A Pastor's Journey Beyond the Pulpit

For most of my pastoral ministry, my connection with the Adventist Development and Relief Agency (ADRA) was little more than a passing one. I’d take part in the occasional door-knock appeal, share a quick announcement from the pulpit, and move on to the next item on the church calendar. It wasn’t neglect or indifference—far from it. It was simply that pastoral life was brimming with immediacies: sermons to prepare, families to visit, meetings to chair, crises to address. There wasn’t much space left in my week, nor in my understanding, for engaging with programs that didn’t already sit firmly within my church routine.

That all shifted in retirement. When Cheryl (my spouse) and I joined the Maida Vale Seventh-day Adventist Church, we encountered something unexpected: a community vibrantly and actively engaged in ADRA’s mission “to serve humanity so all may live as God intended.” At the back of the Advent Park property was the ADRA Op Shop Maida Vale, quietly humming with activity. Nearby, a humble food parcel program, the ADRA Community Centre Maida Vale, was responding to the growing needs of locals facing food insecurity.

At first, I wondered what role I might possibly play. After decades in formal ministry, stepping into something different felt unfamiliar. But in the quiet rhythms of service—stacking shelves, sorting clothing, delivering food—I discovered a different kind of pulpit. One not raised or spotlighted, but grounded in proximity, in sweat, in stories.

The transformation we’ve witnessed over the past six years has been nothing short of profound. These initiatives have blossomed, reaching farther, loving deeper, making a tangible difference in lives. And while my contribution may seem small beside the tireless dedication of others, the sense of fulfillment it brings is beyond measure. In these acts of service, I’ve found renewed purpose. Ministry, I’ve come to realize, doesn’t fade with retirement, it simply shifts its shape. It grows quieter, perhaps, but also more personal, more relational, and in many ways, more powerful.

One encounter etched this truth deep into my heart. His name was Stan*. When I first began delivering food parcels to him, he was in a fragile state—wrestling with alcoholism, estranged from his loved ones, and burdened with chronic illness. Each visit was a gentle knocking at a locked door. Then one afternoon, something unexpected happened. In the midst of our conversation, a memory surfaced. I had known Stan long ago, when I was just beginning my journey in the Adventist Church. We had crossed paths when life was simpler, before hardship and pain left their mark.

That connection became a thread—a delicate, healing thread—that slowly stitched our visits into something deeper. I kept showing up. No sermons, no expectations, just presence. When possible, I offered guidance, connected him with support services, and encouraged where I could. Week by week, he began to change. The bottle stayed closed. His health improved. His hope returned. One day, I arrived to find his mother’s Bible open beside him. He looked up with a quiet smile and said, “I've been reading it again.”

We now share gentle conversations about God. Not because I pushed, but because love, constancy, and simple service opened a door that had long been shut.

This was never about converting anyone or checking a spiritual box. It was about listening to a life, responding with kindness, and trusting that God was already at work long before I arrived. That story changed me. Stan’s transformation is etched into my understanding of grace—grace that meets us in forgotten places, in broken homes, in the quiet persistence of one heart reaching out to another.

There are days I wonder if what we do matters. The needs feel endless. The impact sometimes invisible. But then I remember Stan. I remember his mother’s Bible. I remember the laughter that now punctuates our visits. And I’m reminded: no act of love is wasted. When placed in God’s hands, even the smallest offering is multiplied for His purpose.

Retirement, for many, becomes a season of stepping away—from responsibility, from routine, from relevance. But for us, it has been an invitation to step in. Not into busyness, but into a kind of rest that rejuvenates the soul. Into rhythms of compassion, into conversations that matter, into lives that reflect the hands and feet of Jesus.

We are not poorer in this season. Far from it. We are richer than ever richer in faith, in purpose, in joy, and in the incomparable privilege of witnessing the quiet, enduring miracles that unfold when love chooses to show up.