Some Places Become Holy Simply Because We Live There

In 2003, I was appointed by the Hattiesburg District Superintendent of the Mississippi Annual Conference of the United Methodist Church to serve as pastor of West Laurel United Methodist Church in Laurel, Mississippi.

The appointment felt like coming home.

My mother and father were both raised in east Jones County. When I was twelve, our family moved back there, and I graduated from Northeast Jones High School in 1967. That summer I left for college in Nashville, convinced I would never return to live in Jones County.

God had other plans.

West Laurel United Methodist Church sat on the west side of Laurel, only a few miles from the community where I had grown up. The congregation averaged forty to fifty people on Sunday mornings. It was a faithful church filled with ordinary people who quietly loved God and one another.

Then came August 29, 2005.

Hurricane Katrina devastated the Mississippi Gulf Coast before continuing nearly ninety miles inland to Laurel. The storm brought destructive winds, torrential rain, and several tornadoes. Fifteen people lost their lives in Jones County.

The parsonage where I lived was trapped beneath fallen trees and debris. We had no electricity and no way to get out until the power company cleared the street.

As soon as I could leave, I drove to the church.

To my amazement, the building was untouched and the lights were on. Because the church shared the same electrical grid as the local hospital, it still had power.

I began calling church members.

Before long, people started arriving. Together we made a simple decision: our church would become a refuge.

We contacted UMCOR, the United Methodist Committee on Relief, and soon received a call from West Palm Beach United Methodist Church in Florida. They offered to send volunteers to help us organize a relief effort.

Out of those first conversations, the Pine Belt Recovery Group was born. I was asked to serve as its president.

Our little church suddenly became the hub of disaster relief for the surrounding area.

Volunteer teams came from across America, staying for one or two weeks at a time. We housed them in our facilities, prepared meals, operated a warehouse filled with food and supplies, coordinated work crews, and ministered to families who had lost so much.

Day after day, I watched the people of West Laurel pour themselves into the lives of their neighbors.

They worked long hours without complaint.

They cooked.

They cleaned.

They prayed.

They listened.

They comforted.

They served.

No one asked who deserved help. They simply saw people in need and responded with love.

When I think of holy places, I certainly think of Jerusalem, Canterbury, and ancient cathedrals. But I also think of a modest brick church on the west side of Laurel, Mississippi.

Not because the building was extraordinary.

Because the people were.

Holiness is not created by stained-glass windows or beautiful architecture. It is born wherever people become the hands and feet of Christ.

West Laurel United Methodist Church became holy ground because, in one of our community’s darkest hours, God’s people chose compassion over comfort, service over convenience, and love over fear.

Some places become holy simply because we live there.