It was a brisk November evening in 2022. Winter's chill had settled in, wrapping the world in clouds that promised a cold night ahead. But the air was filled with the laughter of children clutching bright plastic shovels, their excitement lighting up the gathering. That evening marked a momentous occasion, the groundbreaking ceremony for our church. After the service, the congregation assembled behind the sanctuary, faces full of hope as we broke ground on a brighter future.
Little did we know that night, shovels in hand, that we were standing at the start of one of the most grueling tests our congregation would face. Redeemer Presbyterian Church in McKinney, Texas has had ample occasion to sit with the psalmist's ancient question: "How long, O Lord?” (Ps. 13:1).
Our journey has felt like navigating an ocean of sorrow, with only fleeting islands of joy. What was supposed to be a relatively straightforward expansion—a larger sanctuary, dedicated adult Sunday school rooms, a community library, a chapel, and upgraded children's areas—became something else entirely.
A great deal can go wrong in construction. Plans don't unfold as we envision, because we are not omniscient. Buildings take longer than anticipated. Inspections are failed. Some Sundays, we worshiped outside under the vast Texas sky. Our ministries strained without access to their spaces. The air conditioning, on multiple occasions, either failed entirely or locked into overdrive, leaving the nursery's smallest occupants shivering, lips turning blue.
Slowly, the excitement from that November groundbreaking dissipated. Like the dirt those children scattered with their little shovels, the wind carried it off.
We spent a lot of time asking what the Lord was teaching us. Some of those lessons may only become clear years from now. Some may never be fully understood. We did know, though, that the sanctuary remained unfinished, covered in dust, technical problems, and suffocating Texas heat. Our senior pastor took to saying it almost as a point of wonder: "Despite our best efforts, people keep coming."
We were not a polished church. The surrounding congregations, many of them large, well-funded, and curated for the perfect Sunday morning photo, offered something we simply could not. Our floors were paint-stained. There were holes in the ceiling. The Wi-Fi went out every Sunday morning, reliably, just in time to slow down children's check-in. We didn't always have paper towels in the bathroom.
And yet.
People came. We grew, without sufficient space to hold everyone. There was something happening that had nothing to do with the building.
We had a church that sought God. Sunday school teachers gathered on rainy Saturdays to pray for the children in their care. We held prayer evenings at the start of every month. Our leaders preached the gospel and tended to the flock. When the building needed painting, we painted it ourselves. And some had come to the simple conclusion: this building will never get built.
Then the doors opened.
Crisp air hit us as bright light shone down on the massive wooden pulpit, beautifully set against the textured cream wall, a cross hanging at the center. After many months split between a fellowship hall and a chapel, the congregation had been divided. But now, after four years of tabernacling in the wilderness, we had a sanctuary.
The sermon title that Sunday morning read: "What We Must Remember." Drawing from Deuteronomy 8:2–4, our pastor recounted our wilderness journey. Just as the Israelites had been in the wilderness, we were reminded of all the Lord had done. He humbled us and tested us. He let the Israelites go hungry so God could feed them. Unable to store up bread, they were allowed only to trust that he would provide. Remember, remember, remember.
And now the promised land—"A land in which you will eat bread without scarcity, in which you will lack nothing." The time had come. The curtain had dropped, the door was open, a place flowing with milk and honey. And what will happen? You will forget the Lord your God. Our pastor said it plainly: "The land of plenty is the most dangerous."
Spurgeon speaks on this. A man of many sorrows, he was known to speak most heavily on being kept in pain and affliction, for it is better to suffer than to sin.
Our Father's wagons rumble most heavily when they are bringing us the richest freight of the bullion of his grace. Love letters from heaven are often sent in black-edged envelopes. The cloud that is black with horror is big with mercy. Fear not the storm, it brings healing in its wings, and when Jesus is with you in the vessel the tempest only hastens the ship to its desired haven.
So our charge, amid our sanctuary being filled, chairs set, weddings planned, and baptisms in the future, is not to forget the wilderness. Forget not the manna provided, because all in all, what matters most is that we have the word of God. And that is all we need. When we were kept out of the building and had church outside, that was the clearest way to see the gospel in action. We need no building, no A/C, no childcare, no fancy lights and piano. We need God’s ordinary means of grace; we need the word and sacraments. All else is passing away.
And if we forget, may the wilderness return, not as punishment, but as mercy, so that we may know him deeper still.
