My Last Business Card

Last night, I handed my last Sterling Pres business card to my neighbor.

It was a surreal moment when I grabbed that card and realized that there were none behind it. I realized that with that card, I was symbolically giving away the last of my days with this precious church. I got those cards when I first came to Sterling. The title under my name was "Associate," because I was not yet a pastor at the church.

It seems increasingly likely that the next big transition is coming for the Roberts household. It feels a bit like being swept up in the gale of God's providence. One by one, various possibilities are falling away like dominoes, and we are left to tread into the unknown.

It was almost four years ago that the gale of God's providence surprisingly swept us into Sterling church. I had preached there for the better part of six months, but there was no way that a church of about two dozen would call a second pastor. Thankfully, the Lord provided them with a visionary senior pastor and a session and body eager to follow.

The band room has been replaced by the auditorium as our sanctuary, and the scattered instruments have given way to people gathered from all walks of life.

We may not have grown to 200 people, or planted a church or two, as I would have liked. Instead, we grew the old fashioned way--the best way--simply by the grace of God. Not just the church, but me as well.

While the church, like every other, has its share of struggles, it is markedly healthy--with an ever-deepening body of believers and a steady stream of visitors--both believers and unbelievers--who come through and find themselves drawn to God's Word and loved by His people. If once a year, we--like the politicians--had a "State of the Communion" speech, it would be glowing with grace.

Over the past several years, this church has been a constant in a life marked by a scary surgery, the birth of one child, the trauma of separation and deployment, the birth of another child, and financial uncertainty. Now the Lord, in His wise providence, seems to be removing that constant, and I believe we are ready.

Thank you, Lord, for a million gracious providences. They fell upon us like manna and fed our weary hearts, though we often weren't looking for them. Our faith is fed by Your faithfulness to us in Christ, and we are full. Onward and upward!

A Month Until My Pastoral Call Ends

Perhaps it is due to the nature of events recently, but I am feeling particularly nostalgic and sentimental.

In about a month, my first pastoral call will come to a close. Neither me nor the church wanted this call to end, but the Lord's providence is not dependent upon human wills. Since the Fall of 2011, I have served in a church that God has blessed to triple in size and radically transform. The growth and the transformation did not result in a continuing income, and my call is to be content with that outcome.

I am privileged and blessed to have enjoyed this experience. The senior pastor, a dear elder brother and friend, knew my precarious position as a Army Reserve chaplain and offered me an opportunity to serve and grow. Who knows where the Lord would have had me if not at Sterling? But in His sweet grace, He has given me years of preaching and teaching experience, years of being humbled and learning what it means to take His people into my heart.

For several long months, with new baby in tow, the Roberts household pondered what the Lord would have for us in the coming days. Some days have been bright with contentment and hope; others darkened by the poison of resentment and anxiety. But it is only within our power to label the days based on our petty feelings, not ordain the days or define their purpose. That power belongs to the Lord alone, and as His providence is always holy, wise, and powerful, it doesn't really matter what our feelings are. The weight of His heart, not our own, defines our lives.

Last night, we bought tickets to Vancouver for a portion of the summer to fill a pulpit for a friend who is traveling back home to Malawi to visit his family. An opportunity like this--to assist a friend, travel to and live in a very different location, and shepherd another grouping of God's flock--is only possible because I am soon to be "under-employed." Who would believe that such a circumstance would be a blessing? But that is what we must always learn anew.

Until we leave, the Army will be providing me with additional duties that will supplement our income and help steady some of the "lean" season in Vancouver. When I return, I may have a full-time teaching position waiting for me, alongside my regular chaplaincy duties. Speaking of which, I have grown increasingly attached to my new unit at Ft. Meade. The Gospel opportunities are endless. And I may be permitted to continue teaching "boot camp"--fitness classes that I have taught in NoVa for the past couple of months under the oversight of a fellow believer and former Army Ranger.

And I will continue to be able to serve the flock at Sterling--not regularly, mind you, but this will continue to be our particular corner of the Kingdom for a time. By God's grace, I continue to form more connections with the community here. I gave the benediction for a Memorial Day ceremony today, led by the local American Legion. I may have an opportunity to be their "chaplain" as well.

