84: The Day Jesus Joined the Church Staff Meeting

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 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.

Now, I must confess my own shortcomings in this matter, or risk being hypocritical.

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 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 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 AnyChurchUSA.

The church office smelled like burnt coffee and copy toner. 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 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. 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.

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 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. 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. 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 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.

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. Amanda told her husband last week she can't remember the last time they had a

Saturday to rest. Tom wonders 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 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.

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.

The room went very still. I... I didn't know, Tyler whispered.

But even as he said it, he remembered seeing Marcus' 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 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 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... Sarah left your church three weeks ago.

Jesus interrupted gently. Jen froze. Sarah 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 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

Sarah'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 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. 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 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 competition with other area churches, the way he measured his worth by how many people showed up on Sunday.

Last month, the Hendersons' 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.

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 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.

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. 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 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.

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. 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?

The silence was crushing. Your calendars are full, but your shepherding is empty.

You'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 Hendersons in the fourth row, Mrs. Patterson in her empty house.

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 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.

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.

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. 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.

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.

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, 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... 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

Hendersons lived with their wounded daughter, the neighborhood where Mrs. Patterson sat in silence.

The sheep were there. They'd always been there. 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 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 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

Hendersons and Mrs. Patterson. And the other 296 we've been too busy to actually see,

Rachel added quietly. 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. Somewhere in the darkness,

Marcus sat alone. Sarah tried to pray through her tears. The Hendersons held their broken daughter.

Mrs. Patterson stared at empty chairs. The sheep were waiting. And finally, the shepherds were ready to go find them.