The Facility Our Church Never Built

Leadership is not only about what you build; It is also about what you wish you had built.

One of the reasons I started this Substack is to say what I did not say while I was pastoring.

My accomplishments are well known. They are repeated every time I am introduced. This space allows me to speak about something else—my frustrations and my regrets.

This is one of one of my regrets.

After walking through the illness and passing of my mother, I have come to a conclusion I cannot avoid: I should have been far more aggressive in pursuing the development or purchase of a church-owned nursing home.

Over the years, I have watched my mother, my mother-in-law, and hundreds of church members spend time in nursing homes and rehabilitation facilities. I have yet to encounter a facility that consistently treats people the way they deserve to be treated.

Our experience with my mother was mostly positive. But I am clear about why. The facility was led by someone connected to our extended church community, and a member of our family was present in her room most days, advocating for her care.

That is not the norm.

Residents without consistent family presence are at a disadvantage. They are more likely to be overlooked, underserved, and in some cases, mistreated.

This is not speculation.

According to the World Health Organization, 1 in 6 people aged 60 and older experience some form of abuse each year, and a global review published in The Lancet Global Health found that roughly two-thirds of institutional staff report committing some form of abuse or neglect.

These numbers are not just statistics. They represent people we know. They represent people we love. And they expose a reality we have been too willing to accept.

Looking back, I realize that we had both the vision and the capacity to do something different.

We built affordable housing for first-time homeowners and renters. We supported business development. We established a primary care health facility. We invested in our community in meaningful ways.

And just a few miles from our church, there was a nursing home that went out of business.

I remember thinking about it. I also remember not pursuing it. That decision stays with me.

Because I now see what could have been created—not just for my mother and church members, but for countless others.

A church-owned nursing home, hospice, or rehabilitation facility would have distinct advantages.

First, it would not be driven by profit. The success of the facility would not be measured by financial return, but by the quality of care.

Second, churches like ours are filled with healthcare professionals—nurses, therapists, administrators—whose work, when aligned with ministry, would carry a level of commitment and accountability that is difficult to replicate in traditional settings.

Third, the church has something most facilities do not: a built-in community of volunteers. People who would see their presence not as obligation, but as ministry. People who would sit, visit, listen, and ensure that no one is left alone.

That combination—mission, professional capacity, and community—could change the standard of care.

I regret that I did not do more to bring that vision to life. This is not a regret rooted in failure, but in missed opportunity.

And perhaps that is why I am writing this now. Because what I did not do, someone else still can.

The need has not changed. If anything, it has increased.

We are living longer. Families are more dispersed. And the number of people aging without consistent support is growing.

The question is not whether the need exists. The question is whether we are willing to respond to it with the same urgency we bring to other areas of ministry and development.

I have learned that leadership is not only about what you build. It is also about what you wish you had built.

And this is one I wish I had done.