November 22, 2025 • 17 mins
In this episode, we step inside “Any Church USA” and witness what happens when Jesus shows up in the midst of busy schedules, full calendars, and well-intentioned programs. Through the eyes of church staff, we explore what it truly means to shepherd others, care for the hurting, and prioritize presence over performance. Tune in for a story that challenges every Christian to love the “sheep” the way Jesus does.
Read: https://ready4eternity.com/the-day-jesus-joined-the-church-staff-meeting/
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Mark as Played
Transcript
Episode Transcript
Available transcripts are automatically generated. Complete accuracy is not guaranteed.
(00:00):
I'm Eddie Lawrence and this is the Ready
for Eternity podcast, a podcast and blog
exploring biblical truths
for inquisitive Bible students.
Part of the problem with the American
Church's biblical worldview we've been
talking about in the last couple of
(00:21):
episodes isn't just
biblical ignorance, it's neglect.
As I've written about before, a distorted
view of God happens when His shepherds
fail to tend the flock.
I must confess my own shortcomings in
this matter or risk being hypocritical.
(00:42):
I'm not a pastor nor am I part of a
church staff, but as an introvert's
introvert, it's way more comfortable for
me to keep fellow believers at arm's
length and avoid the messy real-life
problems of other disciples.
I'm repenting of this, but I fear
slipping back into comfortable routines
(01:04):
where I seek the quiet of my home to
study and ponder
another portion of Scripture.
If we're going to imitate Jesus, it means
spending time with people.
The truth is, caring for the hurting and
walking alongside those in need is not
(01:24):
only the church staff's job, but the
responsibility of every Christian.
Keep that in mind as you listen to this
fictional story that
follows about any church USA.
The church office smelled like burnt
coffee and copytoner.
(01:46):
Pastor Mike drummed his fingers on the
conference table, surrounded by
half-empty energy drinks and color-coded
calendars that mapped out the
next six months of programs.
His staff, youth pastor, worship leader,
children's director, and communications
coordinator looked worn in that specific
way that comes from chronic busyness and
(02:09):
impossible expectations.
"Okay, team.
Thanks for staying late," Mike began,
glancing at his watch.
"I know Wednesday nights are crazy, but
we need to talk about our numbers.
We've plateaued at 300 for eight months
now, and honestly, we
should be doing better.
Easter's in six weeks.
That's our Super Bowl.
(02:29):
If we execute the plan right, we could
see 450, maybe convert
50 of those to regulars."
Nobody mentioned that they'd said the
same thing last Easter.
The door opened.
Jesus walked in and sat down in the empty
chair, his presence so natural that for a
moment no one reacted.
(02:49):
Then everyone froze.
"Oh," Mike said, blinking.
"I… we weren't
expecting…" "I know," Jesus said gently.
"But I thought we should talk."
An awkward silence followed.
Finally, Joe, the worship
leader, laughed nervously.
"Well, this is… I mean, we'd love your
(03:11):
input on… on worship.
We've been trying to find that balance
between hymns for the older folks and
contemporary stuff that
will attract young families."
Jesus looked at him with such kindness
that he felt suddenly fragile.
"Joe, when was the
last time you worshipped?"
He blinked.
"I… every Sunday.
(03:33):
I lead three services."
"That's not what I asked."
Joe's smile faltered.
He thought of Sunday mornings, racing
between services, checking microphones,
managing volunteers who didn't show up,
mentally rehearsing transitions.
"I… I'm working during worship."
(03:53):
"I know.
You've become so focused on creating an
experience for others that you've
forgotten how to experience me yourself."
Joe looked down at his hands.
They were shaking slightly.
He couldn't remember the last time he'd
sung to Jesus rather than for the crowd.
Tyler, the youth pastor, jumped in to
(04:14):
fill the uncomfortable silence.
"Well, we're really
excited about our summer plans.
We're doing a huge outreach event.
Bounce houses, food trucks, live music.
Should pull in tons of unchurched
families from the neighborhood."
