On Sunday, before the morning service, I walked up to the Pastor and opened the conversation this way. (I’ve never been good at foreplay during social intercourse – or any other kind for that matter. I just hit the ground running.)
He said that he remembered me, and that he would get back to me. He did – just before the service began.
“I’ve talked to the security team, and you have our permission to carry your handgun here. Do I need to give you something in writing?”
I figured that I had been under surveillance after my opening remarks to him. He pointed to the four exit doors and the men near them. Each one was a security team member.
“They are protecting the church.” he said.
I pointed to the chair that Carmel was sitting in and said, “She’s my responsibility. Thank you for the opportunity to protect her, myself.”
Today, he was as good as his word, and emailed me written permission to carry my handgun during worship and other church functions.
I’m not a “gun nut”. A handgun doesn’t define me. But I don’t want to be without one if possible.
After the pastor had given me verbal permission to worship armed, he went on to describe the security arrangements the church makes with the children’s ministry. He said that he was personally sad that it was necessary, but admitted that it WAS necessary. He told me a story about his first pastorate, a church which didn’t even lock the church building doors during the week – until they had a break-in and a resulting fire during his time there. Then they bought locks.
I responded, “There was a day when a locks, security systems for the nursery, or handguns weren’t necessary. Today is not that day.”
If you don’t have a handgun, get one. Better still, get two. (Assuming that you’re married.) And when you can afford a battle rifle – get one. You’ll probably never need a firearm.
I hope you don’t. I hope I don’t.
But let’s do a test: start filling one hand with any ammunition of your choice – then start filling the other one with hope. Let’s see which one fills up faster.