Is this remarkable?

“Is this remarkable?” I asked my dear friend and dear pastor, Lee Tankersley, after this morning’s service at Cornerstone Community Church. It was a real question, not rhetorical. When I arrived at Cornerstone (and the Jackson, Tenn., area) 11 years ago after moving here from Michigan, our church numbered around 125 and met in an old Tractor Supply Store. In fact, on that first Sunday, we sent out a guy and his wife to plant a church in Salt Lake City.

A few years later we moved to a “real” church building and today we are numbering around 500 and change on a Sunday morning.

Neither thing is terribly remarkable.

In my 11 years of Cornerstone membership, our liturgy has never changed. We sing several songs, read scripture aloud, pray often, and hear a verse-by-verse sermon. I’m told the liturgy hasn’t changed much … ever. We have done no marketing, have little-to-no social media presence, and have never brought in a flashy celebrity speaker. Our pastors have published zero books between them, that I am aware of. However, they are dear, faithful men who are committed to mentoring the next generation of pastors, and I love all of them.

This piece is probably the closest thing to “hubris” that has taken place in our church and is why I feel hesitant to write it. Fame scares me—it has ruined many men and ministries—and it probably would have ruined me, back when I wanted it. I almost ruined myself, even just by dreaming of it. Heck, even progress scares me as evidenced by, basically, my life. I’ve been doing the same job, in the same place, for 11 years.

What is remarkable, I think, is what took place this Sunday morning. We welcomed back—for middle prayer—a bunch of our former pastoral apprentices who eventually left our body to plant or revive churches. One in rural Kentucky. One in Brooklyn, N.Y. One in Plattsburgh, N.Y. One in Salt Lake City, Utah. Another in rural West Tennessee. One in the Amazon jungle, by which I mean the actual Amazon jungle, and not Silicon Valley. A couple of others minister just up the road in other small, West Tennessee locales. Our membership walked to the front, laid hands on them, and prayed for them.

Many in our body have left to serve alongside them, or to simply encourage them by moving to their communities and worshipping in their pews each Sunday. Many in our body have contributed to their ministries, financially. In this, we are joyful co-laborers. These are stories you will never hear because these men and their families also don’t write books, don’t hit the conference circuit, don’t host podcasts, and don’t do much on social media. Nobody is trying to grow this into a “brand” or a “thing,” and I’m so glad. We welcome these guys and their families back annually to thank them and encourage them and share in both their victories and challenges.

This feels right, to me. Flocks are shepherded and fed from the Word, dead churches are slowly revived, and people are coming to Christ, in part because of these men and their families—men who were young when I met them 11 years ago, some of whom were still in college, and some of whom weren’t even there yet. But really because the Lord is allowing it. Hearing from them brings tears to my eyes and I’m so proud of them—hopefully the right kind of pride.

In the intervening years, “big” church-planting brands have come and gone, many scandalized in one way or another. Lots of guys with lots of books and lots of followers were undone by the things that usually undo us—sex, money, and power. We act surprised by it every time and then resume fighting over the seats of honor at the banquet and being mad when we don’t get them.

“I think this is remarkable,” Lee replied. “I mean this guy speaks to 30 people on a good Sunday in rural Kentucky.” The guy he was referring to was a student at Union not too long ago. I remember passing him in the hallways of my building and seeing him at the campus coffee shops. He preached our sermon today and did so incredibly well. I was proud of him. Again, hopefully, the good kind.

God bless pastors who faithfully preach to 30 people in the middle of nowhere. I grew up in the middle of nowhere, and we needed good pastors there, too. It feels like there’s a new scandal every week on the evangelical internet. A new fight. A new marketing cohort being hosted by a new group of C-list celebrities. But there is good, remarkable ministry happening in places we will never hear of. And I’m proud of it.