On a day like today, I realize that the old wounds still linger. Yesterday, I preached a church in a remote town in southern Maryland and had the opportunity to teach on the work of the Army chaplain. I soon as I started talking about Dave Lyon, my voice broke. It's pretty pitiful to hear me in such moments. I don't know how to cry. It sounds like somebody is choking on a turkey bone.

Today, on Memorial Day, I remember CPT David Lyon, United States Air Force, and SPC Matthew Serpa, United States Army. I remember the families they left behind, and the thousands of families who have an empty seat at the dinner table. That puts the present uncertainty in perspective.

Paraphrasing Calvin, it is a pitiable thing when one's obsession with life becomes more important than one's purpose in life. May I always remember that my purpose is bound to my Lord and Savior, Jesus Christ, who has enabled me to live for the glory of God and enjoy Him forever.

Just Another Funeral?

While not nearly as frequent as a couple of years ago, I still venture out to conduct a funeral as the OIC (officer-in-charge) on occasion. Most of the time, I go with my old friend the MSG (Master Sergeant). MSG, a hard-of-hearing veteran NCO of over 30 years experience trained me for funerals years ago, and has been part of my team for probably half of the 250+ funerals I have done.

On Thursday, I traveled with the MSG to our second funeral of the week--several hours west in the mountains of West Virginia. We passed through old towns dating back to the 1700s, winding through verdant pastures and lush mountainsides in the process. When we arrived in our particular mountainside destination, we had to venture off the known map in order to find the cemetery.

In this remote location, we would be burying a World War Two veteran. Joining us on this mission were about eight American Legion vets, ranging from the sixties to eighties in terms of age (MSG will be there in a few years). Most of them date back to the Vietnam era. I was proud to serve alongside of them in conducting this funeral.

A few remarks were given of this deceased hero, and then we were given the reigns. MSG called every to stand for the presentation of military honors. The two of us, posted on either side of the coffin, turned in and slowly raised a salute to the flag. The firing team fired off three volleys, and TAPS sounded on the bugle. When the bugle stopped, MSG and I slowly lowered our salutes, grabbed the corners of the flag, raised it, and simultaneously side-stepped into the clearing between the coffin and attendees. We folded it lengthwise together, then I held it fast as he slowly folded it toward me. When he reached the stars of the flag, he held the folded portion open and I tucked in the remainder. He held it to his chest, straightened it, and handed it to me. He then saluted and walked off.

I rotated the flag in my hands so that the broad side was facing out, then turned toward the elderly widow. As I slowly walked toward her, the same thoughts crossed through my mind that come at every funeral: How long were they married? What is it like to lose your best friend after decades of life together? What were they like when they were young together? I reached her seat and got down into a semi-kneeling position so that I could look her in the eyes.

"On behalf of the President of the United States, the United States Army, and a grateful nation, please accept this flag as a symbol of our appreciation of your loved one's honorable and faithful service."

I always emphasize certain portions of that script when I speak, and it never comes across as well-rehearsed. I always emphasize the "our" so that my own care and love in known, even in this informal script.

After I stopped speaking, I slowly rose to the feet, snapped to attention, and saluted--maintaining eye contact with her the entire time. I then did a right-face and walked away and joined MSG in walking back to our vehicle. As I peeled off the white gloves and removed my jacket and head gear, an older woman walked up to me and said "I know you do a lot of these, but it really seemed like you cared. Thank you."

"Ma'am," I responded, "I care about each and every one." She said, "I can tell," and walked off.

When I got home several hours later, I was greeted by a "Daddy!" and was able to scoop up my little boy. I love returning to him and our baby girl after a funeral. Life screams out against death. Some day, their mother and I will pass into glory. A few decades later, in God's grace, they will follow. And I hope and pray that they, with their parents, will be able to stare death in the eyes, much as I stared at that dear widow in the eyes--without fear and full of longing for the future world, where pain and death will be put under the feet of our Savior.

Processing a Soldier's Death

SPC Serpa was stationed in northern Afghanistan along with two NCOs from our unit who were both old enough to be his parents. And naturally, they grew to assume those roles. The female NCO would pester him with motherly advice and was fiercely protective of him. The male NCO would treat him like a man and invite him to gatherings with older soldiers, giving him the opportunity to be respected as a peer.

