Easter Sunday brings out the best and worst in pastors. Come Monday morning, I often find pastors sharing their “numbers” like their comparing score cards at end of 18 holes. Through blogs, emails, and online networks, pastors throw out attendance at services, the numbers of people who watched on line, reported”conversions”, spontaneous baptisms, are shared like men trying to one up one’s another’s scars. I don’t know how many people attended our Sunday gatherings. We didn’t “broadcast” live to anyone. And I don’t think anyone had a “come to Jesus moment” or, if they did, they didn’t tell me. I do know that we baptized eight people…I think. But. no offense the other seven, there was only ONE that really moved me–my second son. Landen James Ford has wanted to get wet with Jesus for over two years, ever since he saw his older brother get buried in Lake Stevens. I told him no. He asked every picnic we’ve had where people were buried in the Puget Sound. I told him no. Though he had reportedly accepted Jesus, I wanted him to be able to tell me the gospel. I also wanted him to tell me why anyone would be baptized. After nearly two years, he sat in the baptism class and, along with everyone else, confessed what Jesus did for him and explained being buried with Jesus meant.
Two down, and one little girl to go. I just pray she doesn’t end up like the rebellious PK in Footloose. She already has red boots.
