Tennessee Road

Sandee Swarner and some of my Kentucky friends.

I had spent the summer in Kentucky at a small local church that was putting on a "Discipleship Training School" modeled after YWAM's program for their college and career-aged adults. We were driving back from a conference in North Carolina and by this time in the summer, the eight of us in the program had bonded deeply as a team, and loved being together. One person at a time had to take turns riding in the pastor's comfortable air-conditioned RV where the individual could stretch out and sleep. In the van, we were all scrunched, and hot all the time. Still we rotated turns in the RV, with the "loser" having to take their turn away from our little "family" and a summer's full of inside jokes and good-natured teasing and laughter.

My place in the van was at the base of the bump between the driver's seat and shotgun seat. I would sit there in bliss as Curt and Donald would innocently play with my hair and lightly massage my head. We had camped outside a church in North Carolina, and listened to some great teaching, ending our time in the state on the beach playing in the Atlantic. We were driving home at a leisurely pace, and had even stopped at one point to take a short hike.

As dinnertime approached, we were somewhere in Tennessee and for some reason unbeknownst to us, Pastor Billy was all of a sudden very concerned about time. We pulled into a fast food strip and Billy announced. "Everyone out! You have exactly 1/2 hour to eat and get back to the van. Anyone not back in 30 minutes will get left." We sized up the situation. The restaurants closest to us seemed packed and had a long wait.

And to be honest, we didn’t want what was close.   Kentucky Fried Chicken had caught our eye in the distance and even though we knew it might cost us, we wanted what we wanted.  Three of us decided to chance it. We booked it all the way there, collected our food and booked it back, planning to eat upon our return. We didn't make it.

When we arrived breathless, we found the rest of the team sitting at a picnic table waiting for us, Billy’s RV and the van long gone.  "We weren't going to leave you here by yourself," Curt said. "We stick together."  I remember cycling through emotions.  First, surprise.  There didn’t seem to be any real purpose behind our half-hour directive.  Then fear. I 100 percent believed that Billy had left for good, and as we discussed how to get home, it was clear that none of us had much money.  I envisioned having to call my parents and having to try to explain where I was, and why I needed hotel and bus fare.

Then, the anger came.  Who did this pastor think he was? Was he just being grumpy? Was he trying to teach us something?  Was there some reason we all of a sudden needed to rush that we all weren’t aware of?  And if so, why didn’t he explain it to us?  Why the leisurely pace all day, and then the sudden demand and hurry?

After about 45 minutes, Billy’s RV and the van pulled up to us.  Billy was quietly angry and ordered us all into the vehicles.  I had a couple of hours to cool down before I had to face Billy, and I needed every minute. 

It was one of the first times as a young adult that my will was crossed by a spiritual authority in my life.  Yes, I was attending a Bible College that had more rules than most, but most of the rules were common sense and didn’t bother me (at least until my Senior year when I spent a number of sessions with the Dean questioning each rule, confessing crimes, and asking for exceptions.)

I struggled, praying the whole time, patiently explaining to God (Who must have been watching the Middle East or something while all of this was going on) the situation and why the pastor was wrong.  It didn’t seem to matter.  God still expected me to apologize and forgive. And worse.  Submit.

We pulled over for gas and snacks and Billy one by one, found the 3 of us culprits.  After a couple hours with God, my heart had softened and I just wanted to have the confrontation over.  Billy came over to me, and warmly said something to the effect of “So, you made kind of a selfish decision back there.”  “Yes, I did,” I said.  “I’m sorry.”  He hugged me tight and said that I was the only one who hadn’t tried to justify my choice or offer an excuse.  Later, he used me as an example of the right way to repent and apologize. 

I never found out why we were asked to hurry.  I just know that God wanted me to learn to submit in the hard times----when there is seemingly no reason for the request----and when everything inside of me tells me that the person I’m being asked to submit to is wrong, and mean.

As a Christian, I believe that we are subject to the leaders of the land, our employers, and our spiritual leaders.  Are our leaders always right? No.  They are human like anyone else.  If we purpose to hold our hearts in submission and do what they ask of us, will that keep us from hurt? No. The path of Christendom is littered with believers who were hurt by leaders and dropped out of the race. 

But what I have learned? Is that God will honor us when we honor those who have charge over us.  When we choose to stop complaining (against the government, against our boss, against church polices or programs which we think we could design better).  When we choose instead to speak well of elected officials, go with the flow at work, and support and encourage our pastors and leaders, God blesses us.

Since that day in Tennessee, my will has been crossed a multitude of times by spiritual leaders. I used to look back to my Kentucky summer and think it was a time in a near-cult. The intense expectations put upon us, and the gentle but intense correction when we didn’t meet them, seemed over the top and abusive to me.

Now, after more than a few sessions of correction with other pastors, in Alaska, in New York, in my present church—I have other words for it.  Discipleship.  Mentoring.  Love.  Spiritual Parenting.  PASTORING.

Maybe someday I’ll thank Billy.