I thought of these things last night as I looked at a photo posted by the male NCO of the "Camp Mike Spann Cigar Club," with Serpa in the middle of the gathering of older soldiers, trying to look suave and adult-like (even with his baby face--second row, right, in PT jacket). I looked at the photo for a few moments, said something to my wife about it, opened up a bottle of wine, poured a glass, and began to weep. The tears that I had been suppressing for days in order to better care for my soldiers were let loose.

For the benefit of the soldiers reading this post, I will be candid with my own thoughts and feelings with the hope that they will be useful to you as you join me on this journey of grief and, God-willing, hope. Here is what I am feeling and how I am working to process these thoughts and emotions:

1) Anger. I am really angry--like punch a hole in the wall, throw something across the room angry. I am angry at Serpa for not alerting people to his struggle. I am angry at him for reaching out to me on Facebook but not giving me a chance to help him.

I am also angry at the situation.

It is like seeing your friend standing on the ledge of a building, about to jump. You cry out for him to please not jump and just talk with you. He agrees, but as you are running across the roof, he jumps anyway. He gave you a moment of hope, only to dash it entirely. You reach out to grab him before he falls, but the only thing your hand grasps is memories and visions of a future lost.

It is okay to be angry--these situations merit anger. The words used to describe Jesus' grief at the tomb of Lazarus include with them the idea of grief-induced rage. You can rage against brokenness.

At the same time, you must be careful to avoid misplaced anger. When I got in the car yesterday afternoon with my wife and boy to go visit our friends, I was seething. I forced myself to start talking to my wife, to explain to her how I was feeling (as best as I could), and just bring my anger out into the light of day with my wife's help. As a result, I could keep my anger focused on where it needed to be and find a sense of peace for the remainder of our outing.

Finally, I am angry with myself, and that leads to my next feeling...

2) Guilt. I know that I am not responsible for Serpa's death. I know that God is all-powerful and controls matters of life and death. I also know that we are responsible for our own lives. We can influence one another, but we will also be limited in our ability to reach each other's hearts and thoughts and affect each other's choices. We are each responsible for getting the help that we need.

I know all of these things, but how often does cool logic really penetrate our hearts?

I read the dozens of comments that say something along the lines of "I wish he had reached out," and know that he did reach out--he just refused to take my hand. I have answered numerous calls from soldiers, wanting to know how this could have possibly happen, expecting me to know the heart and mind of Serpa. I am the chaplain after all. But I am not God, though, God help me, I sometimes wish I was so that I might have His knowledge and power for cases such as these. His ways are not my ways, and mysterious as they may be, His ways are always best.

Feeling guilt is natural in these times, but you must not allow guilt to swallow up your grief. Guilt is a parasite upon grief, turning the pathways of healing into pathways of poison--destroying you and the memory of the person you grieve and wish to honor. In that way, it is also selfish, because your lost battle buddy deserves your grief, not your self-focused guilt. When you experience the pangs of guilt, remember this: This soldier--this death--deserves your grief. It is about him, not about you.

3) Grief. This is really the central feeling. Anger and guilt are usually coping mechanisms--ways to handle a burden that seems to heavy to carry. This is the feeling that we always want to come back to. It does not condemn others as anger often does, nor does it offer self-condemnation as guilt so often does. It is the true echo of tragedy--the sound the heart makes when it collides with a broken world.

In following the pathway of grief, you can eventually find healing and even hope.

It is in following this pathway that I am given the freedom to mourn Serpa and not myself, to come to terms with what has been lost, and to remember that not all is lost.

I have lost two soldiers in the last thirteen months. I know that some of my soldiers have lost more than they can count. Some of them have tattoos on their arms, back, or chest, honoring their fallen battle buddies. All of them have the tattoos, penned with blood, written upon their hearts. I do as well.

While death seems like the ultimate reality in these brief lives of ours, it is not eternal--it did not exist in the beginning, nor will it exist in the age to come. Along with sin and Satan, death will one day be finally vanquished beneath the feet of Jesus Christ (1 Cor. 15). This is the end goal and purpose of this world, and God only tarries in bringing this about so that more might come to embrace this overarching story line in human history and the One who fulfills, guides, and accomplishes it--Jesus.

