When I think back over the advice I’ve received over the years about how to spend my time as a pastor and church planter, it’s overwhelming.
My dad came to faith late in life. In a series of events only a gracious God could engineer, he told me he trusted Christ around lunchtime on a Tuesday before dying of a massive heart attack just three hours later.
Integral to his salvation was a decision to visit a small Baptist church. He’d visited a couple of others — unsure of what he was looking for in a church — before he came to one he felt was a fit. Honestly, I don’t know the name of that little church. I know my dad wandered into the sanctuary older, overweight, not “dressed for church” and clearly not looking like a faithful Sunday attender.
In May our church plant celebrated our second baptism service, baptizing two men as well as my son.
In addition to our regular attenders, friends and family to support those being baptized, and some of our Charlestown neighbors even came to watch out of sheer curiosity, having never seen an immersion baptism.