He slid a glossy flyer across the table.
"We're calling it Summer Blast.
The graphics alone cost us $800."
(04:36):
Jesus was quiet for a moment.
"And who will run all of this?"
"Oh, we've got a great volunteer team.
They're amazing.
They always step up."
"Tom and Amanda have coordinated your
last six events," Jesus said.
"They lead a small group on Wednesday
nights, serve in the nursery twice a
month, and help with
set up every Sunday."
(04:58):
Amanda told her husband last week she
can't remember the last time
they had a Saturday to rest.
Tom wanders privately if any of these
events actually matter, but he keeps
serving because you asked him to.
Because he trusts you.
Tyler's face flushed.
He thought of the text he'd sent Tom at
10 p.m. last Tuesday asking
(05:18):
for help with another project.
"You're burning out the faithful, asking
them to fuel programs you
haven't stopped to question.
They're too loyal to say no.
Too respectful to ask why."
So they serve and serve and serve and
wonder why they're exhausted
in a faith that promised rest.
(05:39):
"Tyler," Jesus said
quietly, "tell me about Marcus."
Tyler's enthusiasm dimmed.
"Marcus? Marcus
Johnson?"
"The boy who sits in the back every week,
whose father left six months ago, who
cuts himself in the church bathroom
before youth group because he can't
figure out how to ask for help."
(05:59):
The room went very still.
"I didn't know," Tyler whispered.
But even as he said it, he remembered
seeing Marcus's long sleeves in summer,
the way he avoided eye contact, how he
always left early Tyler had been too busy
planning the next big event to notice.
"You have 17 weeks of programming mapped
(06:20):
out," Jesus continued, his voice still
gentle but carrying an edge of grief.
"But you don't have 17 minutes to sit
with a dying sheep."
Tyler felt something crack in his chest.
All those events, the lock-ins, the laser
tag nights, the mission trips designed
(06:40):
more for Instagram content than actual
ministry, he'd measured success by
attendance numbers while
Marcus bled in silence.
Jen, the children's director, spoke up,
her voice defensive.
"Well, we can't be everywhere at once.
We have 120 kids in
the children's ministry.
We're doing our best to reach-" "Sara
(07:00):
left your church three weeks ago."
Jesus interrupted gently.
Jen froze.
"Sara Williams?"
"She volunteered in your
nursery for five years.
She came every Sunday, served
faithfully, never complained.
Her husband filed for
divorce two months ago.
She cried in the parking lot for 20
(07:20):
minutes after service,
hoping someone would notice.
No one did.
She decided God's people
were too busy for her pain."
Jen's face went white.
She remembered seeing Sara's name removed
from the volunteer portal.
She'd meant to call, but then there was
VBS prep and the new curriculum rollout
and the volunteer
(07:41):
appreciation event to plan.
"We have a connection card system.
If people need help, they're
supposed to fill out a card."
Jesus' expression was
so sad it hurt to see.
"You've created systems to avoid knowing
your sheep, forms to replace presents,
programs to substitute for love."
He paused.
(08:02):
"You're so busy trying to attract new
people that you're starving
the ones I've already given you."
Pastor Mike felt his defenses rising.
"That's not fair.
We work 60, 70 hours a week.
We're exhausted.
We're doing everything we
can to build our church."
"Build my church."
Jesus corrected, and though his voice
(08:24):
didn't rise, the authority
in it silenced Mike instantly.
"You're building your reputation, your
attendance numbers, your programs that
look impressive in the
denominational newsletter."
Mike opened his mouth
to argue, then closed it.
He thought of the Instagram posts
celebrating growth, the subtle
(08:44):
competition with other area churches, the
way he measured his worth by how many
people showed up on Sunday.
"Last month, the Henderson's teenage
daughter attempted suicide.
They'd been attending
your church for two years.
They sat in the fourth row every Sunday.
You greeted them at the door, learned
their names, made them feel welcome.
(09:06):
But you never asked how
they were actually doing.
You never went to their home.
