1 Out of 588
Coolwater Christian Church (Disciples of Christ), the congregation Jennie and I founded in 2002, celebrated its final worship service last Sunday. Will, who was 16 when we moved from Indiana to Arizona, represented our family. Our 11-year-old grandson, Hayden, dedicated as a baby at Coolwater, was there with his dad.
I spent last Friday afternoon reflecting on the trajectory of Coolwater’s birth and growth, the obstacles we overcame, and the congregation’s steadfast faithfulness and perseverance since our call to Lexington nine years ago.
Most fulfilling was reading through the names of the people who comprised Coolwater from 2002 – 2014: the 132 people who signed our founding charter in 2006, the 87 who joined us the next 8 years, and the 369 various and sundry attendees whose names and contact information I shepherded across our dozen years there. That adds up to 588 people who received and contributed to the ministry of a congregation that began, as Jennie says, “with five Shireys and a dog.”
What provided me the consolation I needed in the days leading up to Coolwater’s final Sunday was remembering some of the stories behind those names.
Here’s just one:
Mansoor was born in southern Iran into a Muslim family. He lived through the Iranian revolution, the overthrow of the Shah, the rise of the Ayatollah, and the religious tumult that ensued. After serving a mandatory stint in the army during which he served in a quasi Peace Corps capacity in an impoverished village as a one-room school teacher, construction foreman, and social worker, he emigrated to Chicago.
His full name is Mansoor Rowhani Tazangi, but when he filled out his immigration papers, his full name didn’t fit on the form, so he dropped Tazangi, a family geographic designation, and made it his middle initial, becoming Mansoor T. Rowhani.
He began a business in storybook American Dream fashion by investing $50 in a paint brush, roller, drop cloth, and a few gallons of paint. From painting, he expanded his services to remodeling and launched a construction business: MTR Construction. When asked what the T stood for, he told them Trustworthy, which he was. His work was competitively priced and high quality. Word got around. His business flourished.
He also experienced bigotry. In those days when the Ayatollah Khomeini and blindfolded and bound hostages defined Iran, Mansoor’s olive skin, dark eyes, accent, and facial features elicited the glares, stares, and barbs of prejudice and ignorance.
Mansoor met and fell in love with Iliana Rodriguez, a Puerto-Rican born Roman Catholic. During their courtship, they visited each other’s homelands navigating language, geography, and custom. Religion was kept at a respectful distance. Each was welcomed by the other’s loved ones. They married, MTR Construction continued to grow, and in time they moved to Phoenix.
In 2005, Iliana passed a roadside sign for Coolwater Christian Church while driving west of her home. She came to worship, was made to feel welcome, and in time joined the church. When I told her I looked forward to meeting her husband, she said, “You won’t meet him, Pastor. He doesn’t want to have anything to do with religion.” She then told me the back story of how Mansoor had come to see religion as a source of hatred, division, and bloodletting. He wanted nothing to do with Muslims, Christians, or Jews.
A few years passed without my laying eyes on Iliana’s husband until the day she called and said, “Pastor, Mansoor would like you and Jennie to come to our home for tea.”
“Tell him we are honored by the invitation,” I responded.
Mansoor welcomed us warmly. The tea was poured out of a silver pot into our cups. Cream, sugar, and spoons were offered on a silver tray. Mansoor told us about his homeland and the strife he had witnessed. He pointed west from his home across the expanse of desert and distant mountains and told us how the topography reminded him of Iran. He turned his television to a cable channel broadcasting from Tehran in his native language of Farsi and interpreted it for us.
Iliana continued to come to worship by herself.
A year later, 2007, Mansoor and Iliana began the process of adopting an Iranian child. Given the strained status of US-Iran relations, doing so was a daunting endeavor. They persisted. Iliana asked her congregation for prayer to navigate the political and religious gauntlet surrounding the adoption of an Iranian child by an expatriate and his Puerto Rican-born, United States citizen wife.
In December of 2007, they were told a child was available, a girl, and to come to Iran to receive their daughter. Long story short: Iliana and their infant daughter were detained in Iran, ensnared by questions about citizenship, the couple’s intentions for the religious upbringing of the child, and the legitimacy of the entire adoption process. The process dragged on into 2008. Mansoor flew to and from the US to keep his construction business afloat during the recession. Iliana remained behind in her in-laws’ home with their infant daughter. On more than one occasion, she was told to release the child to the custody of the state and return to the US. She adamantly refused.
During those months of his wife and daughter’s detainment, Mansoor began phoning me to update me on the stalemate. Then, at the close of worship on Easter Sunday 2008, I looked out the glass doors of the cafeteria of the school where we met and saw Mansoor. He waved and politely beckoned me to come. As I exited the building, he pulled out his cell phone and asked, “Pastor David, I want to call Lily in Iran. Would you pray with her over the phone?” I did.
The ordeal finally ended. Iliana says it was divine intervention. An obstinate immigration official had once again refused their exit visa and retreated to his office. At a loss for anything but prayer, Iliana says she implored God to break through the man’s hard heart, at which time the door to the office opened, he beckoned her inside, handed her an exit visa, and curtly told her, “Leave!” With her daughter in her arms, she did.
Their first Sunday back in the US, Iliana, twelve-month-old Tatiana, and Mansoor came through the doors of the school cafeteria. It was his first time stepping foot inside Coolwater’s worship space.
Mansoor became a regular worship attender. Sitting in the back row on the pulpit side, he was an attentive worshiper. When the time came for the congregation to come forward for communion, he would pivot his knees to the side, allowing others in his row to make their way to the aisle and then to the communion table.
