The Apologetic Altar Call
Easter is drawing near. Every year on that morning, millions attend churches throughout the country. For many, this is a biannual event—a Christmas and Easter pilgrimage, of sorts—to the place of worship of the most religious member of the family. Some go kicking and screaming; some go with extra hairspray, an overly expensive new outfit, and pinching shoes that may never be worn again; others go relieved to still have some sort of connection with the Man Upstairs; and still many others go merely out of habit.
However, strip away the chocolate bunnies and the colorfully wrapped eggs (Hey! Here’s my basket—just dump them in there), and take a closer look at the Man who died on the cross and three days later rose from the grave, and you’ve got Easter—or more correctly, the celebration of the resurrection of Jesus Christ.
My pastor prays extensively the month before Easter for souls to flood into the church—and from there into the kingdom of Heaven as they grasp who Jesus really is and receive Him as their Lord.
This year he has been praying not only for those who will attend our church—not even just for the ones who will attend other life-giving churches, as he calls them—but also for those who will attend churches that have strayed from the central truth of the recognition of sin and the need for a life-changing, saving relationship with Jesus. He has been praying for God to touch all of those churches and to supernaturally open the door for invitations and altar calls to be given—and for droves of souls to respond and be saved.
You may scratch your head and think, Pipe dream. Ain’t gonna happen. Well, sit right back and read the tale of the Apologetic Altar Call.
In the early ‘80s, I was working in a rural elementary school just outside of the metropolitan area where I live. I taught with a godly woman named Arlene, who was one of my early mentors. She and I would eat lunch together every day and pray for the students and other staff members.
Connie was the music teacher. She was Bohemian in lifestyle—she embraced a New Age philosophy and was married to a Muslim from Afghanistan. The Methodist church in the town needed an organist, so they asked Connie if she would be available.
Connie loved music; she loved to sing and play the piano, so she accepted the position and became a fixture every Sunday morning at the Methodist church near the school. Her New Age leanings didn’t bother anyone at the church; and their doctrine didn’t challenge her worldview, so they all made music together every Sunday morning in a tolerance-soaked, symbiotic relationship.
One Sunday morning as Connie sat behind the organ, the minister of that little Methodist church got up sheepishly behind the pulpit, cleared his throat, and apologized to the congregation for what he was about to do.
He said, “I am so sorry—I feel very uncomfortable right now—but I can’t shake this feeling that’s gripping me. I know we don’t do this here—I don’t like to make folks uncomfortable—but I’ve got to ask something very unusual for this church.”
Connie had stopped playing the organ, and you could have heard a pin drop.
He continued, “Well, here goes. If anyone wants to come to the front to get a closer relationship with Jesus—please step out and come forward.”
Crickets.
And then, after a long, horribly awkward, tension-wrapped silence, Connie, gripped with conviction of her need for Christ, got up from behind the organ and came to the front and knelt. She was the only one that morning who heeded the call, but as she bowed before the altar, the apologetic Methodist minister prayed for her, and she was gloriously saved.
And who do you think she told? You’ve got that right—Arlene and me, who had been praying for her all along!
So is my pastor dreaming when he prays for churches that don’t even preach the saving gospel to offer invitations to receive Jesus Christ in their services?
Just ask Connie.
May the kingdom of Heaven swell to overflowing this season with new souls—from every corner and walk of life!
Dorothy