I’ll never forget the conversation I had with a young man while at the church I pastored for a decade. He was pretty new to the whole idea of church, the gospel, and, well, just about everything we did as a community of faith.

The memorable conversation began with his phone call.

“Pastor Mike, my grandmother is near death,” he ventured. “Would you be able to stop by the nursing home and save her?”

I knew what he meant. I had heard such requests from members of my congregation before. I agreed to visit her and prepared to jot down the address.

But before he gave me the details, he paused to reflect on a scene unfolding in his mind.

“You know, she probably won’t want to talk with you,” he said. “She doesn’t like preachers.”

I smiled and assured him I had met such folks before and usually found a way to avoid offending them while attempting the assignment given by a loving family member.

“Actually, she probably won’t even let you in the door,” he insisted.

Now that one raised the wall I was about to scale.

“I’ll bet she won’t talk to you at all.”

There it was. The request that began with so much optimism had turned a one-eighty.

“Sorry, I shouldn’t have bothered you with this,” he finally said sadly.

“Wait,” I almost shouted before he hung up.

Calling him by name, I asked, “Do you think she would talk to you?”

“Oh, pastor, I’m her favorite grandson!” he said. “She’s always glad to see me.”

“Then,” I began carefully, “why don’t you tell her about Jesus?”

Being the Church means impacting people’s lives no matter where we are or what day it might be.

His response rocked me a bit: “I can do that?”

Somehow, my friend had sat through a few dozen Sundays in our church and still believed that only his pastor was qualified to lead life’s most essential transaction.

Over the next few minutes, I helped shape their upcoming conversation. I showed him how just explaining to his grandma what he had experienced was the best possible approach. After all, she had apparently commented multiple times about the change she saw in her grandson.

“Just tell her what Jesus has done for you,” I said.

With a restored enthusiasm, he said goodbye and was off on his first evangelistic mission. The following Sunday, he was beaming with the news of his grandma’s salvation — and I could already see that a new resolve to share his faith was growing.

During the next few months, he went on to reach several co-workers and family members. In fact, he was soon one of the most prolific at such efforts in our entire congregation.

But I was left with the question of how he came to think that such life change could only be found at church or in conversations with me. Sure, he was pretty new to these things, and there’s plenty of room for some misunderstanding in the earliest days of one’s journey with Christ, but I knew I needed to look deeper.

Is the way we do things painting this kind of picture for our congregations? Do people think the goal is to get others to church, where the “professionals” can deliver the goods? Do people live their Mondays with a sense that they carry the Spirit’s power with them, wherever they are? What would happen if that awareness came alive in our people as powerfully as it did for my friend?

When our good efforts of ministry become too Sunday-focused, we create an environment where people start treating God’s house as His principle residence. When we maximize Sundays at the expense of living powerfully all week long, we reinforce ideas such as my friend’s, that only certain people in certain places can be a part of Kingdom work.

Being the Church means impacting people’s lives no matter where we are or what day it might be. It’s what we do out there that matters most.

That day, I started rethinking everything we did through the lens of its impact on those Mondays, their following Saturdays, and every day in between. Let me encourage you to do the same.