You never broke bread with them.
You kept them at the distance of
professional friendliness."
Mike's throat tightened.
He remembered seeing the ambulance at
their house, meaning to stop by the
hospital, but then there was the staff
meeting, and the budget review, and the
(09:28):
capital campaign planning session.
"They left the hospital with a daughter
who's alive, but a faith that's in ruins.
Because when they needed a shepherd, they
got an event coordinator."
The words hung in the
air like an indictment.
Rachel, the communications coordinator,
had been silent, but now she spoke.
(09:49):
"We're just trying to reach people.
The community doesn't even know we exist.
We have to market.
We have to promote."
You spent $23,000 on a new LED sign.
Mrs.
Patterson, who sits in the same pew she
sat in for 40 years, lost her husband to
cancer last Tuesday.
She has $87 in her bank account.
(10:10):
No one from the church
has brought her a meal.
No one has mowed her lawn.
No one has sat with her in her grief.
He looked at Rachel.
But your sign is very bright.
Rachel felt tears
burning behind her eyes.
She'd driven past Mrs.
Patterson's house every day, distracted
by podcast interviews about church growth
(10:32):
strategies and viral
social media campaigns.
"We're doing what we're supposed to do,"
Mike said, but his voice
had lost its conviction.
"Outreach, evangelism, making disciples."
"You're making
attendees," Jesus interrupted.
"Consumers, people who show up when you
entertain them and leave when you don't.
(10:54):
You've trained them to expect a product,
not a savior, a show, not a cross."
He stood, and the room felt suddenly
smaller and larger at the same time.
"You have 300 people.
You want 450.
I had 12, and I wanted
those 12 to know the Father.
I ate with them.
(11:15):
I walked with them.
I wept with them.
I washed their feet.
I knew when Peter was afraid, and when
John was prideful, and
when Thomas was doubting."
His eyes swept across the staff.
"Can you name the fears of your 300?
Do you know their doubts?
Have you washed any feet lately, or just
planned more events?"
(11:37):
The silence was crushing.
"Your calendars are full, but your
shepherding is empty.
They're so busy manufacturing moments
that you're missing the divine
appointments I've
placed right in front of you.
Marcus in the bathroom, Sarah in the
parking lot, the
Henderson's in the fourth row, Mrs.
Patterson in her empty house."
(11:59):
Tyler was crying now,
silently, his shoulders shaking.
"The world doesn't need another church
with good marketing," Jesus said softly.
"It needs shepherds who smell like sheep.
It needs leaders who know the difference
between gathering a crowd
and caring for a flock."
He moved toward the door, then paused
(12:19):
with his hand on the frame.
"Cancel 75% of your programs.
Maybe more.
Spend the time visiting the sick, sitting
with the grieving,
noticing the invisible.
Learn your sheep's names, not just their
names, but their stories, their wounds,
their secret hopes."
(12:40):
His voice was tender
now, almost pleading.
"Stop trying to impress people with what
you can do and start
loving them with who I am."
"But the numbers!"
Pastor Mike started.
"I never asked you to count them.
I asked you to feed them."
He left, and the door clicked shut with a
sound like a rebuke.
(13:01):
For a long moment, no one moved.
The calendars on the wall, covered in
events, promotions, campaigns,
initiatives, suddenly looked obscene.
All those programs, all that activity,
and Marcus was still
cutting himself in the bathroom.
Joe picked up his phone,
scrolled to his schedule.
(13:23):
Every hour blocked out, planning,
rehearsing, recruiting, performing.
When was the last time he'd had coffee
with someone who was hurting?
When was the last time he'd prayed with
someone instead of just
saying he'd pray for them?
Tyler thought of Summer Blast, the bounce
houses and food trucks
they couldn't really afford.
(13:44):
He thought of Marcus sitting alone,
unreached by all their reaching.
Jen stared at her hands, remembering
Sarah crying in the parking lot while Jen
had been inside rearranging the nursery
supplies that didn't need rearranging.
