Time to Stop Thinking…

Thelma was one of those women who never missed church.  Every time the doors were open – in those days, Sunday morning, Sunday night, and Wednesday night – she was there.  Thelma was about eighty, I suppose, retired from lifetime standing on her feet in a school lunchroom where she scooped out Turkey Tetrazzini and other assorted lunchroom gourmet entrees.  Thelma was quiet, never saying much, except for her worry about her husband Frank.

Frank never attended church.  Never, not even on Christmas and Easter.  He was a couple of years older than Thelma, and had retired twice:  first from General Electric where he assembled refrigerators for forty years; the second time from Churchill Downs, where he was the night watchman.  Frank fought in the Pacific Theater in World War II; thieves didn’t scare him much.

While Thelma attended church faithfully for fifty years, Frank stayed home, reading the Sunday paper, puttering around in his yard, waiting until Thelma got home so they could have a simple lunch of soup and crackers.

Though Thelma was shy, she summoned the courage to insist every new pastor come and witness to Frank.  If you are not familiar with the idea of witnessing, you share with another person what Jesus did for you and invite them to follow Jesus for themselves.  Before me, ten pastors made the trek down Camden Avenue on mission to convert Frank. He would listen politely, thank the pastor for sharing, and then say, “I’ll think about it.”  Frank thought about following Jesus through Eisenhower, Kennedy, Johnson, Nixon, Ford, Carter, and Reagan. 

You may not be familiar with the idea of “Revival.”  Revivals were a time for a guest preacher to come and preach powerful messages (usually ones he had tried out at home first) to motivate the lost to come and follow Jesus.  Thelma invited every revival speaker to make the visit to her home in hopes that he would succeed where her own pastor had failed.

Frank’s health began to fail and the little house, likes it occupants, showed a slow decline.  By the time I arrived to pastor the church down the street, Frank, Thelma, and the house all had seen better days.

Thelma was not there my first Sunday, but she was there my second Sunday.  She lingered after the service, and made her now familiar request to the eleventh pastor to hike down the street and attempt to convince her husband to follow Jesus.  Dutifully, I went that week, and found Frank to be a fascinating man.  He told stories of staying up all night, waiting for the enemy to charge his foxhole with a ‘Banzai’ cry, of catching a thief sneaking around the barns of the eventual winner of the Kentucky Derby, of growing up in the mountains of Kentucky to an impoverished farmer turned coal-miner.  We didn’t get to following Jesus that day.  Given Frank’s health, I didn’t know how many more chances I would get, so I proposed to return soon. 

I made the trip to Frank and Thelma’s a half-a-dozen times, each time looking for me chance to share with him the great story of God’s love.  I suppose after listening to all the preachers and guest evangelists, Frank knew how to steer the conversation away from spiritual matters.

Frank took a turn for the worse and Thelma stopped coming to church.  Frank had to have someone with him all the time now.  Thelma’s world collapsed to size of their tiny lot and her telephone.  I visited Frank again, finding him weakened, and this time shared Jesus as plainly as I knew how.  Well-worn words came out of Frank’s mouth, “I’ll think about it.”  I told him, “Frank, I respect that, but I think you are running out of time.”  He grinned at me, and said, “Soon, preacher, I’ll decide soon.

One day my phone rang.  It was Thelma.  The visiting nurse had been by and said Frank would probably pass away in the next three days.  Through her tears, she begged me to come one last time.

When I got there, Frank was in bed, Thelma by his side.  I asked her if I could speak to him alone.  I said, “Frank, the nurse said you will not be here much longer.  Frank, you’re out of time.  Do you want to follow Jesus?” 

This time was not like all other times.  Frank looked at me with old faded blue eyes, and said, “Yes Pastor, I want to follow Jesus.”  I invited Frank to pray a prayer telling that to God.  In soft tones, he rasped out a prayer confessing his sins and committing his life to Jesus.  After he said “Amen” he looked at me and said, “I want to be baptized.”

How do you baptize a bed-bound man?  Frank could not leave his bed.  My tribe, the Baptists, believe in total immersion.  I wasn’t sure how we’d pull that off.

I asked God to give me a pass on total immersion (I sure he did; after all, Presbyterians, Methodists, Catholics, Lutherans, and Anglicans all sprinkle).  Thelma came back in the room with a bowl of water.  I traced a cross on Frank’s head while reciting these words: “I baptize you in the name of the Father, the Son, and the Holy Spirit.”  Frank’s eyes never left me.  He smiled, and said, “Thank you preacher.”

Frank died the next day.  According to Thelma, his last words were, “I got baptized, didn’t I honey.” 

Doubters will say Frank just wanted to get into heaven.  Maybe so.  But after thinking about it for so long, Frank finally took his first steps toward Jesus.  They were enough.  I feel confident that Jesus welcomes even those who wait until the very last minute.  I’ll bet on that day Jesus said to Frank, “I’m glad you quit thinking, and you did it.”

Maybe it’s time for you to stop thinking and do something too.

Swept Off My Feet …

Baptists believe in water.  When it comes to baptizing, we don’t mess around with a few sprinkles.  We put people under until they bubble.  We want them to feel just a moment of panic, so they can appreciate resurrection.

I do admit there are times I envy my sprinkling brothers and sisters in the Presbyterian, Methodist, and Anglican circles.  Like the time I baptized a fellow who was six foot seven in a baptistry that was six foot six inches long.  I “clunked” his head into the wall.  Later, I asked him how he felt.  He said he felt like he’d finally gotten some sense knocked into him.  The Lord works in mysterious ways.

