It was an opportunity I did not seek. I was at a local rest home making a visit to a couple of my members who were residents. After my visit, I went to the registry to sign out. I reached in my pocket to grab my keys and was ready to head back to the office. Just then, the Activities Director got my attention.
“Do you have a moment?”
“Sure.” I replied.
“Our residents have had a pastor come in and lead Bible Study for some time, but now he is unable to continue to serve. Would you be willing to come in and lead Bible Study every other week?”
I really wanted to decline. My plate was already full and my stress level was high. I believed one more thing might send me over the edge. As I was formulating a good way to say “no” in my mind, my mouth got ahead of me. “Sure,” I said. “I’ll be glad to do it,” scarcely believing what my mouth had agreed to do.
I kept my word, and I went every other week. At first, it was a bit awkward. It was a large group of residents, but few of them could really engage with the message. I was not used to speaking in a facility like this one, the hard Pergo floors made the ambient noise level high. Every interaction among the staff members, every resident’s request for help echoed down the hall. So, my discomfort was amplified. Over the months and years that followed, though, leading Bible study in the rest home became important for me. I grew to love those who gathered. I began to think of it as a vital part of what I am called to do.
I know the facts of the situation. Those who gather every other Monday are in very difficult physical condition, at least most of them are. Some of them will never know my name, dementia and Alzheimer’s have robbed them of that ability. Of the ones who can know me, most of them are limited mentally as well. Of the very small group whose minds are good, their hearing is pretty suspect. This group is not a typical congregation, but it is very rewarding.
I know going to the rest home is not a recipe for ministerial “success.” It turns out that we ministers mostly want success at the same kinds of things. We want baptistries in disrepair because of overuse. We want the carpet in the sanctuary to have high traffic marks near the front because people have been going forward to pray. We want the power of the Gospel to transform lives. We want to see people come to know Christ. We want those in Christ to grow. We want to see people doing what they are called to do and finding their greatest joy in it. We want our churches to grow and prosper not for their own sake, but for the sake of the Gospel and for the sake of the world. We want to please God. In Paul’s words, we want to be ministers of reconciliation. Sometimes, though, we lapse into thinking the more people who are reconciled to God the more successful we are.
If we measure success by the things we can count, then my visits to the rest home are of limited value. I think, though, our methods of measuring success are flawed. We are told in the Bible, ministering to people like my friends at the rest home is an essential part of the mission. Even though they will likely never make a visit to my church and never become a member, they are important. They are important for the same reason you and I are important. They are important because they are important to God.
Leading Bible Study in a rest home can be humbling. I have learned many of the residents cannot appreciate many of my best gifts as a minister. If I make a subtle point about a Biblical text, it will be lost on them. They will not appreciate the fine distinctions in the doctrine of the Trinity, and they will not be moved by the works of great Christian thinkers. A careful turn of the phrase will not interest them at all. The wonders of God’s infinite nature and goodness mean little to them as well. I rather suspect, the content of my messages are the least important part of what I do there. If I preach with the fire of the Reformers and the wisdom of the ages, it really does not matter. What matters most is presence.
For two years I was unable to see my friends. The pandemic caused rest homes across the country and across the world to close off access. It simply was not safe for the residents for me to come. The activities director would give me periodic updates about the residents, but it was very different from seeing them on a regular basis. I missed my friends.
When the pandemic began to lift, I was once again invited to come visit the residents. As I came through the door way I on my first visit back saw familiar faces and some new ones. On that visit, one of my old friends grabbed my arm and nearly tattooed her fingerprints in my bicep.
Looking at me with her piercing blue eyes as if she had never seen me before she said, “Are you the preacher?”
“I am,” I responded.
“Good. I want you to do something for me.” I could tell immediately this was more a demand than a request. If I said no, I suspected she might attack me with her cane.
“What is that?”
“I want you to heal my brother.”
Realize there is nothing in divinity school training able to prepare you for a moment like this. I stammered for words. “I will pray for him. Would you like to pray right now?”
We did, but she never remembered our conversation again.
On that first visit back, we gathered in the large dining hall. 20 or so residents sat in chairs at the tables. Others sat in their wheelchairs, others on their walkers. Probably 30 or so residents attended. The concrete block walls were still decorated for the last holiday with paper decorations probably from the Dollar Tree. Plastic tablecloths covered the large wooden tables. One of the residents had her baby doll with her. I think she believed it was her daughter because of the loving caresses she gave it. Another of the residents wanted to chime in with every sentence of my message. A few were drifting in and out of sleep. In short, it was like every other time I had been.
It was like every other time, that is, until the end. After I finished my message, I closed in prayer. I stood to say goodbye to the residents, and suddenly the room erupted in applause. I’ve been a minister since 1999, and I have never received an ovation for a sermon before. In fact, I still have not. They did not clap because of the message. They clapped because I showed up. They clapped because someone cared enough to be there for them. The clapped because someone thought they mattered. They do. They matter a lot. Every human being matters to God, including them, including you.
Ad-Free & Subscriber Log-In