Yet another post about surrender, trust, and obedience. (Are we sensing a theme here?)
Some trust in chariots and some in horses, but we trust in the name of the LORD our God. (Psalm. 20:7 NIV)
I have this thing about titles and diplomas.
I love them.
I covet them.
But I could never have them for the longest time.
It started with high school, which I completed with a proficiency certificate rather than a diploma. At the age of 25, I enrolled in a graphic design program that took nearly four years to complete, and I ended up with only a certificate when I could have spent that same amount of time, energy, and money in college and earned a degree instead. (I can’t complain, though– this design program was where I met my wife and the friend who introduced me to our home church.) Later, when I was a martial arts instructor, I spent nearly one year training hard for the promotion test to earn my Level 6 stripes and I knew the material inside and out, but the test kept getting postponed and I missed out on it because I had to stop training when I got the job at church, which was over fifty miles from where my classes were. This was particularly painful for me, because I had found my identity in martial arts for the longest time.
I prayed and asked God why diplomas and formal titles kept eluding me.
“Why do they matter to you?” said the still, small voice. “Do pieces of paper define you?”
Good point, as always. I thought about how the practical skills I had gained from intense training couldn’t be taken away from me, even if I didn’t have a certificate with a formal title by my name. Still, I argued that having diplomas and titles wasn’t just a personal preference, but necessities to make it in this world.
“Really? Hmm. Well, you’re going to have to trust me, because I will give you that which cannot be earned or bought.”
This happened during my first year of ministry, around the same time that my supervisor, Ed, first floated the possibility that I could someday be given the title of “pastor” at our church and pursue credentialing with our denomination. This was thrilling news to me, especially since the calling to ministry that I received in the night back in spring of 2005 specifically mentioned that I’d be a pastor someday. Once I got my foot in the door, I worked hard, got promoted twice, and tried to learn as much about ministry as I could, devouring books, taking leadership courses, and asking my mentor tons of questions.
By spring of 2009, I had earned a measure of credibility among our congregation and was meeting with people regularly, praying with them, mentoring them, offering encouragement and correction when needed. My job title should have had me more on the administrative than pastoral side, but for all practical purposes, I was already pastoring people. Yet, I hadn’t heard any follow-up on the possibility of getting promoted to a pastoral role.
I was in my office one morning, reflecting on this, thinking back to what I sensed God telling me about titles and diplomas. I prayed, “God, I thought you said I’d be a pastor someday, but maybe you didn’t mean I’d be one officially. It doesn’t matter, because I see that you’ve already entrusted me with shepherding people.” I thanked God for the privilege while surrendering the official title of pastor to Him.
Moments later, Pastor Ed walked into my office and told me it was time to make it official: he’d propose to the leadership of the church that I be promoted to pastor, and he encouraged me to begin the credentialing process with our denomination.
The same morning I surrendered this all to God, He gave it right back to me.
Surrender. It’s a running theme in my life.
I contacted our denomination and was sent a stack of forms to fill out. There was a lot of work required: Thousands of pages of reading. At least a dozen essays to write. An interview with the credentialing committee. I jumped right into it, thankful for the opportunity to finally pursue this. Once my paperwork was in, I was scheduled for my interview, which would take place at a particular church in a suburb of Los Angeles.
I had heard stories about interviews at this church, where the senior pastor, who was one of the heads of the credentialing committee, was so tough, several other pastors had failed their interviews with him, and these pastors had been Christians for much longer than I had.
I hadn’t gone to seminary and didn’t grow up in the Church. Would I be able to pass this interview? I was getting anxious when an impression interrupted my inner panic attack: “If I want you to get credentialed, you’ll get it no matter what.”
A sense of peace and confidence filled me, flushing the anxiety away.
Over the next few weeks, I studied my papers to prepare myself for the interview. My supervisor got the idea to connect me to the former head of the credentialing committee for some pointers on interviewing, but since this person was a chaplain and wasn’t always in town, we couldn’t schedule our meeting until the day before my interview.
The three of us met for breakfast and went over my essays. The chaplain told me I’d get nailed on some of my answers and suggested that I study these points further. I feverishly jotted down notes, fully intending to study these points later on in the day.
I asked the chaplain how I should dress for the interview. He said business casual—a polo shirt and slacks would be fine. He said a tie wouldn’t be necessary, much less a suit.
I went to the office after this interview and blocked a few hours out so that I could study for the interview, but my day kept getting interrupted by ministry emergencies. I was putting out fire after fire, growing increasingly frustrated at losing valuable time for study. “God,” I huffed. “I wanted to do the right thing and study for tomorrow’s interview. Could you please give me some time to do so?”
“Don’t worry about studying. Just work on your devotional.”
