I’m always astonished by how the mind works. All sorts of things can trigger a memory. 

A song on a playlist can take me back to 1995, or the smell of oatmeal cookies can transport me back to my great aunt Minnie’s kitchen. These tangible time capsules are often direct, but sometimes, even the most random situations can trigger a moment I haven’t thought about in years.

This week, it was while driving past a Chick-fil-A. While noticing the long line of automobiles snaking around the building, I recalled an old sermon I had heard from a pastor of a large church I had attended for some time near North Carolina’s coast.

Before landing behind a pulpit, this pastor worked for an alleged Christian chicken company. From high school through college, he believed this would be his career after graduation.

Of course, things changed. They did so for this young man during his interview process for a lucrative job within the company. 

He confessed his “call” to go into congregational ministry to his would-be employer. The boss was disappointed but affirmed he should do what he felt was right.

It was a good personal testimony story, which has obviously stuck with me. But the memory wouldn’t stop there, and my mind, within a matter of seconds, decided to venture down several different “rabbit holes.”

I began to think about how this pastor’s church has been very significant to me in my faith journey. It was my first exposure to any type of “contemporary” mega-church. 

It was my first time entering a building that didn’t look like a typical church; no steeple or cross was in sight. That church introduced me to worship bands, crazy lights, fog machines and ministers who wore flip-flops and board shorts on stage instead of a three-piece suit.

It was there that I first heard the term “small groups,” which were essential there because the church was large. Before this, I’d seen large church gatherings, but nothing compared to seeing several thousand people meeting throughout a weekend.

I would join one of these groups, where we would discuss concepts and theological issues in an intimate setting. However, looking back now, I realize we were supposed to have come to the same conclusions. 

Conformity wasn’t explicitly required but was certainly preferred. Somewhere in that space, I began to find my voice around subjects dealing with religion and spirituality. The thought of “finding my voice” triggered another memory.

One of the small groups the church had was geared towards new believers. Being new to the church, I was encouraged to go through this class. 

After several weeks of meeting, one of the facilitators approached me and said I should check into becoming a small group leader. I think he saw an eagerness to be involved and that I wasn’t afraid to talk in a discussion-oriented environment.

This conversation led me to serve as an assistant facilitator for a few weeks, helping to drive and spark conversation. It was a good fit, and I was excited to be more involved.

My presence caught the attention of an individual who could be referred to as the Small Group Pastor. This person supervised all leadership training and material taught during small group meetings. 

To continue helping lead a small group, I needed to meet with this person. So, one afternoon, I did. 

It was the first time we had ever spoken to one another. I met with him, and within minutes, I was informed I was unfit to be a leader.

I remember the seemingly polite yet curt tone of his voice. The word “expectations” was thrown out with the precision of a master dart player. 

Examples were given as to why my qualifications were lacking. I can’t recall them all, but I remember one being that I shouldn’t be seen frequenting a local brewery.

For the better part of an hour, I sat there feeling like a kid in the principal office getting chastised for something I didn’t fully understand.

Here I was, a young person in my twenties who wanted to attend church—not only to attend but also to help and serve. And yet, according to this person, I didn’t measure up. 

I was told I needed to look, act, and fit the desired mold no matter how uncomfortable it made me feel. I left the meeting feeling insufficient and defeated.It was the last time I ever went back there.

In retrospect, I believe this person thought they were doing me a favor. I believe they felt they were holding me and themselves accountable to what they saw as biblical qualifications for leadership.

I want to assume they had the best intentions for me, even though they didn’t know me. Perhaps they felt they needed more time to judge my character?

Honestly, I’m not sure. A decade has passed, and I don’t think I’ll ever get the full reason behind the decision.

Not only am I okay with that, I’m thankful. I’m thankful I didn’t listen to that person or give them the final word.

I left that seaside town shortly after and found that I did have a place to help volunteer and lead. I was encouraged by people in a positive way to pursue what I thought God had for me.

I was told to ask questions, look into theological education, and get involved. These affirming voices were the ones I heard when I submitted my application to Campbell University. I heard them again when a church called me for an interview and later to be their next youth pastor.

That affirmation gave me confidence, which I learned to grow into. I believe the difference between what those voices offered and that small group pastor was intention. One wanted to correct me, the other to guide me.

2025 marks my 11th year in congregational ministry, and I couldn’t be more thankful for all the voices, both good and bad, that have brought me here. Now, I have the opportunity to do the same—to be that affirming presence for someone, to tell them they belong and that their perspective and voice are needed.

Speeding past Chick-fil-A, I couldn’t help but think, what would I say to that small group pastor now? The one who told me I was unfit and was worried about me going into a brewery?

Maybe, with my tongue planted firmly in my cheek, I’d invite him out for a beer. 

And over a pint, I’d say, “Let me tell you about this couple I prayed with in a bar one night. Their adult child was extremely sick. We talked, we prayed, and we drank Guinness together. It was an absolutely holy moment and one of those times that I think of when the hardness of ministry feels like it might be too much.”

And then, leaning back and sipping my beverage, I’d ask, “How can you not affirm that?”