Mike looked at the LED sign proposal on
his laptop, then at the
budget line for benevolence.
(14:06):
The smallest category, always the first
to get cut when they needed money for
something more visible.
Rachel whispered,
"What have we been doing?"
No one answered because they all knew.
They'd been building something that
looked like a church, that had all the
right programming and marketing and
events, but somewhere along the way,
(14:26):
they'd forgotten that
Jesus didn't die to fill seats.
He died to seek and save the lost, to
bind up the brokenhearted, to be with his
people in their actual lives, not just
their Sunday performances.
Pastor Mike closed his laptop slowly.
"Team meeting, tomorrow morning.
We're going to cancel
some things and then..."
(14:48):
He paused, feeling the
weight of what needed to happen.
"And then we're going
to go find our sheep."
Through the window, they could see the
parking lot where Sarah had cried alone,
the street where the Henderson's lived
with their wounded daughter, the
neighborhood where Mrs.
Patterson sat in silence.
The sheep were there.
They'd always been there.
(15:09):
The shepherds had just
been too busy to notice.
Joe spoke into the quiet, "I don't even
know how to do this anymore.
How to actually shepherd
instead of just produce."
"Neither do I," Tyler admitted.
"Me neither," said Jen.
Mike looked at the door where Jesus had
left, understanding
(15:29):
suddenly that this was the point.
They didn't know how.
They'd built entire careers on strategies
and systems and programs, and now they
were being called back to something much
older and much simpler and much harder.
Knowing the sheep, feeding the sheep,
loving the sheep, even when it meant
(15:50):
smaller numbers and darker buildings and
calendars with blessed,
terrifying white space.
"I guess we learn," Mike said finally.
"Starting with Marcus and Sarah and the
Henderson's and Mrs.
Patterson."
"And the other 296 we've been too busy to
actually see," Rachel added quietly.
(16:12):
They sat in the fluorescent light of the
church office, surrounded by the rubble
of their productivity and felt for the
first time in years the
ache of holy inadequacy.
It was the most spiritually alive they'd
felt in a long time.
There in the darkness, Marcus sat alone.
Sarah tried to pray through her tears.
(16:34):
The Henderson's held
their broken daughter.
Mrs.
Patterson stared at empty chairs.
The sheep were waiting.
And finally, the shepherds
were ready to go find them.
I'm Eddie Lawrence and this is the Ready
for Eternity podcast, a podcast and blog
exploring biblical truths
for inquisitive Bible students.
Part of the problem with the American
Church's biblical worldview we've been
talking about in the last couple of
(00:21):
episodes isn't just
biblical ignorance, it's neglect.
As I've written about before, a distorted
view of God happens when His shepherds
fail to tend the flock.
I must confess my own shortcomings in
this matter or risk being hypocritical.
(00:42):
I'm not a pastor nor am I part of a
church staff, but as an introvert's
introvert, it's way more comfortable for
me to keep fellow believers at arm's
length and avoid the messy real-life
problems of other disciples.
I'm repenting of this, but I fear
slipping back into comfortable routines
(01:04):
where I seek the quiet of my home to
study and ponder
another portion of Scripture.
If we're going to imitate Jesus, it means
spending time with people.
The truth is, caring for the hurting and
walking alongside those in need is not
(01:24):
only the church staff's job, but the
responsibility of every Christian.
Keep that in mind as you listen to this
fictional story that
follows about any church USA.
The church office smelled like burnt
coffee and copytoner.
(01:46):
Pastor Mike drummed his fingers on the
conference table, surrounded by
half-empty energy drinks and color-coded
calendars that mapped out the
next six months of programs.
His staff, youth pastor, worship leader,
children's director, and communications
coordinator looked worn in that specific
way that comes from chronic busyness and
(02:09):
impossible expectations.
"Okay, team.
Thanks for staying late," Mike began,
glancing at his watch.
"I know Wednesday nights are crazy, but
we need to talk about our numbers.
We've plateaued at 300 for eight months
now, and honestly, we
should be doing better.
