In the last edition of The Pathway, I shared a story about trying to enjoy a “date night” with my beautiful wife, Tara, shortly after an EF4 tornado devastated Mayfield, Ky. (Read it here). As you might recall, the restaurant we chose that evening was about a 25-minute drive from our home, and I explained how disturbed I was for everyone around us to act so normal. Internally, I questioned how they could be unaware of the devastation just a few miles away, or I wondered if they simply didn’t care.
I used this story as an example and reminder of the lostness all around us. I asked the question, “How can we act so normal when so many are perishing?” I concluded by encouraging all of us to be abnormal, noticing and engaging lostness.
For this edition, I’d like to share another story based on those difficult post-tornado days – a story that will serve as a reminder about both sin and lostness.
The emotions that follow a natural disaster are intense, especially when it involves your hometown. The courthouse in the heart of Mayfield, a rather defining structure, was damaged beyond repair. The bank we used for our personal account, where we enjoyed relationships with many employees, was destroyed. An apartment complex across the street from the church, that locals remember as the old hospital, was demolished.
The only remaining full-service gas station in Mayfield, owned by one of our deacons (where the best pickles in town were sold!), was completely destroyed. A well-known factory, where several died as a result of the tornado, was reduced to nothing more than a concrete slab. Entire neighborhoods, once filled with families and children, simply no longer existed. Historic homes, businesses, and church buildings were all gone in a matter of seconds.
And it was incredibly emotional.
I can recall weeping with church members as they visited the campus for the first time. On almost a daily basis, I wept in the car while driving into town, seeing the destruction once again, and realizing it wasn’t just a bad dream. I wept with families who lost homes and most of their worldly possessions. I wept with a widow who not only lost her home and belongings, but her husband as well. To be honest, sometimes I wept for what seemed like no reason at all.
Basically, I wept every day, for one reason or another, for weeks – until one day I didn’t.
One day I drove into town past the same destruction as the day before, but I didn’t weep. I went about my day meeting with contractors, insurance agents, staff, and church members without becoming emotional at all. I had become numb to the devastating reality all around me. I was numb, so I no longer wept.
As I reflect on the 21st century church, I sometimes wonder if we’ve become this way – if we’ve become numb – towards both sin and lostness. Could it be that what would once convict us no longer even concerns us? Is it possible that what would once break our hearts no longer even pierces our hearts?
My prayer would be for all of us, myself included, to see sin and lostness afresh. May our hearts always be convicted over sin that can so easily entangle, and may we never become numb towards those who are lost and perishing.