You Feed Them

"You Feed Them"

by Nathan Harkness

The pastor of First Baptist Church sat in his study on a Tuesday morning pouring over a large desk cluttered with papers. The church’s bank statements, the budget, last week’s offering. He was feeling flushed and a bottle of aspirin sat at the ready on one corner of the desk. This is not going to work, he thought. This was a bad idea. Why do I have to be such an idealist? Why didn’t I listen to people?

Giving had been on a downward trend since he began his new sermon series on justice a year ago. One by one, his best tithing families had quietly found new church homes. He would always remember those pivotal moments of change, those moments of no return.

One Sunday he had cancelled the service and organized a volunteer workday in the community instead. While most families enjoyed the service project, an email the next day read, “While I appreciate your heart to serve and bless our community, you have to understand that every Sunday, I come to church absolutely exhausted from the week. The last thing I want to do is come to church and do more work! I need a church where I can come and be fed, not where I’m constantly being expected to pour myself out for strangers. I have barely enough energy to care for my own family.”

Another Sunday, a controversial sermon on poverty had prompted concerns over the “increasingly political agenda coming from the pulpit” though the following week’s talk on racial reconciliation generated even more controversy. A mostly Caucasian church in an economically and ethnically changing suburb, the pastor no longer felt they could continue as a homogeneous church in a diversifying community. The church had become a tutoring center during the week, offered ESL classes, hosted a food bank every month and was involved in outreach at a local high school. Most of the congregation was happy about these programs until the beneficiaries of these ministries began showing up to the church’s other programs. The custodians began to find cigarette butts in the parking lots on Sunday. There was graffiti in the men’s restroom.

Worst of all, 3 African American kids from the high school showed up to youth group last month with alcohol on their breath. Several families left the church at that point since it was no longer a safe environment for their kids. “I love the idea of being a diverse church,” one of the deacons had told the pastor. “But you have to understand that with low-income families you’re invite a huge set of problems. New security risks, financial strain, a much needier population. You have to think about the people God has given you to shepherd. They’re not going to put up with a lot more.

One by one families had left. Over the last year, the staff had been cut in half and the remaining ones took a 20% pay cut. The elder board had temporarily disbanded since only two elders remained. New faces replaced the old ones, but they brought more needs than resources. Single mothers, high-school dropouts, immigrants, day laborers, even an occasional homeless person.

Now barely making it on half of last year’s operating budget, the pastor sat at his desk and gazed across the room with a bemused expression at the blueprints that hung on the adjacent wall. The blueprints were a dream, an idea for an expanded worship center, new offices, and a new children’s wing. The staff had once dreamed together of all the growth and new ministries that the addition could mean. More space would bring a bigger constituency, a bigger budget, new programs, and more volunteers along with a greater overall impact on the community. But today, he thought instead of a winter’s worth of new potholes in the parking lot, a new leak in the roof, a demoralized staff, and carpets that desperately needed cleaning.

His head dropped slowly into his hands. God I thought I was doing the right thing here. I wonder now if I was just being idealistic and naïve. I was so sure that you wanted to me to bring in the poor and hurting in our neighborhood. But I’ve alienated everybody, I don’t know how I’m going to pay salaries next month… this church has been going for over 50 years, our savings are gone, and we’ll have to close our doors soon if we keep…

“Pastor,” a secretary’s head appeared in the doorway. “Marie Tennet is up front. She says the transmission on he car blew up yesterday and she needs it to get to job interviews. She’s asking for help… and she’s crying.”

If Marie had a stable personality and marketable skills, he thought, she wouldn’t have to go to interviews. She could go to work… “Okay… anything else?”

“Joel Perez was here earlier asking if there were leftovers from Monday’s food outreach… I told him to come back next month.”

The pastor thought of Jesus feeding the 5,000 with a couple fish and a few loaves. If only it were that easy, he mused. I’ve got a responsibility to my staff and my family. I’m already way out on a limb here. I’ve got people lining up for help. Hungry people. Uninsured people. People who can’t get a job, people who.... Did we even pay our missionaries this quarter? I wonder if…

“Pastor?” The secretary’s voice came again. “Did you hear me?”

“You feed them,” he mused quietly looking out the window.

“Sorry?”

He glanced quietly to meet her puzzled stare. “Uh… Can you bring me the check book Janice?”

“What for?”

The pastor shrugged. “Let’s help Marie out. Let’s get Joel some food. Heck… let’s spend it all.”

“Spend what all?”

“Everything Janice. Everything we’ve got. Let’s give it all away.”

The secretary’s eyebrows furrowed only a little. She was also the church’s accountant and she was used to this pastor’s occasional whims.  But this was a new one. “Marcus…”

“I’m serious Janice. Bring me the checkbook... And close the door.”

For the next hour, pastor and secretary came up with every person they could think of who had a need: church members, neighbors, people in the community... and gave away every dime the church owned. Small notes were attached to each gift, stuffed into envelopes and dropped into the mailbox before either of them could change their mind. Both knew they had just given away their paycheck, their livelihood, and their future. But there was a strange lightness and humor in the room as they methodically gave away every last shred of the church’s stability and financial solvency to anybody and everybody who could make use of it. And when the last envelope was sent, the pastor stood, gathered the papers slowly from his cluttered and gingerly set them in the garbage can. “I’m going home Janice,” he smiled. “Lock up when you’re done?” She nodded mutely, not sure what had come over her.

As the pastor walked down the dark hallway toward the doors, he thought of how he would break the news to his staff, to his wife. He wondered whether they could sell the building before the bank got it. He doubted it was worth much. Clearly he’d cracked up. But inexplicably he felt light, invigorated. He actually laughed out loud. “Alright God!” he shouted wildly, his voice echoing down the hall. “That’s that!”

At that moment he spotted Marie Tennet sitting near the doors looking somewhat frightened by the shouting pastor. “Hi Marie! How are you today?” he shouted cheerfully and paused to take in her dumbstruck expression.

They stood there silently for a moment until the pastor finally sighed and made his decision. “Well Marie, it’s not much to look at…” he said. “But it’ll get you around town.” Pressing the key of his ’96 Honda Civic into her palm, he turned on his heel and strode toward the door.

“It needs an oil change!” he called over his shoulder. “And don’t roll down the back windows. You’ll never get them up again!”