Altar Calls and the Laughter of God
Has God ever given you the opposite of what you asked for, but you discovered it was good—very good?
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The first time it happened, I was standing on the upper level of a hospital in Houston, looking down at the scene below. Hospital visitors wove in and out of food court lines, security guards changed shifts, and nurses sat down wearily at tables in out-of-the-way corners for a much-needed break. Though all had the appearance of being normal, there is nothing normal about being in a hospital—it feels like a place outside of time, a space between questions and answers, sickness and healing, life and death. I was standing on the other side of death, having lost Drew’s mother to COPD only minutes before. She looked so sweet and peaceful in her passing that it was hard to believe this was goodbye. Drew and I were ready to head downstairs to leave when the chaplain who’d accompanied Drew’s family in his mother’s final moments walked through the heavy swinging doors and began to engage us, helping us know what to expect next. When she found out Drew was a pastor, her face lit up. For some reason, the chaplain then turned to me and said with a touch of awe in her voice, “We must pray for you. This is a difficult and weighty calling.” She grabbed someone else—I don’t remember who—and they prayed for me and Drew individually—for thriving in our ministry, for protection, for blessing. I felt a bit sheepish after our encounter. But her thoughtfulness was also a strange yet welcome gift of hello after we had been swimming for days in the waters of imminent goodbye. Her prayer and attention reminded me that there was life beyond this devastation—that somehow, we would get through this. She was a stranger, yet she cultivated a haven of hospitality when she reached out, touched my shoulder, and saidWe must pray.
*
I never wanted to be a pastor’s wife, and here is why: in middle school, I responded to a good old fashioned altar call to those who had decided to “Surrender-To-Full-Time Christian Ministry.” Looking back, I was constantly surrendering to or for something: salvation, repentance, re-dedication; if there was any hint of doubt in my mind, down to the altar I went—just to be sure I had all my bases covered. But this altar call was different. I knew it was a weighty decision, yet I could not stay in my seat and was compelled to walk to the front of the church with a handful of others. As I knelt at the front with my head bowed, I discreetly peeked to my right and left and wondered if I had done something wrong. There are mostly guys up here, I thought; Did I mishear the question? I then saw one or two of my churchiest girlfriends kneeling on the fringes and I breathed a sigh of relief. Okay. I don’t not belong here.
Afterwards, those who had “Surrendered-To-Full-Time-Christian-Ministry” were shepherded into a small classroom behind our school’s chapel—guys to the right, girls to the left. As I looked at our tiny female trio I noticed the other two girls had tears streaming down their cheeks. I did not. “We just surrendered to becoming Pastors’ Wives ™ ” they said rapturously between quiet and beautiful weeping. Something in my chest began to tighten. Was that what I just surrendered to? Was “Pastor’s Wife” my only option? Oh no. Oh, no no no. I thought—no, hoped—there might have been more in store for a young woman who just gave her future to God, but I didn’t have a category for “more” yet. A nice calm teacher confirmed my fears as she comforted the crying duo and blessed our future lives as pastor’s wives. I felt the keen sting of disappointment as I went home and told my mom the story of how I came so close, yet so far, to full time Christian ministry that day. I remember her trying to encourage me that there were, in fact, other options than playing the piano every Sunday and organizing church bazaars—but the damage had been done. (*Side note: a dear friend of mine once got broken-up with at her small Christian college by her future-pastor boyfriend for not being able to play the piano. This was a desired skill for his future wife that she, alas, did not possess. His current wife plays the piano.) Ever since that day of the altar call of sweaty yet earnest North Carolina middle schoolers, I’d vowed not to become what my two friends had surrendered to be and made sure God knew about that too.
*
God is funny. And I don’t mean strange or inscrutable—though God is. I mean I honestly think God likes to laugh, and likes for us to be in on the joke. Truest, deepest, bubbling-over belly laughing joy and playfulness comes straight from the heart of God. So on the day I said yes to becoming a Pastor’s Wife ™, I thought about my vow. And I laughed—not out loud, but more like Sarah laughed when she—many decades past menopause—learned she and Abraham were to become parents. It was a laughter of internal eye-rolling accompanied by wonder, joy, and awe. I am captivated by this exchange between God, Abraham, and Sarah from Genesis 18:
Abraham and Sarah were already very old, and Sarah was past the age of childbearing.
So Sarah laughed to herself as she thought, “After I am worn out and my lord is old, will I now have this pleasure?”
Then the Lord said to Abraham, “Why did Sarah laugh and say, ‘Will I really have a child, now that I am old?’ Is anything too hard for the Lord? I will return to you at the appointed time next year, and Sarah will have a son.”
Sarah was afraid, so she lied and said, “I did not laugh.”
But he said, “Yes, you did laugh.”
For most of my life I’ve read this passage as a scolding. The LORD is a bit miffed that Sarah laughed at the pregnancy proclamation and chastised her for not taking it all more seriously. But what if God thinks it’s funny too that Abraham is pushing triple digits, yet God is about to give them their hearts’ desire—a baby boy? I invite you to read the passage again, but through the lens of playful banter among God, Abraham, and Sarah.
Doesn’t that change things?
God gave them what they wanted most—yet God’s timing couldn’t have been more opposite than what Sarah and Abraham had in mind. Though my middle school and high school would have shuddered in horror, I am so glad God gave me the opposite of what I wanted. Partnering with Drew in church ministry as well as pursuing my own call to ministry through the arts is one of the greatest joys of my life. It was Pastor Appreciation Sunday last week, and our church sent cards to Drew and me, many of which were addressed to us separately. I felt seen—as a whole person and not just as a role. I love my church. But God, you knew I would, didn’t you? With gratitude, I join the laughter of God and experience echoes of goodness every week.
*
The second time it happened, someone else had just passed away. I was standing off to the side of an outdoor shelter at a military ceremony where Drew and I attended the funeral of a dear man from our church last Saturday. The best part was meeting his and his wife’s Nigerian community that surrounded, loved, and supported them through their marriage and through his final days. They welcomed us into a shared space of grief with open arms and a deeply-rooted faith. Drew had shared a brief pastoral reflection and led us in singing “The Old Rugged Cross,” one of our congregant’s favorite hymns. I always hear that song as an altar call of sorts, and when I sing it I picture myself kneeling in the grass and hugging the splintery wooden beam of a cross. Afterwards a Nigerian woman walked up to me and asked, “Are you the Pastor’s Wife?” I nodded and she said “Oh—we must pray for you. We must pray for strength and courage for you and your husband as you shepherd your flock.” Then she hugged me and I hugged her back and our faces pressed up against each other and I felt loved by a complete stranger who affirmed God’s calling on my life once again. I will never forget her.
Am I saying that God sent an angel woman to comfort and affirm me as a pastor’s wife in the wake of death twice now, and that I think God did this on playful purpose? Yes. I think I am. Those two encounters remind me that God sees us, hears our dreams, takes us seriously. But the God of holy reversals also loves to laugh at the impossible with us. God gives us what we need and meets our heart’s deepest desires, even when they feel too big or deep to say out loud. This is a God who cares about us far beyond whatever roles or calling we fulfill in our lives—and isn’t that good? We are loved in fullest measure. We can trust this God.
“I am the Lord, the God of all mankind. Is anything too hard for me?”
(Jeremiah 32:27)