IT’S NEVER TOO LATE
“I’m going to ask him to play softly for a moment and then sing the song one more time,” the pastor of the small, mountain church said as I played the final chord of “I Speak Jesus” on the baby grand piano at the front of the church. My 14-year-old daughter and I had just led through the song as the “special music,” a part of rural church liturgy that, in my experience at similar churches, was usually nothing more than a performance and a formality.
But not this Sunday. And not at this church.
It was already an unusual and special day simply because of why we were there. My stepmom, at 68-years old, was getting baptized. For the first time in her life, she was making her public profession of faith! Knowing that this was yet to come in the service and knowing the journey of what God did to get her and our family there, made what happened next even more incredible.
The pastor, moved by the lyrics of the song and sensing God was up to something in that moment, asked the congregation if they knew of anyone who is lost and living without Jesus. He asked if anyone in the room or anyone that someone in the room knew needed the name of Jesus spoken over an addiction or depression or over their family. He challenged the church to come to the altar to pray as we sang through the song again.
The people began to move. At least half of the 150 or so folks who had packed the sanctuary that day immediately stepped out from their pews to pray. Looking up from the piano midway through the first verse of this reprise, I saw something coming down the aisle that I had never seen before and, to be honest, wouldn’t have ever expected to see – my dad leading my stepmom to the altar to pray.
Both my dad and my stepmom were raised going to church. My dad, growing up very involved in the independent Baptist church that I would also grow up in, and my stepmom, growing up as the granddaughter of a prominent Primitive Baptist pastor, both had a respect and appreciation for the role of faith in our lives. But throughout my life, our family’s involvement in faith was like most cultural Christians – it was fine if I wanted to get more involved in church or faith life, and it was even encouraged, but my parents didn’t go beyond dad going to Sunday School or my stepmom attending church once or twice a year on special occasions.
When my daughter was born almost 15 years ago, my dad and stepmom would make the two-hour drive south to see their baby granddaughter on Sundays, the only day my dad had off work to do so. Because my wife, our new baby, and I would be at church, having just planted OneLife one year prior, they would attend our church service and stay for the afternoon. After a few years of this happening almost every other week, I remember thinking to myself, “This is the most my parents have ever gone to church together.”
Then I began to see more things change. Several years ago, my dad started going to the worship service at his church, and my stepmom began going with him for the first time. They deepened relationships with others in the church, relationships that spilled over to everyday life beyond Sundays. About a year ago, as their church was nearing dissolution, they were invited by friends to visit another church where God was moving. This church was different. The congregation was challenged to be the workers instead of relying solely on the pastor. Disciple making was a primary focus. The Gospel was preached in a relevant way. They kept going, and growing, and decided this was their new home.
And all of this led to what I experienced this past Sunday. Seeing my 68-year-old stepmother, like a second mom to me since I was six-years old, being unashamed to publicly profess her faith was an answer to 30 years of praying. Seeing, for the first time in my 42 years of life, my 69-year-old dad go to the altar to pray and leading his wife to do the same was an answer to a prayer I never even knew I should pray. Hearing my dad talk about learning about discipleship for the first time in his life made my heart almost burst.
Pastors and church leaders, we can often get discouraged when the growth isn’t what we hoped for or when the response to our effort isn’t what we prayed for. It can feel frustrating when we see the same faces repeatedly looking back at us or when the demographic we lead is older than what we would prefer or what it once was.
But don’t give up. Families like mine need you. And what families like mine and the story like this one I have shared illustrates is that it is never too late. It is never too late for that person who has seemingly never shown movement. It is never too late for that older person in your church who you assume has taken all the steps they will take. It is never too late for that person you assume isn’t hearing you or doesn’t seem to be responding. Those small deposits over time are adding up. And one day, they will pay off.
It reminds me of the words written to the Hebrew believers, who – like us – may have been tempted to give up: “run with patience the race that is set before us” (Hebrews 12:1). It's as if the writer is telling them – and us – “Don’t give up! It’s a marathon, not a sprint. Keep running! It’s never too late.”
