts about them.

Yet will that kind of attention to detail on both my part and the part of other staffers ultimately constrict our growth?

I'm not sure.

However it happens, I want us always to keep that "high touch, low threat" feel. It's part of our DNA, and I am praying for ways to makes sure that particular genome infiltrates every part of our church in the future.

Because even if techniques must change, values cannot.


.

Throughout the years, I've had several occasions to serve in pastoral roles on both sides of my family -- with my extended family and with Julie's.

It's usually pretty nerve-wracking.

Why? Because the shift in roles is so dramatic. These are people who changed my diapers, wiped my tears, dealt with my various adolescent crises, and endured the sarcasm and judgmentalism of my young adulthood.

And then, years later, I stand as some kind of representative of Christ and the bible? It is, by definition, awkward when the "baby of the family" becomes the pastor to the family.

Now people on both sides (mine and Julie's) have been more than gracious.

Of course, I'm the default person to ask to give the blessing at family meals.

Most of them have heard me preach -- the first few times in front of them were for sure my most nervous times in the pulpit.

I've presided at several weddings for family members . . . and thankfully didn't forget my lines.

I've led two funerals in Texas and have seen how years of taking that ministry so seriously here in the Carolinas prepared me to lead those deeply personal events back home.

All this is on my mind today because this afternoon Julie's mother will undergo back surgery here in Charlotte. It's not life-threatening . . . but anytime you go under anesthesia there is cause for concern.

And during and after surgery, I'll have that role again. Not as surgeon, of course, but as chaplain to my in-laws.

Because when you "pastor" it means you care for souls. Even the ones closest to you.

Yesterday, my friend & colleague Dennis Sult and I visited with a woman who after battling cancer for several years has decided to stop chemotherapy and begin Hospice care.

Surrounded by family, she acknowledged that she was "sick and tired of being sick and tired."

I've been with many patients and families making that same decision over the years.

And I'm always struck by the courage involved.

Courage to say enough.

Courage to choose better days over more days.

Courage to be cared for by others in the tenderest of moments.

Courage to trust that 2 Corinthians 5:8 is actually true: "We are confident, I say, and would prefer to be away from the body and at home with the Lord."

Indeed.

In last Thursday's post, I mentioned a return trip from a conference in South Carolina with some of my Methodist preacher friends.

The group with which I travelled is a collection of twenty-five pastors from Western North Carolina Methodism who are part of what is called the Reynolds Leadership Program. We gather together three times a year to learn from other churches, receive training in leadership, and foster deeper relationships with one another.

But at this most recent meeting, I actually did some teaching. It's always nerve-wracking to make a presentation to one's peers, and this day was no exception. I simply shared some of Good Shepherd's story, and focused in on strategy, series, and sermons.

In the middle of all that, two phrases that we use here seemed to resonate the most with my colleagues:

1) We try to de-clutter people's lives and minds. That's why our sermons tend to have one point rather than many; it's why we streamline our Sunday bulletins rather than including information about every program and meeting; and it's why the walls of our church are clean and spare rather than cluttered with bulletin boards and flyers.

2) We hope to de-weird the Holy Spirit. All too often, teaching about the Holy Spirit is just odd enough that it appeals only to a small segment of the Christian population. We believe that what the Holy Spirit brings to believers' lives is too important to marginalize in that way. So we do our best to teach the radical truths of the Spirit's power . . . and yet do so in a way that makes sense to new Christians.

All in all, it was an anxiety-filled honor to teach in front of my friends, and perhaps more churches in Western North Carolina will get excited about de-cluttering and de-weirding.