Part of the interview involved a five-minute devotional, or mini-sermon, which I’d have to write that night.
I finally had time for a breather at around 4:00 P.M. I locked my office door, sat down, and started writing my devotional, which was supposed to be about how we came to believe in Jesus Christ. I started writing in language that I thought was conservative-friendly using words like “convicted,” “accepted,” and “conversion” while avoiding any talk about hearing voices, getting impressions, and having dreams by the Holy Spirit.
I finished the first draft at around 6:00 P.M. and read it. It was nice, pat, and non-threatening in my opinion, but it didn’t paint the full picture of how God really did lead me to faith in Jesus and call me to ministry. I felt bad, as if I were covering up what God had done.
I remembered the impression that if God wanted me to get credentialed, I’d pass the interview no matter what. I felt a strong conviction to tell it like it is, and if the committee didn’t like what they heard, it’d be better for me to fail the interview than to deny what God had done in my life. I scrapped my first draft of the devotional and left the office.
I went home for dinner and spent some quality time with Soo and our son. Once it was his bedtime, I started writing a new draft of my devotional. It was 11:00 P.M., the night before my interview.
I wrote about my spiritual journey, summarizing most of what you’ve read in this blog up until this point, condensing it into a five-minute message. I didn’t shy away from the parts I thought might be weird: the dreams, the voices, the impressions. I wrote about my trip to Bangkok, my call to ministry, my experiences on a church staff.
This second draft of the devotional was done in less than 45 minutes. It was nearing midnight. I got the impression to go to bed and get some rest, and not even bother reading what I had just written.
So, I obeyed.
I woke up the next morning and prayed for God’s favor that day. I listened to the weather forecast- it was supposed to hit 90 degrees, and my interview would be in a city that was inland, far from the ocean or the mountains where cool breezes might be likely.
As I started to get dressed, I reached for a polo shirt in my closet when I got a clear impression to “wear a suit.”
“But God,” I protested. “I don’t even need to wear a suit—the chaplain said business-casual. Plus, my interview is in this inland suburb and it’ll be too hot to wear a suit today–”
“Wear a suit.”
“Okay, I’ll wear a suit and tie and bring my jacket in the car, but I might not wear the jacket if it’s too hot–”
“Wear a suit.”
I gave in and got dressed in my suit slacks, a shirt, and tie, and brought the jacket on a hanger. I packed my bag with my Bible and a printed copy of my devotional. I left my house early to avoid being late for my interview, which was scheduled for 11:30 A.M.
I made the 40-minute drive to the church and turned on the radio to listen to sermons, hoping to glean some nuggets I might be able to use in my interview. It didn’t help—the sermons were on topics completely unrelated to what I’d have to talk about.
I arrived at the church at 11:00 A.M. and checked the thermometer on my dashboard. It was 80 degrees and climbing. I parked under a tree and put my A/C on full-blast in a misguided attempt to store up cool air in my system to keep me from sweating during the interview, as if I had a camel-like ability to do so. I spent the next twenty minutes praying and going over my devotional.
At 11:25 A.M., I thought it was time for me to head inside and check in for my interview. My dashboard thermometer read 90 degrees.
I turned off the A/C and my car’s engine, then opened the door, bracing for a blast of heat.
Instead, I was met with a cool breeze. Not just a random blast of hot, dusty, L.A. air, but a sustained breeze that was ocean breeze-cool, or mountainside hamlet-cool. “But wait,” I thought, “The ocean and mountains are miles from here. My thermometer still says 90, but this breeze is pretty cool.”
Cool enough for me to wear my suit, jacket and all.
I put on my coat and headed for the lobby, where I was welcomed and told to wait a few minutes, after which someone would call me to one of the two interview teams, one of which was meeting in the main sanctuary and the other in the multi-purpose room. Knowing that the committee member whom I was worried about was the lead pastor of this church, I thought that perhaps he’d be in the main sanctuary, so I prayed that I’d get summoned to the multi-purpose room instead.
The few minutes of waiting were nerve-wracking. I introduced myself to the two other candidates awaiting their interviews—one drove from Arizona while the other flew in from Hawaii. This was no local, informal, obligatory interview; this was a big deal. I tried not to sweat—the room wasn’t air-conditioned, but the cool breeze outside flowed in through open windows.
A committee member came out to welcome me. He led me away from the main sanctuary, towards the multi-purpose room. Yes—my prayer had been answered! I walked into the multi-purpose room to meet two additional committee members.
One of them was a youth pastor. The other was the lead pastor of this church– the one whom I had been conditioned to tremble at the very mention of his name. And sure enough, he didn’t look very happy to see me: he had the focused glare and tightly-wound intensity of a linebacker, ready to take me out of the game.
