Whoever loves father or mother more than me is not worthy of me, and whoever loves son or daughter more than me is not worthy of me. (Matthew 10:37)
Jesus’s words lifted off the page of my Bible during one early morning many years ago. The statement arrested my attention and pierced me with conviction. Although these words were not unfamiliar to me, their application never seemed all that pertinent — until then. For I read them at a time when my wife and I were wrestling with what would turn out to be the most significant decision of our lives.
At 29 years old, having recently completed a degree in seminary, we were excited about the not-yet-revealed future God had planned for us in ministry. Our family development was in its early stages. We were expecting our first daughter, two young sons having already joined our family circle. We were at an ideal stage of life — eager, ready, and willing to follow God’s call.
Or so we thought.
Ready but Not Quite Willing
In hindsight, we were eager, ready, and willing to follow what “we were sure” God’s call would look like. Certainly, we reasoned, God would call us to a place where we could raise our children with everything we thought they needed: good schools, extracurricular opportunities, reasonable access to grandparents and extended family. We were convinced God would call us to a place much like the place in which we currently lived.
So, when our church’s elders asked us to join the staff upon my seminary graduation, we were ecstatic. This was everything we wanted, everything we had anticipated. We would be in the city where I grew up — the place I loved. Tremendous opportunities awaited our growing children. We were within a few hours’ driving distance of family. We were part of an exciting and thriving church. Everything seemed to be lining up so well. This must be God’s plan for us.
Yet, another offer had also presented itself for our future. Actually, it was more of a plea than an offer. Five thousand miles away, on the island of Molokai, Hawaii, a struggling church had dwindled down to a handful of people. The few folks tasked with keeping the church alive had asked us to consider leading their tiny, emaciated flock. They were desperate for a pastor.
Many people would jump at the chance to minister on a Hawaiian island, but sandy beaches and balmy ocean breezes did not entice us. We already lived in the heart of south Florida; we had all the allurements of a tropical island at our disposal, along with all the aforementioned benefits.
Plus, having been introduced to the rural community of Molokai as a university student, I was familiar with (what I saw as) the island’s drawbacks. As the smallest of the five major islands in the Hawaiian chain, its population was less than eight thousand. It lacked industry and tourism. It had a high poverty rate.
Beyond the general facts about the island, I also knew specifics about the church. A small congregation meant little available funding. The congregants had done all they could do to keep the church’s doors open; they could not offer an incoming pastor a salary of any size, making it necessary for us to raise outside support. On top of that, the buildings on the church property were in desperate need of repair. The next pastor would find himself with the daunting task of restoring the facilities without available funds.
So, there we were, with two ministry possibilities before us. The one checked all the boxes on the list of “Our Ideal Future.” The other didn’t seem worthy enough for second thought. Still, something — Someone — wouldn’t let me dismiss it.
Drawn by Desire
When the dying church first extended the invitation, I promised that I would pray about the decision. My minimally sincere prayer went something like this: “Okay, Lord, I promised that I would pray about going to Molokai to pastor, so here is my prayer. If this is what you want, please show me.” Obligation now completed, I thought I could move on to think and pray about the more serious and obvious plan.
But something began to change in me. It started out as uneasiness about accepting the position in our home church. The more I thought and prayed about it, the more unsettled I became with that direction — which didn’t make sense. The opportunity was everything we had hoped for! Yet I lacked peace about accepting the offer. Almost simultaneously, a growing burden for the church and people on Molokai rose in my heart. At first, I fought the desire: I don’t want to have a burden for these people. But the desire only intensified.
I shared with my wife the undeniable affection building in me for the ministry on Molokai. “Maybe God is calling us to Molokai?” I suggested. She quickly (and rather defiantly) replied, “God may be calling you to Molokai, but he’s not calling me.” This was a step back. Shouldn’t we agree on the call God was placing on our lives? I walked away from our conversation praying, “Lord, if you really want us on Molokai, please change Louise’s heart. If she continues to resist the idea, perhaps this is not your plan.”
About two weeks later, she entered the room sobbing. Concerned and confused, I held her, trying to determine the reason for her meltdown. Eventually, she managed to push out the words, “I think God is calling me to Molokai too!”
‘But My Children’
Within the span of a few days, the gravity of God’s leading began to sink in. Over several weeks, he confirmed, in a variety of ways, what we both sensed — and still, I had trouble embracing the decision. Most of my hesitation centered on our children: Is Molokai a good place to raise our kids? They’ll be so far from family, a good education, and opportunity. I love them so much. How can I rob them of these things?
It was at the height of this cacophony of doubt that I freshly encountered Jesus’s words in Matthew 10:37. As I meditated on the verse that morning, I knew those words were for me. I sensed that God was saying, “If you’ll obey me, I’ll take care of your children.” My tears began to flow uncontrollably as I cried out, “Lord, this is so hard, but I will trust you. I will obey you. Please take care of my children.” I came away from that holy encounter ready to go to Molokai.
In the days and months leading up to our move, God’s favor was undeniable. He provided the financial support we needed in just five months. Some people offered to pay to ship our belongings, others to pay off our car loan, and still others to pay a lingering student loan. Every instance of provision was an affirmation that we were headed in the direction he intended.
Now, what about his path for you? Perhaps your journey, like mine, is a winding one. As you try to discern his leading, consider two lessons of faith from my story. I pray you’ll find them enriching to your own.
1. God’s way is rarely easy, but it is always best.
The first and perhaps greatest lesson I’ve learned is the simple truth that God’s way is rarely easy, but it is always best. Hebrews 12:10 assures children of God that the Father’s discipline is always good. While the author of Hebrews admits that the training and shaping process is often painful, the by-product is “the peaceful fruit of righteousness” (verse 11). Discipline helps to make and steer us aright; it’s God’s best for us. The agonizing decision-making process through which God took us on our way to Molokai was part of his fatherly discipline, training and guiding us to his best path for us.
2. God’s best leads to joy.
The second truth is really a by-product of the first — namely, pursuing God’s best path leads to joy. On behalf of the church at Rome, the apostle Paul prayed, “May the God of hope fill you with all joy and peace in believing” (Romans 15:13). Believing, or trusting in him, results in our being filled with joy. Why? Because trusting in the Lord leads us onto the right path (Proverbs 3:5–6), and the right path is the best path — the path where we walk most closely with him. As our gracious Father took us through the faith-building, disciplining process that led us to his best on Molokai, it brought with it Holy Spirit–generated joy.
That is not to say that we always experienced uninterrupted joy. The consistency of one’s joy depends on the consistency of one’s faith; the times when our faith trended downward, it dragged our joy along with it. But the more we experienced God’s faithfulness, the stronger our trust in him grew, so elevating our joy.
His Way for a Lifetime
Thirty years later, we’re still serving on Molokai. At times, doubts still arise, and our trust often wavers. But God continues to guide and provide at every step of the way. Over the years, our little church has grown, relationships have formed, people have come to saving faith, ministries have developed — and, amid it all, God has graciously cared for our children. They may not have received the exact education I once dreamt up for them, but God gave them something better: love for Jesus.
I am confident that as long as I remain on this earth, my good Father will continue to stretch and grow my faith, guiding me to his best, leading me to joy.