We broke ground for our new building on September 26, 2010. To commemorate the day, 100+ gathered for worship on our property that hot September Sunday. We had a team of parking lot attendants directing cars. Mansoor wore a fluorescent vest alongside Barry Rosenfeld, Kevin Wilson, and Justin Tinault: a non-practicing Muslim, a non-practicing Jew, a recent visitor, and a teenager welcomed people to the future home of Coolwater Christian Church.
That Christmas, the contractors invited the congregation to gather in the unfinished sanctuary to sign our names on the bare concrete block wall behind the altar. Mansoor pulled me over to where he and Iliana had signed their names. He had signed his name and written an ascription of praise in Arabic. He said, “I love this church, Pastor David.” I told him this church loved him, too.
Mansoor approached me during the final stages of construction and told me he wanted to build the pulpit for the sanctuary. I thanked him and with Jim Cox, a retired pastor and woodworker, we sketched a design for a pulpit and handed it to Mansoor. A month later, he presented the church with a beautifully crafted pulpit.
“It’s made out of alderwood,” Mansoor said.
“Alder sounds like altar,” I said, “I like that, Mansoor!”
“Pastor David,” he continued, “I got this wood from a Jewish man. When I told him I was going to be using it to build a church’s pulpit, he insisted there be no charge.”
A Jew donated wood to be crafted by a Muslim for proclaiming the gospel in a Christian Church.
2010 gave way to 2011. That year, Christmas was on a Sunday. We set up the chairs in a circle and instead of coming forward for communion, we passed the elements. When they got to Mansoor, he took a piece of the bread and passed it, then took a cup from the tray and drank it. It was the first time I ever saw Mansoor partake of communion.
“Lily saw me take communion,” he told me. “She asked me, ‘Do you know what that means?’”
“I told her I believed in Jesus. Hasrat Eisa Masīḥ is Farsi for Lord Jesus Messiah. When I first came to Coolwater, I did not want to be a part of any religion. But I love this church. And I have learned from you who Jesus is. I now believe he is the Messiah.”
I asked Mansoor if he wanted to confess his faith and be baptized. He hesitated, saying, “I am anxious about my family. In Iran it is against the law to convert to Christianity from Islam. My family supports me and loves me no matter what. My father died several years ago. My mother has attended Coolwater and though she speaks no English she tells me she feels God’s presence in this place. I am concerned for her safety if I convert.”
I told Mansoor the stakes of his confession are lost on most Americans. Our religious freedom means we take our confession for granted, taking the edge off Jesus’ invitation to “Pick up your cross and come, follow.”
Several months later, Mansoor told me he had a dream. He was in the midst of a lot of people, standing on a platform of some sort, and everyone was looking his way. He was wearing clothing that hung loosely on him, covering his regular clothes. I was with him. He wondered why he was in the center of everyone’s gaze had the odd clothing on.
The next week, he called and asked if we could talk. He’d had another dream. He was walking into a church. It was Coolwater, but in a larger building. There were people of many different skin colors, he said, and as he entered the church and walked down the center aisle, they were happy and were looking at him.
“Pastor David,” he asked, “do you know who was walking me down the aisle? My father. He was walking me down the aisle and he was happy.
“What do you make of that dream, Mansoor?”
“I think my father was telling me he is proud of me and was letting me know Jesus is Masīḥ. I am ready to be baptized, Pastor David.”
The next Sunday, after I preached a sermon on Paul’s affirming “the surpassing worth of knowing Jesus Christ as Lord,” Mansoor came forward with Iliana at his side.
“Mansoor Rowhani Tazangi,” I asked, “do you believe Jesus is the Christ, Son of the Living God? Do you accept him as Lord and Savior?”
“I do.”
Mansoor’s baptism took place the following Saturday in the swimming pool at his home. When I handed him the white baptismal robe to wear over his swimming trunks, his eyes opened wide, he smiled, and said, “This was what I saw in my dream! I told you I was wearing some kind of loose-fitting clothes. It was this robe.”
When Jennie and I were in Phoenix for Christmas a few years ago, I texted Mansoor. We met at the church at a bridge he, Will, and I built over an arroyo that bisects the parking lot from a meditation trail we designed around the perimeter of the property. We met at the bridge and hugged, then crossed it together, Jennie and Iliana with us, and walked the meditation trail together.
On Coolwater’s next-to-last Sunday, in response to the question, “What Does Coolwater Mean to Me?” Mansoor stood behind the pulpit he crafted and told his story.
He concluded saying, “This church will be closed, but it has opened a new chapter for my faith as a Christian. I will never forget Coolwater and my church family. All of you have a special place in my heart.” He then put his hand on his heart, said, “Thank you,” and returned to his seat.
My sentiments exactly.
Someone asked me of Coolwater’s closing, “If you knew twenty years ago what you know now, would you do it all over again?”
Are you kidding me? Mansoor’s is just one story Coolwater made possible. There are 587 more stories where that one came from, each one authored by the One who called five Shireys and a dog to the desert to plant a church in a place that looks a little like Iran and in retrospect, a lot like heaven.
Coolwater Christian Church (Disciples of Christ)
July 15, 2002 – October 15, 2023
I thank my God in all my remembrance of you, always in every prayer of mine for you all making my prayer with joy, thankful for your partnership in the gospel from the first day until now. And I am sure that he who began a good work in you will bring it to completion at the day of Jesus Christ. (Phil. 1:3-6)
