The Next Rector of Christ Church

Letting Go and Trusting Forward

A Quick Note to All Readers

We are nearing the end of the Christ Church Stories. I will have one more post and then we will move on at The Anglican. What a ride! I thank God for all He did for Fran, me, my family, and the people of Christ Church. Thank you for reading along.

I’d be honored to have your participation in The Anglican. We have some great things planned for the summer. Free subscribers are always welcome. Paid subscribers bring their own kind of greatness to this Substack. And Patrons, they receive our combined admiration and my everlasting thanks!

Upgrade your membership today.

And now, here’s the episode today.

⸻⸻⸻⸻

A Church in Its Prime

In 2014 and 2015, Christ Church was, by all accounts, at the height of its life.

We had a remarkable staff. The Vestry was strong and spiritually mature. Worship was vibrant, and the church’s reach was growing. Our mission efforts in Peru were bearing extraordinary fruit. Years earlier, we had tithed $800,000 from one of our capital campaigns to gift a three-story conference center for the Diocese of Peru. Our people didn’t stop there—they built schools, supported churches, and stood faithfully behind Bishop Bill and Judith Godfrey.

As our 30th anniversary approached, I wanted the congregation to feel what I felt—a sense of gratitude and awe. So we gathered for one service, asked everyone to wear green (why green? I still don’t know), and had a photographer capture the moment: the people, the building, the movement of God.

We had paid off every debt. When we left the Diocese of Dallas, we took our financial burden with us ($8 Million). This played no small part in their willingness to let us go. But we paid it off early. Christ Church became fully debt-free, with healthy reserves in the bank.

We had been a church-planting machine. Some of our plants ran into challenges. So we re-evaluated. We shifted our strategy. Instead of sending people, we sent money—offering $50,000 to $75,000 to help new works in Austin, Georgia, and a few more in our diocese take root and grow.

However, the purpose of a church is not to build buildings and raise money. The written definition of a church is a congregation of people where the pure Word of God is preached and the sacraments of new life are duly administered.

The few years hovering around our 30th anniversary were marvelous. But something in me began to stir.

The Whisper of Change

I didn’t know what to do next.

I had always been a builder driven by vision, pushing forward, leading from the front. But with the buildings complete, the mission strong, and the people content, I began to feel a strange question rising in me: Now what?

That’s when the financial gifts started arriving. Unsolicited. Unusual. Large.

After a good business year, one man gave $100,000 designated for “Anglican Issues.” Another longtime friend who had come to faith at Christ Church gave $130,000 for the same purpose. I had good uses for the money in mind, and they all involved clergy training, think-tanks, or conferences. We even hired an event coordinator and sponsored men’s, women’s, clergy, and provincial meetings.

Then came dinner with a couple I’d known for 31 years—original members. They had a stewardship story that started with him as a reluctant tither. He stubbornly tried to prove Malachi 3 obsolete. But after decades of year-after-year increases in salary, bonuses, and personal wealth, he became a believer not only in Christ, but in the tithe.

That night, he and his wife sat across from us at a restaurant table and asked, “David, what are you going to do to help this Anglican Church become what it’s meant to be?”

I shrugged. I hadn’t planned on leaving Christ Church. I thought I’d coast a little.

But he pressed me. “What would it take? To get out there and help churches, raise leaders, and build for the future?”

Was he serious? I gave him a number, uncertainly—$100,000? Maybe $200,000?

I don’t remember much from that pivotal evening except that he said, “Christ Church is great. It’s strong. You could stay until you retire, and no one would complain. But the ACNA needs what you can bring to it.”

That night, he wrote a check for $100,000 on the spot and said, “There’s more where that came from. We believe in you.”

On the drive home, I told Fran, “I feel like I’ve just been released from Christ Church. But I don’t want to go.” In my mind, I would be leaving the best position in the Anglican Church. I had a secure future in a healthy, loving church, where I was a respected leader.

I was afraid.

She replied, as she often did, “Honey, you will never need to worry. The support will follow if you write, consult, and help the Church. People believe in you.”

I wasn’t sure. I was worried about our material future. I’d grown up poor. I was afraid. But something in me knew she was right

Vancouver, B.C.

A few months later, Fran and I attended a church conference in Vancouver. The event was tightly organized and overseen by a young Canadian priest. He directed bishops like a conductor, laughing at his own jokes and managing a hundred moving parts with confidence and ease.

