Manse, noun: “the house occupied or formerly occupied by a minister,” from Medieval Latin mansus, “dwelling.”
Ellen and I and our family have lived in a beautiful manse for more than 45 years, next door to the church I served as senior pastor for 40 years. I now enjoy the privileges of “pastor emeritus.” Our children spent a good portion of their childhood here. Our backyard is adjacent to the east edge of the church parking lot, and whenever we are standing at the kitchen sink or sitting at the table for a meal, we’d have to pull the window shades to avoid seeing the entire east side of the church building.
Some have asked whether living that close to the church—especially as senior pastor—was a challenge. The answer, without hesitation: “Not at all.” We did move away for three years to a house 17 miles from the church, but the distance from TRBC to our Greenwood residence made us grateful for the opportunity to move back into the parsonage. We have deeply appreciated it, as well as the generosity of the church in allowing us to live here. The close proximity (a 0.1-mile drive to church!) has proven to be an immeasurable blessing.
Now, I want to share some things we can’t help but notice when looking out our kitchen window. Most of these have happened recently; it would take a book to cover even a fraction of what we could tell—but that probably won’t be forthcoming any time soon (so relax, all!).
A couple of days ago, before 7 a.m., as I was getting the morning coffee ready to brew, I heard a loud voice hollering nearby. Going to the sink to fill the coffee maker with water, I looked out the kitchen window and saw a young man on a bike, circling a young woman on foot and yelling at her. She walked on, seemingly unfazed, while he circled her again and again until she reached a curb—just yards from our house—where she sat down.
She was pulling a wheeled suitcase, neatly dressed, but very heavy—laden with both the suitcase and a backpack. The man was very skinny, scraggily dressed, with a backpack of his own and hair that covered most of his face. They sat there for maybe 90 minutes—he hollering from time to time, she seemingly oblivious to his taunts.
At one point, he walked over to our church and tried the east entrance door, which was locked and armed with an alarm that would’ve sounded had it opened. He then headed to a walkway between two buildings, where there is an exterior outlet; it became clear he had found a place to charge his phone.
During this one-way shouting episode, I placed a “non-emergency” call to the police department—not knowing what the anger might lead to—hoping a visit from IMPD might diffuse the situation. Both the woman and her companion smoked a cigarette during their “rest period.” The police, to my knowledge, never responded. Eventually, the two re-organized their belongings and resumed their journey through our yard and on to who-knows-where.
Truthfully, at one point, I considered going to a local fast-food restaurant to buy them a hot breakfast sandwich. I dismissed the thought, but later felt terribly convicted for not acting on what may have been a prompting from the Holy Spirit. That conviction only deepened a few hours later when, during our Tuesday morning book study (“Knowing God” by J.I. Packer), we discussed Packer’s chapter on The Incarnation—his stern warning to Christians who smugly live in middle-class comfort, unmoved by the poor all around us. Ouch! I had some confessing to do that day.
That same morning, on the same spot where the traveling couple had rested, a group of law enforcement officers assembled—apparently staging an operation. It was quite a sight: around 15 fully uniformed officers, either on drill or assignment.
Regularly, a lady from a nearby trailer court—whom I’ve known for years—appears almost daily with her husband, who records what she describes as a “weather report” using his phone. She has taken courses in media production at local universities and written a couple of books. The “production” is filmed—once again—in the church parking lot, halfway between our kitchen window and the east entrance to the church building. The filming, which lasts five to ten minutes, typically takes place in the evening as Ellen prepares supper—making it difficult not to notice.
Her mother attended our church faithfully until her passing, though the woman herself never became a regular. Still, we’ve known each other for years due to her precious Christian mother. I understand that her weather reports are submitted to media outlets in hopes of landing a job. It always makes for a good conversation piece when visitors are here. Seeing a woman in the parking lot being filmed by a man with a phone camera, they inevitably ask, “What is that lady doing out there?”
Oh, one more story—and there could be many! The next day, a well-groomed young man with a pleasant demeanor rang our doorbell, offering to sell us a home security system (which we already have). We talked for a while, and I learned he was a college student from Florida whose parents immigrated from Cuba in the late 1990s. For some reason, he asked if he could come in to write something down. I invited him in—and he stayed for 90 minutes. Before he left, we had an extensive discussion about his eternal destiny. I believe the Lord sent him to us and that he was under conviction—very close to making a decision for Christ. I have his contact information and invited him to our services.
Life is exciting living in the manse, even though we’re not as active as we once were. Drop by sometime (though we may be out at a doctor’s appointment!).
“But sanctify the Lord God in your hearts: and be ready always to give an answer to every man that asketh you a reason of the hope that is in you with meekness and fear.” (I Peter 3:15)
YOU and GOD 