This is where the pathway of grief is meant to lead--back to the paradise man lost at the beginning and the brokenness that we now feel in our bones, and the paradise that Christ has won for the future for all who believe in Him. Instead of following the dark pathways of unrestrained anger and guilt and drinking their poison to the dregs, we can follow a Shepherd (John 10). He knows His sheep and they know His voice, and as their Savior and Lord, He guides them beside the quiet waters, in paths of righteousness, and restores their souls (Psalm 23).

Father, restore our souls for the sake of Your Son, Jesus Christ. Though we walk through the valley of the shadow of death, help us to fear no evil. Comfort us with your presence and direct our eyes and hearts to the day when we will dwell in the house of the Lord forever. Come, Lord Jesus, come.

A Fitting Farewell to SPC Serpa (Funeral Recap)

There was a surreal feeling the moment I entered the old Reserve Center this morning and saw a bunch of familiar faces. I was excited to see them for the first time since Afghanistan, but subdued due to the occasion of our meeting. Inevitably, the two feelings results in superficial banter and awkward humor.

When Serpa's "deployment mom" arrived, she was already crying, and she would be the rest of the day. She was one of the three from our unit assigned to Camp Spann in the north. He was young enough to be her son, and she treated him as such. As different as they were, there was a bond between those two that was too harshly severed this past week.

Based on the number of people I saw at the Reserve Center, I anticipated that maybe two dozen soldiers would show up for the funeral. I was wrong. By the time the funeral in Arlington started, the place was packed beyond capacity. I wouldn't be surprised if over 50 of Serpa's battle buddies were there, packing the main room, the side room, the reception hall, and lining the walls.

Our former commander was there with his wife, as well as number of other O-5s and O-6s, showing that rank is of no significance at a time like this. Several of our soldiers arrived home late last night from an assignment and were there this morning. One NCO flew all the way from Texas. Every one of our major sections from our deployment--both at Camp Eggers and Camp Phoenix--were represented. The Active Duty COL who was Serpa's commander at Spann was there. A mass of soldiers from the 55th who did not deploy with us attended as well.

In other words, Serpa was not forgotten by his fellow soldiers. If only he had seen the crowd before!

But for those battles who were unable to attend: Rest assured that the most important thing to all of us--honoring and remembering our soldier--was accomplished.

The ceremony was moving, as expected. The minister--a retired O-6 Navy chaplain, spoke clearly concerning the hope that the Gospel of Jesus Christ offers at times like this. Surely that is the only hope that can anchor the drifting soul in the midst of such unfathomable grief!

Remarks were made by Serpa's older brother, uncle, best friend, and finally, his sister (who looks close in age to her deceased brother). It was his sister who finally broke open the gathered emotion. She described her brother as her best friend and just kept looking back at the coffin and saying I love you through cascades of sobs. It was heartrending.

We all gathered back into our vehicles afterward and were led through the city of Arlington, with police cars at either end of our long convoy, and intersections blocked by other police cars throughout the city. As they tend to do, the boys in blue had our back.

Soon, a small crowd, including a sea of dress blue uniforms gathered around a modest tent in the cemetery, white flakes descending upon the sea of blue. A few more prayers and Scripture passages were offered, followed by TAPS and the folding of the flag and presentation to Serpa's mother.

I have served as the OIC for well over 200 of these funerals, but have never had to attend one for one of my soldiers. After all 152 of us returned from overseas, the thought just never occurred to me.

So where do you go from here?

In John 11, Jesus stood before the tomb of his friend, Lazarus, and wept. Why? Was it because his friend was lost forever? Nope. Jesus, the very Son of God, knew he was about to raise Lazarus from the dead. He wept because the breathtaking world created through Him (John 1), and was now so evidently corrupt and broken. He wept, before He raised His friend with power, that we might see something of the heart of God as well as the power of God.

In the coming days, as you stand, like Jesus, before the specter of death, know that your grief is but an echo of the compassionate heart of God, crying out for His power to remedy the brokenness of this world and of your heart. He is ready and willing to answer that cry by showing you anew His empty tomb--where the heart of God and the power of God were made manifest for the salvation of sinners in His life, death, and resurrection.

