Jeremiah didn’t like feeling rushed when souls were involved.
He could handle a tight schedule at work, traffic, even last-minute repairs at the café. But when someone was coming with questions that had cost them years—questions that had left them exhausted, cynical, and quietly lonely—Jeremiah wanted margin. Not because he needed theatrics. Because he needed patience.
That evening, The Shepherds Cafe was closed early. The lights were still on—warm pendant bulbs over empty tables—and the scent of coffee lingered in the air like a familiar hymn. Jeremiah sat at a corner table with a worn Bible opened flat, a legal pad beside it, and a small stack of cards he’d written in block letters:
Authority.
Names.
Denominations.
The gospel.
The church.
Drift.
Disciple.
He stared at the last word for a long moment.
Disciple.
Not “win an argument.” Not “prove a point.” Not “close the deal.” Disciple—patiently, faithfully, and with the long obedience that refused to treat people like projects.
Jeremiah rubbed his jaw, the salt-and-pepper beard catching the lamplight. He had known Christopher since high school—back when they both had more confidence than wisdom. Christopher had been the kind of friend who stayed late after a game and talked about life in the parking lot, asking questions that sounded simple until you tried to answer them honestly.
They’d lost touch after graduation, the way so many friendships did: work, family, moves, time.
Then last week Christopher had messaged him out of nowhere.
Saw your name pop up in a mutual friend’s post. Didn’t know you were religious now. I’ve been… searching. Not sure what I believe. You free to talk sometime?
Jeremiah had responded within minutes. Not because he was desperate. Because he recognized a crack in the armor.
Now, he checked the clock, then the window, then the door.
The bell gave its soft chime.
Christopher stepped in with a cautious look, scanning the café like he expected a salesman to jump out from behind the counter. He was dressed plainly—jeans, a dark jacket—and he carried himself like a man who’d learned to keep his expectations low.
He saw Jeremiah and managed a half-smile.
“Man,” Christopher said, walking over, “this place feels like you. Calm. Thoughtful. Like… you planned it.”
Jeremiah stood and hugged him once, firm and brotherly.
“I planned the chair,” Jeremiah said. “And I planned the coffee. The rest is you and me and whatever truth can survive daylight.”
Christopher let out a short laugh and sat down. He glanced at the Bible with a familiar suspicion.
“Still carrying that thing around.”
Jeremiah slid a mug toward him.
“Still asking questions,” Jeremiah replied. “So we’re even.”
Christopher wrapped his hands around the mug like he needed the warmth more than the caffeine.
“Alright,” he said. “Let me just say this up front. I’m not trying to be disrespectful. I’m… tired. I’ve tried different denominations over the years. Baptist. A little Episcopalian. Visited a Mormon service once. A friend tried to get me to do a Bible study with Jehovah’s Witnesses. And every time, I end up disenchanted.”
Jeremiah nodded slowly.
“Tell me what disenchanted means for you.”
Christopher leaned back, eyes narrowing like he was sorting through a drawer of disappointments.
“Rules of men. Politics. Traditions people treat like they’re Scripture. And the names—everybody has a label. Everybody claims they’re the real thing. And then they fight about it. I’ve gotten to the point where I’m not sure God is even real, but I’m sure religious people can be exhausting.”
Jeremiah didn’t defend “religious people.” He didn’t polish Christianity into a sales pitch. He just listened, because he knew the difference between a man who was lazy and a man who was weary.
Then he asked the question he’d been holding back all week.
“Christopher—when you say you’re not sure God is real… is that because you’ve concluded He isn’t, or because you’re tired of being disappointed by people who claim to speak for Him?”
Christopher hesitated.
“That’s… a fair question.”
Jeremiah nodded.
“I’m not going to pretend Christians never disappoint. We do. But Scripture doesn’t ask you to anchor your conscience to people. It calls you to anchor it to Christ.”
Christopher tapped the table once, like he was bracing himself.
“Okay. Then let’s start there. Is it actually possible to be what you’d call a ‘New Testament church’ today? Like… not Baptist, not Mormon, not Witness, not Episcopal, not any other name. Just… Christians.”
Jeremiah opened his Bible, not with a flourish, but like a man opening a map.
“It’s not only possible,” he said. “It’s the goal. The New Testament doesn’t present Christianity as a brand. It presents it as the faith once delivered.”
