They say the life of a firefighter can be described as hours upon hours of boredom, punctuated by moments of sheer terror. My dad’s firehouse stories tended to verify that description. After serving nearly 25 years in the pastorate, I can see a parallel with the pastor’s lot. Can we encapsulate the life of the pastor as “days and days of tedious, thankless sheep-tending, punctuated by moments of ineffable glory”? Moses might go for that one.
My ministry has spanned enough years that I have a few pretty good stories to tell. Give me thirty more years and they will be spellbinding. The trouble is, it takes an awful lot of trudging along in faithfulness, doing what pastors are supposed to do, before these good stories begin to accumulate. They don’t come every Sunday, or every week, or even every month. True, they may occasionally arrive in bunches; but they’re usually spread out. And the really good ones—the true “God moments”—just don’t come as often as we would like. But when they do occur, they make up for all the tedium of in-between times.
There are those heaven-sent moments when we know we are involved in the greatest vocation, the highest calling, on earth. Those moments elevate us to heights of glory; and yet they humble us beyond words when we know we are God’s instrument, standing as chosen ambassadors of Heaven.
It is being faithful in the way of duty that leads to those rapturous turns-in-the-road, where some unexpected vista of the Divine opens before us, and a sudden glory envelops us, as the cloud did Peter, James, and John on the Mount of Transfiguration.
Such an experience was mine just a summer ago.
A neighbor of one of my senior saints called late one steamy June afternoon. “I just wondered if you had talked with Art today,” she inquired. “I haven’t been able to get him on the phone and I’m worried.” I promised to go see him.
Poor Art.
The doctors had told him three months ago that he had only six months to live. He was well into his 70’s, lived alone in a very small trailer, and the only family he had close contact with was a brother and a niece. Our church family had been his closest relations since he had come to Christ just four years earlier. Fifty years of alcoholism doesn’t leave one with many close friends or relatives. Art knew the full tale of brokenness, regrets, and shame that sin leaves in its wake. But he also knew the power of the Christ who came into the world to rescue sinners!
Art had been transformed by that power and had lived as a consistent, faithful Christian since his conversion. Now facing a battle with lung cancer that doctors said could not be won, he did so with a childlike peace and equanimity. I tried to see him every few days as his condition deteriorated, and I found him always pleasant and contented to make the best of his situation.
This time my knock at the door brought a sound of shuffling inside. When the door finally opened, Art stood there, face blank, eyes glassy, mumbling incoherently. And as we say in the South, he was “naked as a jaybird.” I went in to find his oxygen tube kinked on the floor and soiled pajamas lying beside the couch. He had been sitting in his own excrement, unable to function, too sick and too weak to do anything for himself. The small window air conditioner was not even turned on, and it felt 100 degrees inside.
I was amazed that he was able to answer my knock and wondered how long it had been since he had eaten, drunk, or taken his medicine. Was he like this because of the tumor, the lack of oxygen, or not taking his medication properly—or all of the above? As he stood there in that horrible condition, unable to tell me anything or even to think of what to do for himself, my heart broke for this humble child of God. He was so needy and alone. Something had to be done.
After calling his brother and niece to come, I went to work. I started the air conditioner, got him a cool drink, and a clean place to sit. Then I found a bucket and rag and began to bathe him, washing away the filth. I rummaged in his bureau, found clean underwear and pajamas, and dressed him. Then I found his favorite food in the fridge, baloney, and made him a sandwich. His brother would know about his medication and see to it when he arrived, so I sat down with Art to wait for the others.
As we sat together in the cooling room, and he continued to drink and eat a little, the light began to return to his eyes. His speech became less slurred and he began responding to questions. He could not remember the last several hours, but he knew his pastor and seemed glad that I was there.
We talked about how the Lord had sent me to find him and get help in this time of need. We talked about the good things of God and how He never fails us when we need Him. We began to recount His grace and mercy to each of us, forgiving our sins, transforming our lives, and giving us His Spirit as a foretaste of Heaven.
It’s hard to describe, but it seemed that the Holy Spirit of God settled down on us in that forlorn little den. We wept and rejoiced and praised God together as He made His joy real to us there. That little run-down trailer home became as hallowed as a cathedral. It was as though Heaven had invaded earth and transformed a dark, sad scene of human tragedy into one of light and hope and joy. The Comforter had truly come.
As we basked in the sacred Presence, I said, “Art, I may be wrong, but it looks like you are going to beat me to heaven. I could drop dead tonight and beat you there, but it looks like you are going to arrive ahead of me.” He nodded in agreement and smiled.
I went on, “Art, my Daddy is there. He’s been there for many years now. He was a wonderful Christian man and helped and encouraged me so much in the ministry. When you get there, I want you to meet him. And when you meet him, Art, I want you to tell him that I am your pastor.”
He promised me he would, and we both wept for joy at the sure hope we shared. Heaven seemed nearer than this preacher had ever known. It was better than church. It was better than camp meeting. It seemed like Jesus had joined us in the hot, smelly room and brought the atmosphere of Heaven with Him!
They put Art in the nursing home that night. It was just a few weeks later that he slipped into a coma and then away to the City not made with hands. We had a glorious service of celebration at his homegoing and laid his body to rest beside his mother’s grave. He will never be forgotten by those who saw his life transformed by the power of Christ.
I’m so glad that God sent him our way. I’m so glad that I got to be his pastor—that God called me into the ministry and gave me a place to serve. It really is glory just to walk with Him, and be an under-shepherd to His sheep. And if truth be told, it doesn’t take many experiences like that to make up for all the times in between!
Tell my Dad I’ll be along soon enough, Art. I’m enjoying the journey right now.