The morning air inside The Shepherds Cafe had that steady, early-winter rhythm—soft jazz tucked under the sound of grinders, the occasional laugh kept low, and the smell of espresso settling into the wood like it belonged there. Winter light pushed against the front windows in a pale wash, turning every passing car into a slow shadow.
Jeremiah was the first to arrive.
An older Black man with a salt-and-pepper beard, he stepped inside with a careful calm, scanning the room the way a man does when his mind is already working a problem. He chose a table that gave him a clear view of the entrance and the counter—no paranoia, just maturity. His coat came off, folded once, and set on the chair beside him. When the mug arrived, he held it in both hands, warming his palms like he was bracing for a hard conversation.
A few minutes later, the bell above the door chimed and Elijah entered.
Elijah moved with quiet deliberation—glasses low on his nose, short white beard neat, his Bible tucked under one arm and a manila folder under the other. He didn’t look hurried. He looked ready. He greeted the barista with a nod, ordered the same thing he always ordered, and came straight to Jeremiah’s table.
“You got here early,” Elijah said, sitting down.
Jeremiah nodded once. “I wanted a minute to think before the storm hits.”
Elijah set the folder on the table but didn’t open it. “So it’s a storm.”
Jeremiah’s eyes stayed on the front door. “Barbara said it’s paperwork. That usually means pressure.”
Elijah’s fingers rested on the Bible cover, not like a prop—like an anchor. “Pressure reveals what we really believe.”
The bell chimed again.
Barbara entered with purpose, scarf looped at her neck, short blonde-gray bob neat, soft features tightened by a seriousness that didn’t need to raise its voice. She carried no coffee. She carried a letter.
She crossed the café, placed the envelope on the table, then her phone beside it—face up—then a pen. The items landed with the quiet finality of a verdict.
Jeremiah lifted an eyebrow. “No coffee?”
Barbara didn’t sit right away. “Not until we deal with this.”
Elijah didn’t reach for the envelope. “Money problem or truth problem?”
Barbara finally sat, then slid the letter toward Elijah. “Government problem. But the real issue isn’t the government. The real issue is what the church has authority to do.”
Jeremiah’s posture shifted forward. “Say that again.”
Barbara’s voice stayed even. “They’re treating the weekday parent program in the classrooms as childcare. They’re demanding licensing. That means inspections, compliance, posted policies, training logs—everything.”
Elijah opened the letter and read slowly. No theatrics. Just attention. He didn’t need to explain what he saw; the words did that on their own: license required, facility inspection scheduled, nondiscrimination compliance, documentation, oversight.
He set the paper down.
Jeremiah spoke first. “So they’ve decided we’re a daycare.”
Barbara nodded. “Function over intent. ‘If children are supervised during the day, it’s childcare.’”
Elijah’s voice was calm, but it landed like a gavel. “Then we need to be crystal clear: a conservative church of Christ has no authority to operate a daycare.”
Barbara’s eyes didn’t blink. “That’s exactly my conclusion.”
Jeremiah’s shoulders eased—just slightly—like the fog had lifted. “So this isn’t Romans 13 versus Acts 5.”
Elijah shook his head once. “No. This is not ‘find the perfect verse to justify a program.’ This is a mission question. The local church has a defined work.”
Barbara leaned in and tapped the edge of Elijah’s Bible. “Spell it out.”
Elijah opened to a familiar set of passages, then spoke without preaching.
“The church is authorized to teach the gospel and spread it.” He turned a page. “The church is authorized to edify the saints—build up the body.” Another page. “The church is authorized to relieve needy saints as Scripture directs. Those categories are clear.”
Jeremiah nodded. “And daycare doesn’t fit any of them as a congregational work.”
Barbara’s pen moved, but she kept her eyes up. “So if we continue letting the building be used that way, and the state calls it childcare, we drift into appearing to host what we can’t scripturally sponsor.”
Elijah’s gaze stayed steady. “And even if the parents insist it’s ‘just a co-op,’ the moment it becomes regulated and inspected as childcare, we have effectively allowed the church facility to function as a daycare site. That creates confusion inside and outside the congregation.”
Jeremiah’s voice dropped a little. “And confusion becomes doctrine problems fast.”
Barbara turned the letter so both men could see a paragraph she had underlined. “They’re asking for a signature confirming compliance. That signature would connect the church’s name to the program in writing.”
Elijah exhaled once—controlled, not anxious. “We won’t sign that.”
Jeremiah looked at Barbara. “What are you thinking the next step is?”
Barbara’s answer was straightforward. “We stop it. Immediately. Not because the government wrote a letter—because we never should’ve allowed the building to be used in a way that can be interpreted as a daycare. That’s a line we don’t cross.”
Elijah nodded. “Agreed.”
Jeremiah was quiet for a moment, then said what needed to be said. “Some parents are going to be hurt.”
Barbara didn’t pretend otherwise. “Yes.”
Elijah’s tone softened without weakening. “And we will handle their hurt with shepherding, not arrogance.”
Jeremiah glanced out the window again, as if weighing how many families would be affected. “So what do we say to them? Because if we just say ‘no,’ they’ll hear rejection.”
Barbara’s pen hovered. “We tell them the truth, and we offer a path forward that doesn’t compromise the church.”
Elijah leaned forward slightly. “This is where we need careful words. Our stance must be firm, but our speech must be seasoned with grace.”
He read aloud, measured and clear:
“Conduct yourselves with wisdom toward outsiders… Let your speech always be with grace, as though seasoned with salt…” (Colossians 4:5–6, NASB)
Barbara nodded. “And we make the distinction: individual Christians can organize childcare. The church as a church cannot operate it.”