Christopher’s skepticism sharpened. “Everybody says they follow the Bible.”
“That’s why we start with the text,” Jeremiah replied. “Not with ‘my church’ or ‘your church.’ We ask: what did the apostles teach? What did first-century Christians practice? And how did God warn them about drift?”
Christopher leaned forward. “Drift.”
Jeremiah nodded and turned a few pages.
“Paul called the elders from Ephesus and warned them about it. Listen.”
He read slowly, letting the words stand on their own:
“Take heed therefore unto yourselves, and to all the flock… to feed the church of God…
For I know this, that after my departing shall grievous wolves enter in among you…
Also of your own selves shall men arise, speaking perverse things, to draw away the disciples after them.”
(Acts 20:28–30, KJV)
Christopher stared at the page, then looked up. “So he expected corruption.”
“He expected pressure,” Jeremiah said. “From outside and from within.”
Christopher exhaled through his nose. “Sounds familiar.”
Jeremiah nodded and flipped again.
“And Paul told the Galatians something even sharper when they started shifting the message.”
“I marvel that ye are so soon removed from him that called you… unto another gospel…
But though we, or an angel from heaven, preach any other gospel… let him be accursed.”
(Galatians 1:6–8, KJV)
Christopher’s eyebrows rose. “That’s intense.”
“It’s protective,” Jeremiah replied. “Truth isn’t fragile because it can’t survive questions. Truth is fragile because people dilute it—slowly—until it’s no longer what Christ delivered.”
Christopher sat back. “So denominations exist because people drifted.”
“Often,” Jeremiah said. “Sometimes it’s sincere. Sometimes it’s power. Often it’s tradition hardening into law.”
From the back of the café, a door clicked softly.
Elijah stepped out, glasses catching the warm light. Barbara followed with a small plate and that quiet steadiness she carried like a scarf.
“We’re not interrupting,” Barbara said gently. “Just making sure nobody tries to have a soul conversation on an empty stomach.”
Christopher let out a surprised laugh. “You run this place like a living room.”
Elijah smiled once. “That’s the point.”
They didn’t sit at the table. They stayed nearby—present, not pressuring.
Christopher turned back to Jeremiah. “Alright. What about church leadership? Every place I’ve been has a different structure—bishops, popes, pastors, boards, councils. Who’s right?”
Jeremiah answered plainly.
“The New Testament pattern is local congregations shepherded by elders—plural—with deacons serving, and evangelists preaching. Not a global headquarters. Not one man ruling a congregation.”
Christopher studied him. “So you’re saying the one-man model isn’t biblical.”
“I’m saying Scripture emphasizes a plurality of elders in local congregations,” Jeremiah replied. “When people replace that with something else, they’re making an organizational choice Scripture doesn’t authorize.”
Christopher nodded slowly. “Okay. Worship. Instruments. Liturgy. Rituals. Shows. How do you decide?”
“We decide by authority,” Jeremiah said. “If God asked for it, we do it. If He didn’t, we don’t add to worship like we’re improving what He designed.”
Christopher’s eyes narrowed. “And salvation? Because that’s where it gets messy. I’ve heard ‘just believe’ and I’ve heard ‘say the prayer’ and I’ve heard ‘sacraments’ and I’ve heard ‘baptism is only a symbol.’”
Jeremiah’s expression softened.
“It matters because it’s not theory,” he said. “It’s eternity.”
Christopher swallowed. “Yeah.”
Jeremiah turned the Bible slightly so Christopher could see the text without feeling like he was being cornered.
“Let’s go to the clearest places,” Jeremiah said. “Not my opinion—just Scripture.”
He opened to Mark and read:
“He that believeth and is baptized shall be saved; but he that believeth not shall be damned.”
(Mark 16:16, KJV)
Christopher looked down, then back up. “That’s… direct.”
Jeremiah nodded. “Now Peter’s sermon—people asked what to do.”
“Then Peter said unto them, Repent, and be baptized every one of you in the name of Jesus Christ for the remission of sins…”
(Acts 2:38, KJV)
Christopher’s brow furrowed at the phrase. “For the remission of sins.”
Jeremiah didn’t rush. “Let’s keep going. Here’s Ananias speaking to Saul.”
“And now why tarriest thou? arise, and be baptized, and wash away thy sins, calling on the name of the Lord.”