You need not look into the precipice and see only death. It does not have the final word. He does, and He declares "It is finished." One day, this truth will pass from the realm of faith to that of sight, when every tear is wiped from the eye of His redeemed people. To God be the glory.

"The saviors come not home tonight. Themselves they could not save." -A.E. Houseman

In Memoriam: Specialist Matthew Serpa

I met Matthew Serpa several years ago, wondering how a kid so young could already be in the Army (he went to Basic Training straight out of high school). He was reserved, and at times, a bit socially awkward. He was also clever, and put a richly intellectual mind to good use.

Our talk was generally superficial until the summer of 2012, when our unit went out to the arid terrain of Ft. Hunter-Liggett, California to conduct three weeks of training. Late at night, I would visit the soldiers manning the overnight shift at our Tactical Operations Center (TOC). It was there that my relationship with "Serpa" deepened.

He was always intellectually inquisitive and had plenty of questions and challenges for me regarding the Christian faith, but he showed me that night that he had a more tender side. I learned about the car accident that killed some of his family when he was younger, and the family that graciously took him in.

As always, there is much more to a person than what meets the eye.

When we deployed together, first to Fort Hood, he would often have questions for me of a religious or philosophical nature. He may have been the "baby" in the unit, but he asked many of the most sophisticated questions.

I visited him twice in northern Afghanistan, and I learned more about his love for computer gaming and the entrepreneurial spirit with which he literally profited from his love. He was determined to be a millionaire by age 30, and with his intellect and ambition, he was not to be underestimated. I also learned that he could take down an entire pizza and still be hungry.

It was my visits to Serpa and two other soldiers that led to my providential encounter with CPT Dave Lyon, who was later killed by a VBIED.

We came home together, along with about 30 other soldiers. On the day we left Ft. Hood to finally come home, Serpa and I spent time together at the airport. Three of us boarded the same flight and enjoyed first class for the first time in our lives. It was a far cry from our grimy existence downrange.

When we got to Dulles, I learned that Serpa was taking a taxi back to Arlington. I was incredulous. Coming home from deployment and no one to pick him up? In my head, I was thinking up ways to tell my wife and my mom that we needed to drive an hour out of the way to drop off another soldier. But then he told me that he preferred to take a taxi--he wanted the time alone.

This past Saturday, he Facebook messaged me and told me he wanted to talk and asked for my number. I replied soon after, gave him my number, and told him I would love to talk, but he never called. If I had known it was urgent, I would've researched and found his number and reached out to him--even driven to wherever he was living in New York if it would've made a difference. He was my soldier.

But alas, when I received the call on Thursday: "We lost a soldier," a part of me knew that it was Serpa before it was even said. I wish he had called.

I could easily decry the rate of suicides in the Army and society in general and exhort those who might listen to be more attentive to the warning signs. But as one who has done this countless times on behalf of the Army, I know this moment means more than another speech.

There may be 22 soldiers who commit suicide each day, but there was only one Serpa.

There will be a reunion of dozens of soldiers with whom I share an unspeakable bond on Monday. A reunion that will be under the worst of circumstances: We will be saying goodbye to our battle buddy. He will be missed terribly.

I find comfort in my Savior, who allows me to grieve as one with hope (Rev. 7:17). Such a hellish tragedy cries out for such a heavenly hope.

What If My Church Isn't Growing?

When I came on board at Sterling OPC about three years ago, it was with a firm confidence shared by our senior pastor that this precious little flock of two dozen would grow to over 200 at this point.

We are not there. Not even close. And I am consequently humbled and forced to ask the oft-painful question found in the title.

As I have meditated on this question amidst a season of renewed meditation upon God's Word, in His grace, I have come to a few initial conclusions.

1) What kind of question is THAT?

My initial question is incredibly misleading. It is false on the very surface of things--the reality is that we are now regularly drawing 65-75 attendees, which is something to rejoice over! But even if that was not the case--even if we were still around two dozen members--my question concerning growth is absurd.

What is growth? Can it not be qualitative (depth of faith and growth in grace) as well as quantitative (number of butts in the pews)? If one person more regularly attends morning worship, is that not growth? If a young teenager professes her faith, is that not growth?

