John’s Story

The moment my mom suggested we put on a short skit, I began tossing the cushions off our aging blue couch onto the family room floor. I was just four years old, and this was my first public engagement—a reenactment of a Bible story about a simple servant who served wine to a king and requested permission to travel to a distant land to rebuild the wall around his home city. I hadn’t heard the name Nehemiah before, didn’t understand the role of a cupbearer, and didn’t even know what wine was. But I knew that if there was a king, there had to be a throne, and those blue cushions were perfect for the job.

That first spark ignited a lifelong fascination with this often-overlooked Bible story. It remained a point of intrigue, study, and application for decades. I was captivated by the idea that God could use a simple, ordinary person to rebuild not just a wall but a nation. Most Bible stories featured powerful kings or formal leaders, but Nehemiah was different. He was the ultimate everyman—no title, no power, no authority. Biblical scholars generously call Nehemiah an Administrator, given his meticulous attention to detail and the historical records embedded in his narrative. Even he might not have fully understood the impact of his work. Yet it wasn’t just a wall he built—he set the stage for God’s ultimate work of grace.

My deeper understanding of Nehemiah’s leadership was likely shaped by the church where I grew up, a small congregation in western Pennsylvania. My family was there 3–4 times a week for services, programs, or events, and we weren’t alone. Dozens of other families were also involved, each with a job to do. It wasn’t the typical 20% of the congregation serving the other 80%. This church functioned through pockets of volunteers led by lay leaders, each directing a specific ministry.

On Tuesday night, my dad might meet with Sunday School teachers to coordinate classes for all age groups. At the same time, my mom chaired the missions committee in the pastor’s office, where a dozen people reported on missionaries deployed around the world. Elsewhere, Morris led the elder board meeting, Chris and her team set up the sound system, Sam planned a men’s breakfast in the kitchen, and Cheryl reviewed carpet samples with her team for an interior design refresh. Meanwhile, I attended "Christian Service Brigade" or Awana, programs run by volunteers who ensured kids received engaging Bible teaching.

The pastors were absent from these meetings—not because they weren’t working hard, but because they could go home to their families after a long day, trusting that the volunteer leaders had things under control.

Years later, I realized how unique this church was. Only after experiencing churches with burned-out pastors, working in corporate settings with large teams, and starting my own business did the significance of this model become clear. It mirrored the story of Nehemiah and demonstrated how lay leadership could build something remarkable.

I’ve relied heavily on the book of Nehemiah to guide my leadership in corporate America, as an entrepreneur, as a scholar, educator, and within my own church. When the pastors of my church asked me to lead a weekend strategy workshop to help mobilize the congregation, I knew it was time to formalize what I had learned. That workshop became the foundation for what I now call The Nehemiah Way—an actionable model for identifying, recruiting, developing, and empowering volunteer leaders who, in turn, mobilize others to advance the mission of the Gospel.

What began as a retreat with our pastoral team has since evolved into a training program for volunteer leaders, equipping them to lend a hand and lead others. This model is now helping our church share the Gospel more effectively within our community and around the world.

Amy's Story

I sent that stuffed camel flying. I knew it was the wrong thing to do, but I was desperate. How could anyone sleep in a tent with that racket? It seemed impossible that snoring of that decibel level could come from one small woman. The camel woke Mary up, and I frantically prayed to fall asleep in the ten-second window of silence.

Our youth leaders, Mary and Denny, had driven the six of us from Buffalo to central Mexico for a mission project. We were building a camp where local children could enjoy activities and hear the gospel. I’d been lucky. As the only teenager with a driver’s license, I was assigned to drive the water truck around the worksite to keep the others hydrated and alive in the Mexican sun. I hauled water from an open well into barrels in the back of my pickup. This was a disturbing process because I could see large snakes swimming deep down in the well. I’m terrified of snakes. But the snakes couldn’t reach me, and since I sterilized the water with measured amounts of chlorine, I didn’t tell anybody about the snakes.

My friend Joanna had no license, so she had to swing a pickaxe. She busted stones into smaller pieces that my best friend Helen hauled in a wheelbarrow along a dusty trail to the cement crew. I felt bad about that as I bounced my way along the baked desert tracks . . . well, maybe not too bad. My water-carrying role did make me popular; I signaled a break and a drink. That was thirty years ago, and I’ve never spilled about the snakes.

Earlier that summer, Denny and Mary had lugged us to Colorado for a Josh McDowell teen conference. Later that summer, they planned to take us to a Christian music festival in central Pennsylvania before school started. It never dawned on me that they were giving up their entire summer for a group of annoying teenagers with battery-powered Walkmans on their heads. They weren’t daunted. They loved Jesus, and since they loved us, they made sacrifices to help us love him, too.

Together, we attended a little white church burrowed into the northern side of the Allegheny Plateau of upstate New York. It’s an old-fashioned church with a white steeple, a solid wooden pulpit, and about 200 members. Most church people were farmers, but there were a couple of teachers, a policeman, and a doctor. These good people never missed a Sunday; they were cheerful, supportive, and loved our church. As I mentally scroll through their sensible, kind faces, I’ll bet they were willing to lend a hand. Nevertheless, most did not. As a happy kid growing up in that church, it never struck me as odd that so few people did all the work. Pastor Griddens, Mary, and Denny were leaders and doers; I mean, they were everywhere.

Denny taught adult Sunday school every week. He picked up the Tim Horton doughnuts, too. The Bible meant so much to Denny, and he loved to open the Scriptures and teach them to others. Then midweek, it was not uncommon to see him around the building with a tool belt. He was a carpenter and a mechanical genius; he could fix anything. And he did—the handrail to the basement, a drooping gutter, everything. On Wednesday nights, Denny led the men’s prayer meeting.

Mary could arrange flowers like no one else. She decorated for all the weddings, the baby showers, and the funerals. For Christmas, she filled the sanctuary with poinsettias. At Easter, it was white lilies. Mary was at home in the fellowship hall kitchen, so she did all the pancake breakfasts and the potluck suppers—you know, the kind with the green Jell-O salad, chicken-broccoli casserole, and coleslaw. She also helped in the children’s church and the women’s Bible study. The other women loved Mary; they felt discipled and cared for.

My memories of Mary and Denny are cozy and fond. They were stellar leaders and ministry workers, but I can’t help but wonder: Where was everybody else? This story is typical for many American churches. I am an adult now and have been married to a pastor-church planter for thirty years. As we have tackled this issue in our home church, we’ve realized that most churches don’t have a motivation problem; they have a mobilization problem. Addressing this mobilization problem is the point of this book. We call it The Nehemiah Way.