(Acts 22:16, KJV)
Christopher sat very still. The café seemed quieter all at once.
Jeremiah turned again.
“And Paul explains what baptism unites us to.”
“Know ye not, that so many of us as were baptized into Jesus Christ were baptized into his death?
Therefore we are buried with him by baptism into death…”
(Romans 6:3–4, KJV)
Christopher stared at the page like it was rearranging furniture in his mind.
“But isn’t that works?” he asked finally.
Jeremiah didn’t take the bait. He didn’t snap back. He answered like a shepherd.
“Obedience isn’t earning,” he said. “If Jesus commands something, doing it isn’t paying God back. It’s trusting Him enough to obey. Faith that refuses obedience isn’t biblical faith.”
Elijah spoke quietly from his seat nearby, not to dominate—just to reinforce.
“Jesus said, ‘If ye love me, keep my commandments.’” (John 14:15, KJV)
Barbara added softly, “And obedience isn’t humiliation. It’s surrender. That’s how love behaves.”
Christopher leaned back, eyes glossy—not emotional theatrics, just the strain of being faced with something clean and demanding.
“I want it to be true,” he admitted. “I want there to be a simple way back to the original. But I’ve watched people use Scripture as a weapon.”
Jeremiah’s voice lowered.
“Then let me make something plain,” he said. “I’m not inviting you into a club. I’m inviting you to sit with me under the authority of Jesus Christ and learn what He taught. If you decide you don’t believe, I’ll still treat you like my friend. But I’m going to love you enough to tell you what I believe the Word says.”
Christopher’s throat moved like he swallowed something heavier than coffee.
“That’s different,” he said.
Jeremiah took a breath.
“And this is the part I don’t want you to miss,” he said. “I don’t just want to answer your questions. I want to disciple you.”
Christopher blinked. “Disciple me… like make me into you?”
Jeremiah shook his head firmly.
“No. Help you follow Christ. Help you learn the Scriptures. Help you pray when you’re not sure anyone is listening. Help you build a faith that isn’t dependent on personalities.”
Christopher looked down at the table, then back up.
“So what are you proposing?”
Jeremiah slid the legal pad across. Four lines:
Who is Jesus?
What is the gospel?
What is the church?
How should Christians live?
“We start here,” Jeremiah said. “Not with denominational fights. Not with internet debates. We start with Jesus, then follow the New Testament where it leads.”
Christopher stared at the list for a long moment.
“I’m not convinced,” he said.
Jeremiah nodded once. “That’s alright.”
Christopher raised his eyes. “But I’m willing. I’ll study more.”
Jeremiah didn’t grin. He didn’t celebrate like he’d won. He just looked relieved—like a man handed the first rung of a ladder.
“Good,” Jeremiah said. “Faith that lasts doesn’t come from pressure. It comes from truth—seen clearly and embraced honestly.”
Christopher hesitated, then asked the question that told Jeremiah the conversation had shifted from intellectual to personal.
“And if we study and I still don’t believe… what then?”
Jeremiah leaned forward, voice steady.
“Then I’ll keep treating you like a man made in God’s image,” he said. “I’ll keep praying for you. I’ll keep opening the Book with you if you’re willing. And I’ll keep telling you the same thing: God isn’t asking you to trust a denomination. He’s calling you to trust His Son.”
Christopher sat back, and for the first time all evening his face didn’t look guarded. It looked thoughtful.
“Next week?” he asked.
Jeremiah nodded. “Next week. Same table. Same Bible. One passage at a time.”
Christopher stood, pulled his jacket tighter, then paused at the door.
“Jeremiah… I didn’t come here expecting to feel hopeful.”
Jeremiah’s voice stayed quiet but firm.
“Hope is a dangerous thing,” he said. “It makes people honest. And honest people can actually be changed.”
Christopher gave a small, genuine smile and walked out. The bell chimed again as he left.
Jeremiah remained seated, staring at the open Bible. He didn’t feel triumphant. He felt responsible.
He reached for his pen and wrote one more line beneath the list:
Pray for Christopher by name. Teach with patience. Love without manipulation.
Then, in the empty warmth of The Shepherds Cafe, Jeremiah bowed his head and spoke to God like a man who knew the stakes but trusted the mercy.
Not for a quick win.
For a disciple.