His name was Paul Donison.

I watched him for a while, then leaned over to Fran and whispered, “Who is this guy? He reminds me of… me.”

She smiled. I kept watching.

The following day, after the final session, Paul came into the dining hall with his tray, looking for a seat. I waved him over. He joined us. We chatted about Texas, Canada, hockey, and ministry. Easy conversation. Smart, warm, engaging.

As we walked out of the room, I turned to Fran and said, “That’s the next rector of Christ Church.” (She will vouch for this story.)

She looked at me, startled. “What are you talking about?”

I said, “I don’t know how, and I don’t know when. But I just met my successor.”

I didn’t tell anyone. Not the staff. Not the Vestry. Not even Paul.

But something in me shifted that day. A holy weight began to lift.

I brought Paul down to Plano later that year to consider a role as a vicar, but nothing clicked. He was gracious and gifted, but the chemistry wasn’t there. It didn’t feel right, so I moved on.

A Voice in the Car

And then, one summer morning in 2015, driving to Christ Church, I heard it deep in my soul: YOUR TIME IS OVER.

I couldn’t believe it. But I knew it was true.

I didn’t have a plan. Only a deep conviction that younger legs were needed to carry Christ Church the next stretch of the journey. And that I had work to do.

That July, I called a special Vestry meeting. With a trembling voice, I told them, “It’s time.” I had just turned 60. I never thought I’d say those words so soon. But God had made it clear: my calling was shifting. A new trajectory was beginning.

The Unexpected Joy of Letting Go

I wrote to the congregation the next day. The following Sunday, the sanctuary was packed. I stood to speak—not with a polished vision, just the truth. I told them I had thrown my hat over the wall and was stepping away.

There were some immigration hurdles to clear. Paul was a Canadian citizen and in those months of delay, I was asked to stay and preach.

That season became one of the most unexpected gifts of my life.

I preached with a freedom I hadn’t felt in years, not as the leader carrying the full weight of the church, but as a man set free. I wrote about it in Anglican Compass.

I am preaching with one aim in mind: the communication of the Gospel. As a fully-vested Rector, I always did try to have that in mind…always. But other things crowd into the mind of a busy Rector and thus the pulpit:

—Where am I leading the church?

—Why is that usher checking his Facebook feed right now?

—Why is attendance a bit off today?

—How long is that announcement about the picnic going to take?

—What time is kick-off? Noon or 12:15?

The list, sadly, is endless. But in these days, when I am counting down the days, the list is reduced to only one question: Is there someone here who doesn’t quite get the Gospel…yet?

I quoted W. Griffith Thomas:

“Think yourself empty, read yourself full, write yourself clear, pray yourself keen—then enter the pulpit and let yourself go!”

And I did. Every Sunday.

Richard Baxter once said, “I preached as never sure to preach again.” And that’s what I did. I preached as if each sermon might be my last—because, in a way, it was.

The installation was still ahead. Paul had applied and, remarkably, had been selected—uncoached, unprompted, unconnected to me. When the Vestry called to tell me, I laughed. I told them what I’d seen over eggs and coffee in Vancouver, how God had shown me a year earlier.

It was never my job to name my successor.

Only to make room for him.

---

A Runway for the Future

In writing The Christ Church Stories, I’ve seen things I never saw before. Patterns I had missed. Providences I had overlooked. I now see that the financial strength of Christ Church—and the donors who gave to what we simply called “Anglican Issues”—were not just generosity. They were God building a runway. Getting things ready for something else to take off.

And He did.

I stepped aside. Paul stepped in. The church kept going.

And I let go.

The Final Episode

In the final episode of The Christ Church Stories, I’ll reflect on what happened next—what happened to Christ Church, to me, and to the calling that came after the calling.

The story isn’t over.

But the next chapter begins.

Grace and peace,

David Roseberry ☩
The Anglican

---

The Anglican is the Substack newsletter for LeaderWorks, where I share insights, encouragement, and practical tools for clergy and lay Christians. I’m also an author of over a dozen books available on Amazon.

If you are a Paid Subscriber, thank you! Thank you for supporting The Anglican and the ministry of LeaderWorks. If you are not a subscriber, please consider becoming one today.