Easter's in six weeks.
That's our Super Bowl.
(02:29):
If we execute the plan right, we could
see 450, maybe convert
50 of those to regulars."
Nobody mentioned that they'd said the
same thing last Easter.
The door opened.
Jesus walked in and sat down in the empty
chair, his presence so natural that for a
moment no one reacted.
(02:49):
Then everyone froze.
"Oh," Mike said, blinking.
"I… we weren't
expecting…" "I know," Jesus said gently.
"But I thought we should talk."
An awkward silence followed.
Finally, Joe, the worship
leader, laughed nervously.
"Well, this is… I mean, we'd love your
(03:11):
input on… on worship.
We've been trying to find that balance
between hymns for the older folks and
contemporary stuff that
will attract young families."
Jesus looked at him with such kindness
that he felt suddenly fragile.
"Joe, when was the
last time you worshipped?"
He blinked.
"I… every Sunday.
(03:33):
I lead three services."
"That's not what I asked."
Joe's smile faltered.
He thought of Sunday mornings, racing
between services, checking microphones,
managing volunteers who didn't show up,
mentally rehearsing transitions.
"I… I'm working during worship."
(03:53):
"I know.
You've become so focused on creating an
experience for others that you've
forgotten how to experience me yourself."
Joe looked down at his hands.
They were shaking slightly.
He couldn't remember the last time he'd
sung to Jesus rather than for the crowd.
Tyler, the youth pastor, jumped in to
(04:14):
fill the uncomfortable silence.
"Well, we're really
excited about our summer plans.
We're doing a huge outreach event.
Bounce houses, food trucks, live music.
Should pull in tons of unchurched
families from the neighborhood."
He slid a glossy flyer across the table.
"We're calling it Summer Blast.
The graphics alone cost us $800."
(04:36):
Jesus was quiet for a moment.
"And who will run all of this?"
"Oh, we've got a great volunteer team.
They're amazing.
They always step up."
"Tom and Amanda have coordinated your
last six events," Jesus said.
"They lead a small group on Wednesday
nights, serve in the nursery twice a
month, and help with
set up every Sunday."
(04:58):
Amanda told her husband last week she
can't remember the last time
they had a Saturday to rest.
Tom wanders privately if any of these
events actually matter, but he keeps
serving because you asked him to.
Because he trusts you.
Tyler's face flushed.
He thought of the text he'd sent Tom at
10 p.m. last Tuesday asking
(05:18):
for help with another project.
"You're burning out the faithful, asking
them to fuel programs you
haven't stopped to question.
They're too loyal to say no.
Too respectful to ask why."
So they serve and serve and serve and
wonder why they're exhausted
in a faith that promised rest.
(05:39):
"Tyler," Jesus said
quietly, "tell me about Marcus."
Tyler's enthusiasm dimmed.
"Marcus? Marcus
Johnson?"
"The boy who sits in the back every week,
whose father left six months ago, who
cuts himself in the church bathroom
before youth group because he can't
figure out how to ask for help."
(05:59):
The room went very still.
"I didn't know," Tyler whispered.
But even as he said it, he remembered
seeing Marcus's long sleeves in summer,
the way he avoided eye contact, how he
always left early Tyler had been too busy
planning the next big event to notice.
"You have 17 weeks of programming mapped
(06:20):
out," Jesus continued, his voice still
gentle but carrying an edge of grief.
"But you don't have 17 minutes to sit
with a dying sheep."
Tyler felt something crack in his chest.
All those events, the lock-ins, the laser
tag nights, the mission trips designed
(06:40):
more for Instagram content than actual
ministry, he'd measured success by
attendance numbers while
Marcus bled in silence.
Jen, the children's director, spoke up,
her voice defensive.
"Well, we can't be everywhere at once.
We have 120 kids in
the children's ministry.
We're doing our best to reach-" "Sara
(07:00):
left your church three weeks ago."
Jesus interrupted gently.
Jen froze.
"Sara Williams?"
