Tim is talented.  Like, freakishly good at things.  Important things.  Things like playing musical instruments, singing, preaching, reducing complex topics to their most basic elements.  Making those around him feel comfortable, and getting to the bottom of issues quickly.  Discerning potential problems before they happen.  

But despite the respect I hold, on the highest order, for Tim's talents, intelligence and determination,  it isn't any of those qualities which earn my deepest admiration.  That is reserved for how Tim chooses to live his days;  in very obvious and consistent revelation of what he believes.  

Tim - and his also-spookily-talented wife Jennifer - started a church.  It's behind their house.  In a storage shed, that holds seventy-five or eighty people.  But that's only after they ultimately dismantled the pool table, and stacked the pieces in the rafters.  And also only if everyone sits closely together.  Closely enough the gap between them makes the space between the pages of a new magazine seem relatively indulgent by comparison.

Shorts are common churchwear in the summer.  They give way to jackets and sweatshirts, as the mercury falls.  That's out of necessity, rather than a lack of decorum:  The temperature in the building rises and falls by twenty degrees with each opening of the single door.

Years worth of their family pictures hang neatly-but-haphazardly in frames of various size and color, on the only section of wall unbroken by single-pane window or bookshelf.  In front of that wall is where Tim speaks behind an impromptu pulpit:  A black metal music stand, of the kind you'd see at a high school band concert.  

Jennifer is often beside him, singing beautifully from her bench at a small Casio electronic keyboard.  One or another of their gifted sons plays the drums sometimes.  A friend of mine plays the bass.

You may think I'm making it sound somewhat unimpressive.  And candidly, if we're defining it by the sweeping foyers, matched fabrics, elegantly-muted colors and electronic wizardry common to the modern sanctuary, It's actually less impressive than I'm describing.  By a wide margin.  

There is no coffee shop.  There are no multicolored lights illuminating the band.  Parking is along the narrow streets beside their house, for those who can't shoehorn their cars in among the others, on the bare grass and gravel of their back yard.  There isn't even carpet, except for a mismatched scrap or two they've employed to keep the mud at bay on rainy days, or to keep the few items of furniture from sliding on the scratched and splintered surface of the unfinished wooden floor.  

But as one who has had the undeserved opportunity to sit among the throngs in American megachurches, and to walk the impossibly-ornate stone corridors of some of the great cathedrals of Europe, I can say with the most undivided sincerity, that Tim and Jennifer's shed is the most beautiful church - the holiest church - I've ever had the honor of attending.

Because church, to me, isn't about steeples, showmanship, or attendance figures.  It is not about competition.  In fact, the church in the shed meets on Sunday night, specifically so people can go anywhere they'd like on Sunday mornings, yet still have another place to feel welcome as darkness falls before the week ahead.

Church, as I see it, is about brokenness, and a place to be exactly that, and to be so honestly.  It is about redemption, and a place to experience exactly that, humbly, and among the safety of friends.  It is about forgiveness, and a place to do exactly that, within walls which give us momentary reprieve from the frustrations and hostility that so often prevent it.  

And that is why Tim and Jennifer's shed is so beautiful.  Because they know that.  The people I know who go there, know it, too.  But beyond knowing it academically, Tim demonstrates it in flesh and blood.  He takes no salary.  He offers his own house, preaches, teaches, counsels and encourages for nothing.  His wife and family sacrifice their privacy, their schedules, their own bathrooms...to me, and all the rest of us who have no claim to any of it.

And it isn't for lack of opportunity.  Tim wouldn't ever say that aloud.  Probably doesn't even realize it.  Certainly wouldn't admit to it if asked....but he could make pastoring any of the largest churches in the world look easy.  He would do so with tact and grace.  His knowledge of scripture - to which his degrees in the subject, and decades of private study easily attest - is uncommon in any circles.  I would place his teaching among the greats of any age.  His ability to convey meaning would stand favorably against anyone's, ever.  I do not say that because he is my friend.  I say it because it is true.

But neither do I say it to glorify Tim or his abilities.  He couldn't stand that.  I say it instead because he is a shining example of someone who chooses to love, to teach, to help...to matter, to those around him, right where he stands.  He inspires me to make attempts, meager and weak as they are, to do so too.  

And as the picture widens, it actually isn't about Tim, or his teaching, or the building, or the people who go there at all.  It's about everyone else.  

It is about a God to whom I owe each successive breath, each additional heartbeat, every good and perfect thing, and all of the same of the people I love.  It is a place where I can stay silent for a time.   Time enough to realize there are plenty of people who are living in pain.  In hardship.  Who are harboring grief I otherwise overlook, need I s0 easily ignore, and loneliness which I shamefully have within my own capacity to end, but so seldom strive to do.

Tim and his wife will both feel decidedly awkward, when they eventually see this article has been published.  I love that about them.  They don't spend their time crowing about their accomplishments.  Ever.  Further, they wouldn't consider their love, influence and teaching - their willingness to open their own home to strangers - an accomplishment, despite the fact that it is one, and one of the greatest magnitude.  They are some of my closest friends.  For that reason, one of the great joys of my life is making them feel awkward as often as I'm able.  Because of that, I'm likely not their favorite friend.  It's a reality which I graciously accept.  But unfortunately for my friends, they'll find themselves wholly incapable of ridding themselves of me.  I love them too much for that.

It isn't a product, this church in the shed behind Tim and Jennifer's house.  It isn't a production or an entertainment opportunity or a cult of personality.  It is a project.  One which no one person controls, nor has a desire to control.  One for which there is no specific desired outcome.  No perfect ending.  

One that is always changing in practice, but is ever-unchanging in goal:  To learn what God would have us do for others in the numbered days we walk this planet.  And then to do it.