"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!”
