“You
don’t seem like a preacher, at least not a typical one. You’re ‘the real
deal.’”
The
comment, coming from an inmate in jail, I took as a compliment, although I frequently
ask myself if I’m really real.
His
comment was followed by a question: “How did you ever get to be a preacher in
the first place? (“Do you think I should have been something else?” I am
tempted to ask.)
Choosing
to do what I do wasn't something that came on sudden like---a flash of
lightning followed by an etching in the clouds, “BE A PREACHER.”
More
like a boy carefully crossing a shallow creek on stepping stones, round and
slippery, I came to it cautiously, carefully sizing where to plant my foot
next, yet still moving forward, if ever so slowly, until I hopped and finally skipped
across stones to the bank, at last resting peacefully there at my place on
shore.
I
learned about Jesus while being rocked on my mother’s lap and watched Jesus
walk through my house in the actions of my parents.
But
when I ponder the answer to that question, how did you get to be a preacher?, I
can’t help but think of my great granddad, the Reverend A.F.Whitlock, or as I
called him, Great Granddad.
Great
Granddad’s entry into the ministry, unlike mine, was born from the cauldron of
despair. In the early 1900s, his daughter (my Great Aunt Byrcha) was deathly
ill. In desperation Great Granddad cried out to the Lord, “God, spare her life,
and I’ll serve you with mine.” God answered his prayer, Aunt Byrcha was
miraculously healed, and Great Granddad sold his farm in Osage, Texas, enrolled
at Southwestern Baptist Theological Seminary, and moved his family to Ft.
Worth.
Years
later, while I myself was a student there, I found his picture in the library’s
archives. There he was in the 1917 class photo: square jaw, youthful face,
piercing, determined eyes that I could have sworn followed me as I looked at
him from every angle; I think I could even feel his breath on my back as I
turned and walked away.
When
I knew Great Granddad, he was far from young; indeed to me he was ancient---well
into his 90s. But his eyes were still penetrating, his jaw still set, and
though his steps were unsteady, he at least walked with deliberation.
“Who’s
going to take Granddad a plate of food?” Grandmother Whitlock would ask after
she had fed us ample portions of fried chicken, mashed potatoes, corn on the
cob, and fried okra.
“Can
I go?” I always tried to be the first to volunteer.
His
house was across the street, and there I would find Great Granddad sitting in
his plain, cotton upholstered Easy chair. A single light bulb hanging from the
ceiling would barely lighten the room. During the summer I might find him tuned
in to radio station KMOX, the home of St. Louis Cardinals baseball.
I
often felt like Jacob or Esau when Isaac wondered which son was which, for Granddad’s
eyesight was clouded by cataracts, so taking my hand he would ask, “Now, which
one are you?”
“L.D.’s
youngest boy,” I would say.
Having
passed the identity check, I would start asking questions, simple ones at first
like, “Can I help you with your knife and fork?” Or, “How are the Cardinals
doing?” Then as he nibbled, I would
proceed, “Tell me what it was like back then, when you first started preaching?
What churches did you pastor? What was it like to preach revivals? How did you
make it through tough times?”
One
time Granddad was with me as I once again peppered Great Granddad with
questions. Great Granddad was 102 at the time, and his son, my granddad, was
then 82. Having recounted the churches he had pastored, Great Granddad paused,
and Granddad interrupted, noting that Great Granddad had forgotten one church.
Without missing a beat, Great Granddad said, “Well, I never did like that
church anyway.”
Another
church had a few people who apparently antagonized Great Granddad. “But I had
helped work in their fields when they were short handed, when sickness kept some
from bringing in their crops. They remembered that and weren't about to let the
trouble makers have their way.”
“Why
do you still wear a suit every day, Great Granddad?”
“I
never know when I may be called on to minister,” my century old Great Granddad
would tell me.
Not
your typical 102 year old preacher, I suppose. But then, how many century old
pastors do you know?
Chances
are, if you find one at that age who is still dressed and ready if someone
calls, you’ve found the real deal.
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