In 1979, a phone call came that would shape not only a ministry, but a life. The LORD called me to a ministry, not a job. My home and church have never been separated.
The invitation was simple: would I consider serving as
pastor of Sugar Plain Friends Church?
It was more than a vocational opportunity. It was a summons. Looking back across the decades, it is clear that what seemed at the time like a single decision was in truth the opening chapter of a covenant between shepherd and congregation—one that would stretch across generations.
When I first arrived at Sugar Plain, the church already carried more than 150 years of testimony. The pews bore the marks of saints who had worshiped faithfully long before I was born. The cemetery nearby whispered of endurance. I did not come to build something new. I came to stand in a long line.
Those early years were years of learning—learning the rhythms of the people, the stories behind the families, the quiet expectations of a rural congregation. Ministry at Sugar Plain was never about spectacle. It was about steadiness. Sunday by Sunday. Funeral by funeral. Wedding by wedding. Hospital visit by hospital visit.
Just two years later, in 1981, I was asked by Ollie McCune, Superintendent of Central Yearly Meeting, to serve at Gateway Friends Meeting in Kokomo. That season lasted four years. It was a time of growth and broadening perspective, but even during those years away, Sugar Plain was never far from my heart.
Then, in 1987, the call came again.
Would we return?
Some decisions require deliberation. Others carry the unmistakable weight of divine direction. Returning to Sugar Plain did not feel like beginning again—it felt like coming home. From that year forward, the seasons of ministry would unfold without interruption.
In 1988, our family moved into the parsonage. Those walls witnessed laughter, prayer, counseling sessions, holiday meals, and the ordinary sacredness of pastoral life. The parsonage was more than housing; it was an extension of ministry. People knocked at the door in moments of crisis. Children played in the yard. Church and home were interwoven.
Through the late 1980s and into the 1990s, Sugar Plain navigated a rapidly changing culture. The rural stability that had defined earlier generations began to shift. Families moved. Economic patterns changed. Technology advanced. Yet the calling remained unchanged: preach Christ, shepherd souls, guard unity, proclaim the Word.
Revival seasons came—some quiet, some more visible. There were conversions that stirred the congregation to tears. There were altar moments when burdens were laid down. There were seasons when attendance grew, and seasons when faithfulness mattered more than numbers.
Every long pastorate is marked by both joy and sorrow.
There were weddings filled with promise and funerals heavy with grief. I stood beside hospital beds. I prayed in emergency rooms. I watched children grow into adults, then bring their own children to the same pews their grandparents once occupied.
Few gifts in ministry equal the privilege of seeing three generations of one family worship together.
By 2005, our family moved from the parsonage into our own home in Thorntown. Yet proximity did not lessen responsibility. If anything, the years had deepened the bond. Sugar Plain was no longer simply a church I served; it was part of my story, and I part of hers.
As the new millennium unfolded, new challenges emerged. The digital age changed communication. Social currents pressed upon traditional convictions. National uncertainty touched even quiet rural communities. Yet the foundational commitments of Sugar Plain endured: the authority of Scripture, the centrality of Christ, the necessity of holiness, the importance of community.
The church did not chase trends. It remained anchored.
By 2025, I will have served Sugar Plain for thirty-eight consecutive years in this final season—forty years in total when counting the earlier chapter of ministry. Few pastors are granted such continuity. Fewer still are granted the trust that makes such continuity fruitful.
Longevity is not an achievement; it is a stewardship.
A long pastorate allows a shepherd to see the fruit of seeds planted decades earlier. It also requires patience when fruit is slow to appear. It demands resilience in times of criticism and humility in times of praise. Above all, it demands love—love for Christ and love for His people.
Sugar Plain has not been sustained by one pastor. It has been sustained by the faithfulness of God and the obedience of ordinary saints. If these decades have demonstrated anything, it is that steady faith over time carries a power that fleeting enthusiasm cannot match.
Looking back, I do not measure these years by programs launched or buildings improved, though those things have their place. I measure them by souls strengthened, families restored, and the quiet persistence of worship on First Day morning.
The true story of these years is not written only in records or minutes. It is written in prayers answered, in tears wiped away, in forgiveness extended, in Scripture faithfully proclaimed.
The founders of 1827 could not have foreseen 1979. Nor could the young pastor of 1979 fully envision 2027. Yet across two centuries, the same Lord has kept His hand upon this plain.
If the next generation asks what defined this season, may it be said:
The Word was preached.
The flock was loved.
The Light was kept burning.
“Moreover it is required in stewards, that a man be found faithful.”
—1 Corinthians 4:2 (KJV)
Forty years is not a monument to a man. It is a testimony to a faithful God who calls, sustains, and completes His work.
And on this plain, the watch continues. My time will end June 2027.
