Some Places Become Holy Simply Because We Lived There

I’ve lived in Springfield, Missouri, for thirteen years now. That may not seem like a long time to some people, but for me, it is the longest I have ever lived in one city. I’ve also lived in the same apartment for ten years, another personal record.

For most of my life, I was a pastor. Pastors move. Every three or four years, another church, another parsonage, another community, another beginning. Looking back, I realize I have spent much of my life packing boxes, saying goodbye, and learning to call another place home.

Springfield isn’t perfect. Then again, I can’t think of a perfect place except perhaps the Garden of Eden—but that’s another story.

What I do love about Springfield is its rhythm. I enjoy watching the seasons change. Spring brings new life. Summer is warm and familiar. Autumn paints the trees with brilliant colors. Winter reminds me to slow down. I don’t think I could ever live where it’s 75 degrees on Christmas Day, nor do I miss the sixty-inch snowfalls I experienced while living in Denver. Springfield feels… balanced.

More importantly, Springfield is where the scattered pieces of my life finally began to fit together.

For years I often felt as though I were carrying around a puzzle with pieces that never quite connected. My experiences, my questions, my failures, my faith journey, my family history, my calling, and even my own identity all seemed disconnected. Here, somehow, those pieces slowly began finding their place.

Part of that is because my family is here. One of my daughters lives here, and that alone makes this city precious to me.

But even more, I found a church family here.

For many years I worshiped at King’s Way United Methodist Church. There I taught Sunday School and later taught in the Senior Adult Ministry. Those years were rich with friendships and opportunities to grow alongside others in faith.

Then, in 2025, I walked through the doors of St. James Episcopal Church.

From the very beginning, I felt more at home there than in any church I had ever attended. The people welcomed me with genuine kindness. The rectors have been wonderful shepherds. I found not simply a congregation, but a family.

Every Sunday we gather around the Eucharistic Table.

During seminary I learned the theology and symbolism of the Table where the bread and wine are prepared and shared. Over the years, however, that understanding has become something much deeper than an academic lesson.

The Table is God’s invitation.

It is where grace is received rather than earned.

It is where Christ welcomes everyone—regardless of race, ethnicity, nationality, gender, sexual orientation, age, background, or past failures. God’s love reaches farther than our boundaries because “God is love,” and “God so loved the world.”

That welcome includes me.

It includes my family.

It includes my friends.

It includes people I have never met.

I remain deeply grateful for my years in the Free Will Baptist Church and the United Methodist Church. Those traditions shaped me, challenged me, and helped me become who I am today. The preaching of God’s Word was central, and through it I learned countless lessons that continue to guide my life.

Yet somewhere along this pilgrimage, I discovered something my soul had been longing for all along.

I found the Table.

There, in the breaking of the bread and the sharing of the cup, I encounter God’s mysterious grace in a way I cannot fully explain. The Eucharist has become the spiritual nourishment that strengthens me to live faithfully through the other six days of the week.

So yes, Springfield has become holy ground for me.

Not because the city is perfect.

Not because my apartment is extraordinary.

But because this is where God’s mysterious grace gathered together the scattered pieces of my life and reminded me that I was never wandering alone.

Unless God has another surprise waiting for me, I expect Springfield will be my home until the day He calls me home.

Some places become holy simply because we lived there.

For me, Springfield is one of those places.