Jeremiah pointed at the letter. “Also, we do not treat the government like an enemy. We obey what we can obey.”
Elijah replied immediately—plain, not political. “Correct. We obey the law of the land, we respect officials, and we remember the government does not bear the sword in vain. They have authority to enforce what they regulate.”
Barbara added, “But we don’t reorganize the church to meet a licensing framework for a work God didn’t assign.”
Jeremiah’s voice was firm. “That’s the center line.”
Elijah tapped the folder he brought. “Here is what I propose.”
Barbara angled her notepad toward him, ready.
Elijah held up one finger. “First: We reply to the state office respectfully—in writing. We tell them we are discontinuing any weekday program in the building that could be construed as childcare, effective immediately. No argument, no sarcasm, no vague promises.”
Barbara wrote quickly.
“Second,” Elijah continued, “we meet with the parents this week. In that meeting, we tell them plainly: the church does not have authority to host or operate a daycare. That is not a judgment on them. It’s a boundary of Scripture.”
Jeremiah nodded. “And we say it with compassion.”
“Third,” Elijah said, “we help them transition—as individuals—to a lawful, private arrangement somewhere else: homes, rented space, or a private facility. They can do what they decide, and they can comply with any licensure they must comply with. But it will not be under the church’s oversight, name, or facility.”
Barbara looked up. “That helps them without reshaping the congregation into something else.”
Jeremiah added, “And it keeps the treasury out of it.”
Elijah nodded. “Exactly.”
Barbara’s expression tightened again. “But there’s going to be a follow-up question: ‘Why can’t we use the building if we’re paying for supplies ourselves?’”
Jeremiah answered before Elijah could. “Because it’s not just about money. It’s about what the church is seen to be doing.”
Elijah picked up the thought. “It’s about identity and authority. The building is not magical, but it represents the congregation. If the building becomes a regulated daycare site, the church’s name is tied to an institution the church is not authorized to operate.”
Barbara pointed her pen at Elijah. “That’s the sentence. That’s the clarity.”
Jeremiah leaned forward. “Also, we need to remind the saints how to handle conflict if emotions run hot.”
Elijah nodded. “Yes. Jesus gives a framework for resolving disputes.”
He turned and read:
“If your brother sins, go and show him his fault in private…” (Matthew 18:15, NASB)
Elijah looked up. “No whisper campaigns. No faction-building. If someone has concerns, they come directly to the elders.”
Barbara said, “I can draft a written announcement for the bulletin and email. Factual. Not inflammatory. Clear about the decision and the biblical reasons. I will not address the congregation in the assembly—I’ll put it in writing and make sure procedures are accessible.”
Jeremiah nodded. “And we should be prepared to sit down with any family personally.”
Elijah’s voice stayed calm. “We will.”
Barbara glanced at the letter again. “What about the inspection date they listed?”
Elijah didn’t hesitate. “We respond immediately and tell them the program is discontinued. If they still want to inspect, that’s their decision, but the childcare use will stop.”
Jeremiah added, “And we cooperate respectfully in anything that is lawful and appropriate. We do not act guilty, but we also do not act rebellious.”
Barbara finally reached for her coffee, as if the plan had given her permission to breathe. “This is going to disappoint people.”
Elijah’s eyes softened. “Sometimes ‘no’ is discipleship.”
Jeremiah’s voice turned quiet but weighty. “And sometimes people learn the difference between the church and the Christian only when you draw the line.”
Barbara nodded. “Then we draw it cleanly.”
Elijah folded the letter once and slid it back into the envelope like the decision had already been made. “We’re not doing this to be harsh. We’re doing it to be faithful.”
Jeremiah stared into his mug a moment, then looked up. “One more concern. Some will say, ‘But we’re helping families. Isn’t that love?’”
Elijah answered with the kind of clarity that refuses to insult good intentions while still refusing to drift. “Love must stay inside God’s order. Good motives don’t create authority. The church can love families through teaching, encouragement, hospitality, and benevolence as Scripture allows. But we cannot invent institutions and call it love.”
Barbara’s voice stayed steady. “That’s the hard truth.”
Jeremiah gave a small nod. “And it’s the safe truth.”
For a moment, the café noise became background again. The plan sat on the table, not as a strategy to outmaneuver the state, but as a decision to keep the church what Scripture calls it to be.
Elijah placed his hand on the Bible—simple, not showy.
“Let’s pray,” he said.
And right there at the table—Jeremiah first to arrive, Elijah second, Barbara last—coffee warming, pen ready, letter contained—they bowed their heads with the quiet steadiness of people who knew faithfulness sometimes costs convenience.
Because the real test wasn’t whether they could argue policy.
The real test was whether they would guard the church’s mission without crushing the people they loved.
Banner image concept (ready to generate)
A warm, realistic interior scene inside The Shepherds Cafe. Jeremiah (older Black man, salt-and-pepper beard) is already seated at a corner table with his coat folded on a chair; Elijah (older man with short white beard and glasses) has just set down an open Bible and a manila folder; Barbara (older white woman with short blonde/gray bob and scarf) has just arrived and is placing a sealed envelope with a state letterhead and a pen on the table. The mood is serious, focused, and faithful. Background: espresso counter softly blurred, winter light through front windows. On the table: the opened letter (visible header but not readable details), a notepad with the words “Not a Church Work” written at the top, and three coffee mugs—active discussion, not posing.