Bandaids

I was left with a hundred and fifty people who met on Sundays plus 50 more who wanted to become a new congregation. They resented being told they couldn’t. My solution was to lead both groups. The plan was to build up the new congregation and demonstrate the merits of the multi-congregational strategy. Then, when the new group had proven itself, they would hire their own pastor.

It didn’t work. I was straddling two horses going down diverging paths. The congregation that met on Friday nights regarded the Sunday group as old and stodgy. The Sunday crowd saw the Friday night group as an illegitimate upstart. For a year, I tried to bridge the gap but I had created a monster. There was nothing to do but call the whole thing off. The Friday group felt betrayed. Most of them left and never returned. We had definitely lost that new church smell.

            In spite of the commotion, our numbers on Sundays continued to grow. We moved into the gymnasium at the middle school where we had crowds of 200 to 300 each Sunday. It should have felt like a success but I was just tired.  

The seminary called and asked if I would be able to teach a class on biblical Greek. This was a welcome distraction. I got to dress up and drive to the Bay Area and be Dr. Robertson. It didn’t do much for our bank account, but it did wonders for my ego.

John Maxwell was at the height of his popularity at this time, writing books on leadership. What mattered was not a church’s strategy or the way it organized. The key to becoming a successful church was to have a dynamic leader. I attended his seminars and did my best to be dynamic but this became just another form of exhaustion. 

A contractor in our church helped me realize my dream of designing and building my own house. We bought an acre lot at the base of the Sutter Buttes. For a year I spent as much time swinging a hammer as pastoring a church. This, along with raising three kids and and teaching at the seminary, left little time for reflection. I kept swinging the hammer and taking the next step. There were many days when life was wonderful. But this was in spite of church, not because of it. 

A young man who joined our church back when it started graduated from a conservative Calvinist seminary. We hired him to lead the youth. His influence caused me to a shift my focus again. What mattered was not church strategy or dynamic leadership. What mattered was God. How had I forgotten? Wasn’t that the whole point? I turned to the study of the Bible. I piled my shelves high with theology books and honed my Greek. I began preaching through books of the Bible verse-by-verse. 

The new focus didn’t change things. A couple that had been one of my most ardent supporters left because they didn’t like the way I interpreted the book of Revelation. The founder of the Life Chain called and insisted that I pressure the OB/GYN who attended our church to stop distributing contraceptives. I told him I would not do this. Thus ended another friendship. When I saw him in the grocery store he couldn’t even meet my gaze.

Our sponsoring church invited us to merge with them. It only made sense. We had people and no building; they had a building and no people. After the merger, life became easier and more predictable. But looking out at the dated carpet and rows of pews it struck me that we were no longer young and sexy.

Money was a constant frustration in our marriage. Although I had been relatively successful, I never earned as much as a first year school teacher and was expect to cover my own healthcare and retirement. Thankfully, California has good welfare. That took care of health insurance for our kids. I was able to save only a paltry sum for retirement. If I had asked for a raise, it probably would have been granted but I thought it wrong to do so. I took Matthew 6:33-34 literally.

            Seek ye first the kingdom of God
            and all these things shall be added unto you.

I thought this meant that if I put God first, he would take care of my finances without me having to advocate for myself. To ask the church for more money would look greedy and demonstrate a lack of faith. We got by because of kind church members who donated their services. Also, our parents sent us money. This was nice but I hated being 40 years old and still taking handouts. I wanted to pay my own way like everyone else.

The last straw came when the board gave the entire staff a raise except for me. Maybe they were fooled by our beautiful house. I was an expert scrounger. Our fence was made from boards a neighbor was throwing away. Our huge redwood deck and gorgeous wood floors came from the junk pile behind the lumber yard. For landscaping, I shoveled dirt from a pile at the cemetery into an old trailer a church member had given me. Wood chips came from an abandoned pile in the almond orchard beside our house. 

You might say that this was God’s way of providing. That’s what I thought at first. But after a while it felt like what I had to do because God did not provide. “The Lord helps those who help themselves” was just a way of saying I was on my own.

One of Bob L’s employees told me that Bob was violent at work and used foul language. “He is not who you think he is,” she told me. Bob L eventually wound up in prison for tapping his employees retirement accounts to float his business but not before trying to make me lean on two wealthy church members to bail him out.

Jack’s was the final family from Northside to leave. After 15 years of both leading the music and doing the preaching, I found a gifted musician to take over. They didn’t like his style.

The day came when I could not take another step. On April 7, 2013, I resigned with no idea of what I would do next. I assured people that God had me covered. The truth was I was exhausted from two decades of covering for him. 

A few months later, I was at our favorite Mexican food restaurant with my wife and younger daughter. Normally, she was full of fire. Today, she was strangely passive. She put down her burrito and her eyes rolled back in her head. She fell out of her chair and began writhing on the floor.

I had never seen a grand mal seizure before. I lay beside her, cradling her head in my lap as she convulsed, terrified she was dying. The paramedics arrived and whisked her to the emergency room. It was overcrowded so they lined her up in the hall to wait. Only my wife was allowed to be with her. I sat in the waiting room. 

I did not pray that night. Not once. Not a word. For a long time afterward, I told people I was mad at God, giving him the silent treatment. The real reason I didn’t pray that night was that I no longer believed anyone was listening.