"She volunteered in your
nursery for five years.
She came every Sunday, served
faithfully, never complained.
Her husband filed for
divorce two months ago.
She cried in the parking lot for 20
(07:20):
minutes after service,
hoping someone would notice.
No one did.
She decided God's people
were too busy for her pain."
Jen's face went white.
She remembered seeing Sara's name removed
from the volunteer portal.
She'd meant to call, but then there was
VBS prep and the new curriculum rollout
and the volunteer
(07:41):
appreciation event to plan.
"We have a connection card system.
If people need help, they're
supposed to fill out a card."
Jesus' expression was
so sad it hurt to see.
"You've created systems to avoid knowing
your sheep, forms to replace presents,
programs to substitute for love."
He paused.
(08:02):
"You're so busy trying to attract new
people that you're starving
the ones I've already given you."
Pastor Mike felt his defenses rising.
"That's not fair.
We work 60, 70 hours a week.
We're exhausted.
We're doing everything we
can to build our church."
"Build my church."
Jesus corrected, and though his voice
(08:24):
didn't rise, the authority
in it silenced Mike instantly.
"You're building your reputation, your
attendance numbers, your programs that
look impressive in the
denominational newsletter."
Mike opened his mouth
to argue, then closed it.
He thought of the Instagram posts
celebrating growth, the subtle
(08:44):
competition with other area churches, the
way he measured his worth by how many
people showed up on Sunday.
"Last month, the Henderson's teenage
daughter attempted suicide.
They'd been attending
your church for two years.
They sat in the fourth row every Sunday.
You greeted them at the door, learned
their names, made them feel welcome.
(09:06):
But you never asked how
they were actually doing.
You never went to their home.
You never broke bread with them.
You kept them at the distance of
professional friendliness."
Mike's throat tightened.
He remembered seeing the ambulance at
their house, meaning to stop by the
hospital, but then there was the staff
meeting, and the budget review, and the
(09:28):
capital campaign planning session.
"They left the hospital with a daughter
who's alive, but a faith that's in ruins.
Because when they needed a shepherd, they
got an event coordinator."
The words hung in the
air like an indictment.
Rachel, the communications coordinator,
had been silent, but now she spoke.
(09:49):
"We're just trying to reach people.
The community doesn't even know we exist.
We have to market.
We have to promote."
You spent $23,000 on a new LED sign.
Mrs.
Patterson, who sits in the same pew she
sat in for 40 years, lost her husband to
cancer last Tuesday.
She has $87 in her bank account.
(10:10):
No one from the church
has brought her a meal.
No one has mowed her lawn.
No one has sat with her in her grief.
He looked at Rachel.
But your sign is very bright.
Rachel felt tears
burning behind her eyes.
She'd driven past Mrs.
Patterson's house every day, distracted
by podcast interviews about church growth
(10:32):
strategies and viral
social media campaigns.
"We're doing what we're supposed to do,"
Mike said, but his voice
had lost its conviction.
"Outreach, evangelism, making disciples."
"You're making
attendees," Jesus interrupted.
"Consumers, people who show up when you
entertain them and leave when you don't.
(10:54):
You've trained them to expect a product,
not a savior, a show, not a cross."
He stood, and the room felt suddenly
smaller and larger at the same time.
"You have 300 people.
You want 450.
I had 12, and I wanted
those 12 to know the Father.
I ate with them.
(11:15):
I walked with them.
I wept with them.
I washed their feet.
I knew when Peter was afraid, and when
John was prideful, and
when Thomas was doubting."
His eyes swept across the staff.
"Can you name the fears of your 300?
Do you know their doubts?
Have you washed any feet lately, or just
planned more events?"
(11:37):
The silence was crushing.
"Your calendars are full, but your
shepherding is empty.
They're so busy manufacturing moments
that you're missing the divine
appointments I've
placed right in front of you.
Marcus in the bathroom, Sarah in the
parking lot, the
Henderson's in the fourth row, Mrs.
Patterson in her empty house."
