Ashes, Oaks, and Not-So-Pinterest Church

When I was a young pastor in South Korea, I kept asking God to send me leaders—the kind that were gifted, magnetic, and platform-ready.  Instead, I had people like Steven, Grace, James, and eventually, Pamela.

I looked at other churches with the longing of a high school boy still walking to school while his classmates rolled by in shiny new cars.  If other churches were luxury sedans or sporty SUVs heading to the beach, my church felt more like a rusty Ford Escort, with the exhaust pipe barely hanging on, a broken door handle, and windows that got stuck when you rolled them down.

Instead of the collected and the cool, I had Steven—a young man in his twenties, on the spectrum. After watching him greet people with a blank stare, I finally realized we needed to move him from the welcome team to the setup team.

God also sent me Grace—a goat-farming grandmother from Nebraska, with dentures that sometimes did their own thing.  I’ll never forget the time she pulled me aside during a baby dedication celebration and asked if I could leave early to take her to her hair appointment. I wasn’t thinking about the Sermon on the Mount and “going the extra mile” when I asked another church member to help her.

God also gave me James, a young artist trying to find his place in the world—so nervous in conversation that he would stutter when he tried to express his opinion.

God Sent Me People—Not Projects And then there was Pamela. I met her by accident, visiting a distant church one Sunday. She stood up and announced to the congregation that she was moving to my city. As I listened, a sinking feeling set in: this was a very troubled person.

I didn’t want another project.  I couldn’t handle her in my church.

I don't know why, but in that service—as she was still speaking on the microphone—I actually prayed, "Lord, please don’t send her to my church."

Some weeks later, my associate pastor got off the phone, looked at me, and said, "Do you remember Pamela?"

"Oh yes," I said.

“She’s coming this Sunday.”

"Oh no," I said, dying a little inside.

The Turning Point 

I wouldn’t understand fully until years later when I was in Taiwan. In those days, I was desperate for God to move, yet my efforts felt insufficient. I struggled with the problems in the church, feeling overwhelmed by the challenges. In my frustration, I started my own marathon of Jericho walks. Every day for about a month, I walked around the school where our church met, praying fervently for God to pour out His Spirit, for the lost to be saved, and for the broken to be healed. But one day, I found myself complaining more than praying.

As I poured out my frustrations to the Lord, recounting the problems in the church, I heard a voice in my heart that stopped me. "Peter," it said, "do you know what limits me more than anything in your church?"

I could barely wait for the answer and blurted out, "No, Lord."

The answer came with piercing clarity: "Your heart."

At first, I was stunned. But I knew it was true. My heart, full of judgment, pain, and selfish ambition, was limiting God’s work. I had been ministering with a heart not fully anchored in faith in God’s Word, not fully trusting in the power of the Holy Spirit, and, most importantly, not fully loving those under my care.

I wish I could say that this was the moment my heart was transformed. I wish I could say that this revelation marked a turning point in my life. But it wasn’t. It would take more painful experiences, along with the challenging season of COVID, for me to begin to truly grasp the lesson.

One of those lessons came through the departure of a worship leader whom I believed had been sent by God. I had high hopes for him; I saw him as someone who could be the catalyst to take our church to the next level. He told me that God had called him to serve in our church and that he intended to stay with us for several years. I was thrilled—this was my opportunity! But, unexpectedly, he left abruptly, saying that God had called him elsewhere.

I was angry. I felt shame. I felt disappointment. How was I supposed to build something lasting when capable leaders just walked away? I felt as if I were trying to assemble an IKEA bookshelf on Christmas Eve—missing screws, using the wrong tools, and holding a manual for a completely different piece of furniture.

Looking back, I realize that in many ways, I had contributed to his departure. It wasn’t easy to admit, but through his exit, I came to a crucial realization: the church wasn’t going to be built by an "Avengers" team walking through the door. Through that and other experiences, I eventually stopped praying for God to send leaders.

Isaiah 61 Rewrites My Vision

God began to open my eyes to the mission of Jesus, laid out in Isaiah 61—the very passage Jesus quotes in Luke 4:

“The Spirit of the Lord is on me, because he has anointed me to proclaim good news to the poor. He has sent me to proclaim freedom for the prisoners and recovery of sight for the blind, to set the oppressed free, to proclaim the year of the Lord’s favor.”

The poor don’t usually hang out with the stylish. Prisoners are there because they didn’t follow authority figures. The blind don’t make the best leaders. And the oppressed? They’re not typically the ones throwing awesome dinner parties.

You don’t become Instagram-famous with a church like this. But these are the very people Jesus wanted to sit with at the parties He attended. These are the people precious in God’s eyes. These are the people He is longing for His leaders to minister to and draw into His Kingdom.

Jesus doesn’t quote the whole passage in Luke, but it continues:

“To comfort all who mourn, and provide for those who grieve in Zion—to bestow on them a crown of beauty instead of ashes, the oil of joy instead of mourning, and a garment of praise instead of a spirit of despair. They will be called oaks of righteousness, a planting of the Lord for the display of his splendor.”

He didn’t just come for the broken—He came to transform them.

Jesus wants to take the outcast, the sinner, the addict, the angry, the depressed, the bitter, the broken—and exchange their ashes for beauty, their mourning for joy. And my favorite part: He doesn’t just heal them. He transforms them into "oaks of righteousness."

An oak tree stands strong in storms. It provides shade for the weary. It’s a shelter. It’s a leader.

And then it gets even better: When God wants to show off His glory, He points to a person.

God desires that His trophy case would display people like Steven, Grace, James, and Pamela. As a pastor, I wanted God to send the “trophy members” so my church could be on display. I didn’t realize that God wanted to send the people He wanted to transform in order to display His glory.

The New Prayer

When I finally understood that, my whole paradigm shifted.

I didn’t need to pray for God to send me leaders. I needed to ask God to help me become the kind of pastor who partners with Jesus to transform those among the ashes into those who are standing strong like oak trees.

The mission of Jesus was never to build a Pinterest-worthy church. It was to set people free from sin, heal broken hearts, draw them into community, and turn burned-out lives into displays of His splendor.

I’m not sure when the shift actually happened. Maybe it was the day I sat in a circle with three men, and each one confessed he had, at one point, wanted to kill his own father. These men no longer had hatred toward their fathers. Instead, by God’s grace, they had hearts of forgiveness.

Instead of feeling dread, I felt awe. Awe at what God could do. I was amazed that I could be a part of such deep transformation. I wasn’t praying for broken people to stay away anymore. I was asking God to send them.

Oh, and by the way—remember Pamela? She found significant healing at our church and became a blessing to many.