The Shift I Never Saw Coming

From Altar Calls to Open Tables: How a Southern Baptist Became a United Methodist

I didn’t plan on becoming a United Methodist.

In fact, five years ago, I probably couldn’t have even explained what that meant.

To say I was “raised in the church” would be an understatement. I was practically born there. My parents, still two of the most amazing people I know, were involved in everything: Sunday school, youth group, committee meetings, Wednesday night programming, you name it. We were Southern Baptist. The no-dancing, no-drinking kind. And we were all in.

At six years old, I “asked Jesus into my heart” and prayed the “sinner’s prayer.” AKA…I got saved! I was a Royal Ambassador (which is basically Boy Scouts for Baptists), I was a leader in the youth group, and I took it all seriously. I didn’t just attend church, I belonged to it. And overall, it was a great experience.

So, when I felt called to ministry at 18, I enrolled in a Southern Baptist Bible College. By my sophomore year, I was the youth pastor at a tiny First Baptist Church in West Texas. I remember the congregation voting to hire me (yes, that’s a thing), and someone scribbled a question on their ballot asking whether I was pro-life or pro-choice. (Their vote would be determined by my answer.) I’ll never forget that.

In 2009, I married my wife in the Southern Baptist church we had met in. We had a beautiful ceremony and reception (without dancing, of course). That church, and the tradition surrounding it, continued to shape how I saw ministry, marriage, and even God.

I was taught that women couldn’t preach (unless it was Beth Moore), that my wife needed to be visibly active in church or we were “unequally yoked,” and that the Bible, not Jesus, was God’s ultimate self-revelation to humanity. (No seriously, that’s the first line of the Baptist Faith and Message 2000. You can read it here.)

And here’s the hard part: I believed it. I taught it. I preached it. It was all I knew.

Over the next couple of years, I bounced around working at different Southern Baptist churches. Eventually, I started to grow weary of the weekly altar calls that no one responded to. I grew frustrated with the lack of diversity, and the lack of desire to reach people who were different or didn’t quite “fit.” It started to feel more like a country club than a church.

Looking back, I’m grateful that I’ve always had a heart for the people who weren’t in the room. I’ve always carried a deep desire to share Jesus with people who didn’t know him. At that point, it wasn’t the theology that was pushing me away, it was the mission, or I guess you could say, the lack of it.

So, in 2012, with a three-month-old baby in tow, my wife and I moved to North Iowa to be part of a new, diverse, non-denominational church plant committed to reaching unchurched and de-churched people.

We ended up spending ten years there. I served five years as the youth pastor and helped grow a youth ministry from 12 students to over 100. It was so much fun. After our senior pastor left, I stepped into the lead role and served as the senior pastor for another five years.

Those were some of the most fruitful years of ministry I’ve ever experienced. So many baptisms. So much life change. That church meant the world to us, and still does. We made lifelong friends. We saw real community. It was beautiful.

But over time, cracks started to form in the version of faith I had been handed.

Although the ministry and mission was great in Iowa, my theology had stayed the same. Then COVID hit. And then the 2020 presidential election hit harder. Social issues I had once avoided became personal. The Sunday School teachers and church leaders I once admired became more vocal about the things they were against than the things they were for. The denomination that had licensed and ordained me hitched their wagon to a political party. I no longer recognized the faith I had once clung to.

And suddenly, I wasn’t sure how to lead anymore. I was spiraling. I started to question how I read the Bible. I stumbled across voices like Brian Zahnd and Pete Enns, and their work challenged me (in the best way possible.) One question led to another, and before I knew it, I wasn’t just rethinking theology, I was rethinking everything.

At the same time, my mother-in-law’s early onset dementia and Alzheimer’s diagnosis was progressing.

So, in 2022, we made the difficult decision to move back to Texas. I was struggling, my wife needed to be near her mom, and it just felt like the right move.

I started a new career, and we stepped away from church altogether. And I doubted I would ever be in ministry again.

Honestly, I didn’t know what to make of my faith anymore. So, I started over. I spent months studying, praying, searching. I didn’t know where I belonged. I felt like I was on an island. I ended up labeling myself a “Wesleyan Anabaptist Charismatic.” (more on that at a later time)

Then came the spring/summer of 2024.

After co-officiating my mother-in-law’s funeral in April, I had been asked to officiate a wedding for a close friend back in North Iowa come June. After these two extremely special pastoral moments, I had begun to feel something again. My call to ministry began to re-surface.

On the way home from the wedding, we stopped in Kansas City to worship with some friends at a church called Resurrection. It’s a United Methodist Church with multiple campuses, and we visited the Leawood location.

During worship, I wept. Uncontrollably.

For the first time in a long time, I felt like I could exhale. I could worship alongside people who believed in Jesus AND justice. People who made space for questions. Who welcomed women in leadership. Who didn’t just tolerate LGBTQ+ folks but included and celebrated them. The liturgy grounded me. The presence of God felt thick. And on a huge sign in their lobby read…

“Our Purpose is to build a Christian community where non-religious and nominally religious people are becoming deeply committed Christians.”

This was a church committed to reaching the people that weren’t in the room. The people who have questions. The people who are trying to figure things out or have been notoriously left out. The same people I had always had a huge heart for.

It felt like home.

So, I applied for a job.

Three interviews later, I accepted a position as the Adult Discipleship Director at Resurrection Downtown. We sold our house in two weeks (Mid-August) and moved our family back to the Midwest.

And here’s the truth: this has been a breath of fresh air. My wife loves it. My kids love it. I love it. Resurrection is a place where people actually live out their faith…and where grace isn’t just a theological concept but a way of being.

And to be honest, I’ve fallen in love with Methodism. I love how it invites wrestling. I love how it honors Scripture without weaponizing it. How it’s rooted in practice, not just belief. I love its sacramental rhythm and open table. (I plan to write about this idea at length)

And I love that John Wesley (the founder of Methodism) once said:

“Though we cannot think alike, may we not love alike?” - John Wesley

That spirit of unity without uniformity has shaped so much of my healing.

I won’t pretend I have it all figured out. I’m still becoming.

But if you find yourself somewhere between where you were and where you're going, if your faith doesn’t fit neatly in a box anymore, you’re not alone.

There’s space for you. There’s grace for you. And there’s a God who hasn’t let go of you.

And maybe, just maybe, you’re standing at the edge of a shift you never saw coming.

P.S.
The image for this post is the stained-glass window at Resurrection in Leawood. It’s the largest stained-glass window in the world, and it tells the story of Scripture from Genesis to Revelation. If you’re ever in Kansas City, you’ve got to see it in person. It’s breathtaking.