(11:59):
Tyler was crying now,
silently, his shoulders shaking.
"The world doesn't need another church
with good marketing," Jesus said softly.
"It needs shepherds who smell like sheep.
It needs leaders who know the difference
between gathering a crowd
and caring for a flock."
He moved toward the door, then paused
(12:19):
with his hand on the frame.
"Cancel 75% of your programs.
Maybe more.
Spend the time visiting the sick, sitting
with the grieving,
noticing the invisible.
Learn your sheep's names, not just their
names, but their stories, their wounds,
their secret hopes."
(12:40):
His voice was tender
now, almost pleading.
"Stop trying to impress people with what
you can do and start
loving them with who I am."
"But the numbers!"
Pastor Mike started.
"I never asked you to count them.
I asked you to feed them."
He left, and the door clicked shut with a
sound like a rebuke.
(13:01):
For a long moment, no one moved.
The calendars on the wall, covered in
events, promotions, campaigns,
initiatives, suddenly looked obscene.
All those programs, all that activity,
and Marcus was still
cutting himself in the bathroom.
Joe picked up his phone,
scrolled to his schedule.
(13:23):
Every hour blocked out, planning,
rehearsing, recruiting, performing.
When was the last time he'd had coffee
with someone who was hurting?
When was the last time he'd prayed with
someone instead of just
saying he'd pray for them?
Tyler thought of Summer Blast, the bounce
houses and food trucks
they couldn't really afford.
(13:44):
He thought of Marcus sitting alone,
unreached by all their reaching.
Jen stared at her hands, remembering
Sarah crying in the parking lot while Jen
had been inside rearranging the nursery
supplies that didn't need rearranging.
Mike looked at the LED sign proposal on
his laptop, then at the
budget line for benevolence.
(14:06):
The smallest category, always the first
to get cut when they needed money for
something more visible.
Rachel whispered,
"What have we been doing?"
No one answered because they all knew.
They'd been building something that
looked like a church, that had all the
right programming and marketing and
events, but somewhere along the way,
(14:26):
they'd forgotten that
Jesus didn't die to fill seats.
He died to seek and save the lost, to
bind up the brokenhearted, to be with his
people in their actual lives, not just
their Sunday performances.
Pastor Mike closed his laptop slowly.
"Team meeting, tomorrow morning.
We're going to cancel
some things and then..."
(14:48):
He paused, feeling the
weight of what needed to happen.
"And then we're going
to go find our sheep."
Through the window, they could see the
parking lot where Sarah had cried alone,
the street where the Henderson's lived
with their wounded daughter, the
neighborhood where Mrs.
Patterson sat in silence.
The sheep were there.
They'd always been there.
(15:09):
The shepherds had just
been too busy to notice.
Joe spoke into the quiet, "I don't even
know how to do this anymore.
How to actually shepherd
instead of just produce."
"Neither do I," Tyler admitted.
"Me neither," said Jen.
Mike looked at the door where Jesus had
left, understanding
(15:29):
suddenly that this was the point.
They didn't know how.
They'd built entire careers on strategies
and systems and programs, and now they
were being called back to something much
older and much simpler and much harder.
Knowing the sheep, feeding the sheep,
loving the sheep, even when it meant
(15:50):
smaller numbers and darker buildings and
calendars with blessed,
terrifying white space.
"I guess we learn," Mike said finally.
"Starting with Marcus and Sarah and the
Henderson's and Mrs.
Patterson."
"And the other 296 we've been too busy to
actually see," Rachel added quietly.
(16:12):
They sat in the fluorescent light of the
church office, surrounded by the rubble
of their productivity and felt for the
first time in years the
ache of holy inadequacy.
It was the most spiritually alive they'd
felt in a long time.
There in the darkness, Marcus sat alone.
Sarah tried to pray through her tears.
(16:34):
The Henderson's held
their broken daughter.
Mrs.
Patterson stared at empty chairs.
The sheep were waiting.
And finally, the shepherds
were ready to go find them.
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