More than that, can I read the heart? This gets to the more important question: Who grows the Church? In Acts 7-8, there was something of genocide being perpetrated against the fledgling New Testament people of God. Yet that genocide was used to spread the Gospel to the surrounding lands and even precipitate the miraculous conversion of Saul of Tarsus.

The story of the book of Acts and of the Church in general is the story of King Jesus building His Church by His Word and His Spirit, often in contrast to worldly appearances. Where the Gospel is proclaimed, the Church is always growing, and the gates of Hell will not prevail against Him who grows it.

2) Visible growth does not equal real growth.

I find that I am often looking for the same sort of growth that every other sector of society wants--growth in numbers, regardless of means of attracting them and the end for which they are sought.

If a pastor grows his church by a couple of hundred people, he can write a book. If he grows it by thousands, then he can speak at conferences and perhaps even be broadcast on the radio or TV.

I live in a culture that celebrates celebrity over all else and I am a sinner to boot. I want a blog post that gets over a hundred views and a book with back cover plugs by Piper, Horton, and Keller.

But visible growth does not equal real growth. The Second Great Awakening in America was filled with celebrity pastors with renowned methods and often with virtually no Gospel message. Their pews were packed--a generation later, they were abandoned.

When I consider my role as a shepherd of God's people, I need to count the cost and not count the heads. If I am flattering myself with what we in the military call "good news stories," and am not dying to self for the sake of Christ's sheep, then I am out of step with the calling Christ has placed upon me and need to repent (again and again!).

Christ is lavishing blessing upon unseen blessing upon His people. Every time I have the gall to question whether one of His sheep is bearing fruit, I am really questioning whether Christ is bearing fruit. Imagine the fruit I could more tangibly bear in the time I wasted on such judgmentalism!

3) I need to love the one I am with, not the one I wish to have.

I have often been frustrated with our people's perceived lack of engagement with the surrounding culture. Do they not care for the salvation of their neighbor, co-workers, or others in their community? Do they not understand that this is a biblical imperative and an essential (not optional) part of the Christian life? And each question like this that I ask, I further cement my status as a self-righteous, judgmental jerk.

Jonathan Leeman, from 9 Marks, had a good article on this state of pastoral disillusionment on The Gospel Coalition site yesterday. We live in a real world, not an ideal world. This gets at the heart of the Gospel--Christ died for a real people, not an ideal people. He is the ideal--the only one who perfectly obeyed the law of God in this life and was without sin, the only One who was willing and able to conquer death, and did just that. He did this, not before a crowd of those who celebrated His heroic humiliation, but who mocked Him, condemned Him, and killed Him. He had every right to smite all mankind--He is justified in His judgment--but instead, He cried out for mercy. His love for His people and for the glory of God carried Him to the cross for a world that hates Him by nature.

And I part of the crowd, not above it. If our people were failing at their calling to share the Gospel (and they are not), then it would merely be a reflection of my failure as a shepherd. But Christ does not fail, nor does His work in His sheep. When I strip off the petty, self-righteous veneer of my judgment, I find a precious people, beloved by God and doing grace-infused work for His sake.

This flock is filled with ordinary beauty that I am prone to miss while pursuing my misguided dreams of grandeur. I have seen brothers and sisters weep over their sin and endeavor anew after righteousness for the sake of their Savior. I watch little lambs mature into full grown sheep, fulfilling God's covenant promises. Our precious little flock has been stretched by the Gospel over the past several years and have taken on a new shape as a result. In ordinary and unassuming ways, our people are offering themselves as living sacrifices as their worship to the Lord. And these are just the visible things!

The goal of the under-shepherd of Christ's flock is not to browbeat the sheep into fulfilling certain quotas and the unrecognized dreams of said under-shepherd, but rather, is to heed Christ's call to Peter: Do you love Me? Then feed my sheep.

As my young, foolish heart heeds this call anew, I not only find myself loving my Savior-Shepherd more, but His precious flock as well. I need not worry about my church's growth as much as my own.

I look at Sterling OPC--our little corner of Christ's Kingdom--and find myself in love with His Bride.