I should have soiled my pants at that moment, but the words I had received came back to mind to soothe me.
“If I want you to get credentialed, you’ll get it, no matter what.”
God was reminding me of what He said in Philippians 4: 6-7: “Do not be anxious about anything, but in every situation, by prayer and petition, with thanksgiving, present your requests to God. And the peace of God, which transcends all understanding, will guard your hearts and your minds in Christ Jesus.” The peace of God that makes no sense to us filled me as we began the interview.
We opened with some icebreakers. One of the committee members quipped, “Nice suit. I know all you guys at (your church) dress like that every day. (At the time, the typical attire for the men on our staff would be a pair of jeans and a graphic tee bearing a pop-culture reference.) Two of the three interviewers made lighthearted banter, but the senior pastor of this church didn’t flinch. He looked ready to pounce, but I continued to have peace.
It was time to end the chit-chat. I was asked to deliver my five minute devotional—the one I wrote in 45 minutes just 12 hours earlier, the one I didn’t even proofread, the one I wrote after scrapping a first draft that took me hours to write. I silently prayed for the Holy Spirit to guide me, then opened my mouth and began to speak, basing my message on Proverbs 3:5-6:
Trust in the Lord with all your heart and lean not on your own understanding; in all your ways submit to him, and he will make your paths straight. (NIV)
As I shared my testimony with the interview team, I could see the senior pastor’s defenses—the intensity, the edginess—melt away. I was glad that I scrapped the first draft in favor of this one, a more accurate description of what God—not I—had done to get me to this point in ministry, and I could see why the Lord impressed it upon me to just write a devotional and not worry about studying for the interview.
The committee members kept poker-faced after the devotional and began to grill me on my essays. At one point, the senior pastor asked me a challenging theological question, phrased in a way that I couldn’t weasel out of.
I didn’t know how to answer him. I prayed and asked God for help.
I got the impression to simply be honest. “The Lord detests dishonest scales, but accurate weights find favor with him” (Prov. 11:1 NIV).
I spoke up and replied to the committee, “I honestly don’t know how to answer that question.”
The senior pastor proceeded to give me a quick lesson on theology and explained the answer to me. “Does that help?” he asked with a smile, letting me off the hook.
“It does,” I replied sheepishly. “Thank you.”
We wrapped up the interview. I still couldn’t get a read on how the committee might have thought of me. I had no idea how I did. They asked me to go to the lobby and wait while they deliberated. I took a seat across from another candidate, who was also dressed in a suit.
I broke a smile as I greeted him, inwardly thanking God for the mysterious cool breeze.
After about ten minutes, I was called back to the multi-purpose room. The committee affirmed my calling to ministry and agreed that, based on the testimony I had shared in my devotional, God had indeed led me to this.
“And by the way,” said the team leader, “thank you for wearing a suit. We know you didn’t have to, but that tells us that you take this process seriously and don’t see this as just some hoop we make you jump through.”
I silently thanked God for prompting me to wear a suit, and for providing that awesome cool breeze on such a hot day in Los Angeles County.
After the three committee members laid hands on me and prayed, they welcomed me into the denomination and encouraged me to continue sharing my stories. The senior pastor, whom I had feared for months, grinned warmly as he congratulated me with a hearty handshake.
I thanked the committee profusely, giddy as a schoolboy because I had reached a major milestone: I was now a credentialed pastor, over four-and-a-half years after I first sensed the calling from God.
“If I want you to get credentialed, you’ll get it no matter what.” God had indeed led me throughout the process—the suit, the cool breeze, the devotional—and got me through the interview in spite of the warnings I was given about the senior pastor on the committee.
As I headed for my car, I heard footsteps behind me, followed by a voice calling out my name. “Hey Stephen, great job back there.”
I whirled around to see the senior pastor of that church, beaming with a warmth that caused me to question why I ever feared him in the first place. He proceeded to tell me how my story had spoken to him, and how he was also feeling led to depend more on prayer and the Holy Spirit.
He then asked me if I would consider coming back to his church to speak to his elder board about my experiences with prayer.
Seriously?
This, from the very person I had been dreading to meet for months, the very person who was supposed to give me a hard time and fail me during my interview?
“If I want you to get credentialed, you’ll get it no matter what.”
“Don’t worry about studying. Just work on your devotional.”
“Wear a suit.”
Some people trust in horses and chariots– the tangible things that convey power and strength– but we can trust in the name of the LORD.
Then he said to me, “This is what the Lord says to Zerubbabel: It is not by force nor by strength, but by my Spirit, says the Lord of Heaven’s Armies.” (Zechariah 4:6 NIV)
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