Faithful witness doesn’t always look like a protest. Sometimes it looks like showing up – month after month – sitting in rickety auditorium chairs, paying attention to a community’s need and speaking when it matters.
One of the most faithful acts of ministry I have witnessed took place not in a sanctuary, but at a school board meeting.
In the fall of 2021, I was serving as associate pastor at St. Barnabas Presbyterian Church in Richardson, Texas, a suburb just north of Dallas. Like so many congregations, we had spent the previous two years navigating disorientation and division: the pandemic, online worship, mask mandates, the resurgence of the Black Lives Matter movement, and a deeply polarized election season. Those same pressures were straining our local school district.
Outside groups funded extremist candidates to run for the school board. Paid agitators disrupted meetings and worked to undermine a widely respected superintendent, beloved by educators and students alike. In December 2021, under mounting pressure, she resigned.
St. Barnabas includes many educators, several of whom worked in the district and knew the superintendent. The grief and frustration in our congregation were palpable. Again and again, people voiced the same tension: We care deeply about what’s happening — but can the church say or do anything?
“We can’t do anything political,” one person sighed in a mission committee meeting, “but I wish we could do something.”
What followed was not a dramatic decision, but a quiet shift in imagination. What if public witness were not a partisan activity, but a natural extension of our ministry? What if showing up – consistently, humbly, faithfully – was itself a form of care?
A small team took that question and that mission to heart.
Beginning early the next year, team members attended school board meetings in pairs each month. They identified the values our church already lived out in ministry: equitable treatment for people of all income levels, full inclusion of LGBTQIA+ people, and strong support for educators. They prepared brief statements rooted in those commitments and offered them when relevant issues arose.
They also introduced themselves to board members – not as adversaries, but as neighbors – offering prayers and encouragement for the difficult work of public service. And each month, they reported back to the mission committee, helping the congregation stay connected to the life of the community beyond our walls.
In their first month attending the board meeting, they witnessed an elementary school principal receive an award for a program supporting food-insecure students. Because of her leadership, a school that had long struggled academically had risen into the top quartile statewide. The next day, our team sent handwritten notes — congratulating her, thanking her staff and offering prayers for their continued work.
Month by month, they encountered student athletes and musicians, anxious parents navigating school mergers and educators committed to their profession. From the rickety seats of an old auditorium, they glimpsed something holy: a cross-section of the city, full of complexity, diversity and quiet dedication.
And when the time came to speak, when budgets were debated and decisions carried real consequences, they did so clearly and faithfully. They spoke not as outsiders dropping in for a fight, but as neighbors who had been present all along.
Having watched bad-faith actors swoop in during a contentious season and do harm to our public schools, the church chose to be good neighbors.
They showed up. They paid attention. They offered encouragement. They spoke when it mattered.
In doing so, they became known not for what they opposed, but for how they loved.
I give thanks for a denomination that understands ministry extends beyond the walls of the church. I give thanks for the saints of St. Barnabas, who trusted that public life is not separate from discipleship.
And I give thanks that even in contentious spaces, faithful presence can still make room for love.