Then there was the time I baptized a husband and wife.  They wanted to be baptized together.  I explained I could only do one at a time.  They settled for being in the baptistry at the same time. 

You may not remember this from physics class, but a solid object placed into water displaces the water in equal measure to the size of the object.  Being pretty solid, I displace a fair amount of water.  The candidates also displace water.  Small children and petite adults are not a problem.  In the case of this husband and wife, however, I was baptizing Goliath and his wife.  He was about six feet, four inches and outweighed me by 50 pounds.  She was six feet, one inch, and pregnant with twins.  When I baptized them, it was like sitting in the splash zone at Sea World.  The baptistry overflowed and everyone on the first three rows got soaked.  After the service, one little boy excitedly asked if we could do the same thing next Sunday.

On this particular Sunday, I baptized three people – a brother and a sister, and a young woman.  Seeing people go under the water and bringing them out again is my favorite thing to do in ministry.  It signifies that a person has given their life to Jesus and they are willing to tell everyone what he has done for them.

When I baptize, I wear a pair of waders under my robe.  This is so I can quickly get out of the baptistry and get ready for the next service.  I had gotten all three candidates properly dunked, exited the baptistry, shucked off my robe, and unfastened my wader suspenders.  Now came the tricky part.  When you go into the water wearing waders, the water presses all the air out.  Your legs and torso are vacuum sealed.  This pair of waders was little harder to get off than the old pair, so I learned to ask for help.

We had a new volunteer helping that day, a young man who worked out regularly.  On his bulging bicep, there was a tattoo that read “Killer.”  I figured he was the guy to help me out.  I leaned against the wall and extended my leg.  “How about a hand?” I asked.

This strong young man grabbed my wader boot and tugged.  I was trying to pull my leg up and out while he pulled the waders in the opposite direction.  Nothing happened.  We tried again.  This time, the boot slipped out of his hands.

You could see Killer’s frustration.  Here he was, trying to help his pastor and he was looking like a weakling.  A weakling with big biceps and a tattoo, but still a weakling.

I extended my leg once more.  He grabbed it, and like the cowboys holding onto a rope when bull-riding, he got a firm grip and had a far-away look.  He really put his back into it.  He pulled hard.

Have you ever had that moment when you know disaster is about to happen, but you can’t do a thing about it?  I felt my planted foot, the one I was resting my weight on, start to slide on the slick tile. My fingers instantly dug for something to hold onto, but I was clawing drywall.  I slide down the wall about two inches and then my foot, the one that was supposed to hold my weight, went airborne.  Since my other foot was being pulled on by Samson, there was suddenly nothing but thin air between my bottom and the hard tile floor.

It was a classic cartoon moment.  My feet went one way, and I went another.  I could feel my spine draw up like an accordion.  My helper, he of great strength, was still holding onto my wader boot.  I am sorry to say, the ground shook right after my impact, not from my weight making an impact, but from the deep belly laughs of other volunteers and a certain minister (who may get marked down in his next evaluation based on his low empathy for his fallen pastor). 

After the laughs were stifled, I was asked if I was hurt.  I replied as any man would: “Of course not,” even though I had lost four inches of height.  A chair was produced, and I sat down.  A few more tugs and the waders were completely off, and I limped away from the baptistry.

Maybe when Jesus changes your life, you should be swept off your feet.  Maybe taking the signs of faith is to be dramatic.  Maybe laughter should accompany baptism, because God’s love is a gift of joy.

And maybe, just maybe, God lets preachers fall flat on their butt to keep them humble.  Maybe even to bring them up a little short. 

If anyone finds the four inches I lost, please return them to me.  I now have several shirts and pants that no longer fit.

Baptism and Overwhelming Grace…

When I was eight-years old, our church had a week-long revival. I don’t remember the visiting preacher’s name, but I remember Thursday night of that week. There was something in the message or the song that pulled me forward for my “public profession of faith.” I remember writing on the back of an offering envelope what I wanted to tell our pastor: “I want to accept Jesus as my personal Savior.”

We were on the third verse of “Just as I Am,” and I had this sense of now or never. I made my way past my parents; I think my mother began to cry. I was trying to squeeze past strangers in the pew when the music stopped, and the preacher started talking. He was talking about the need to come forward, receive Christ, and be obedient to Christ in baptism.

I should fill in non-Baptists. Baptists do not baptize infants; we only dunk people old enough to make their own decisions. We’d heard tell of Methodists and Presbyterians who baptized babies, and regarded them (Methodists and Presbyterians, not the babies) with suspicion. When one of our deacons was asked if he had ever heard of infant baptism, he declared, “Heard of it?  I’ve seen it with my own two eyes!”  We were of the tribe that believed baptism meant “put ‘em under till they bubble.”

I was stuck amongst a family I didn’t know, waiting for the preacher to be quiet and the music to start again, so I could get up there and do what he was asking us to do. Finally, mercifully, he stopped, and I started back down the aisle. 

I remember taking the preacher’s hand and reading my declaration of faith off the back of that offering envelope. What happened after that was a blur. People came by, shook my hand, and my baptism was set, along with others, for the next Sunday.

For some reason, we only baptized on Sunday night. Because of revival there were a bunch of people to baptize, including my step-father, Lawrence.  I was excited because so many of my relatives came to see us baptized. I was also excited because I was eager to let the world know I believed in Jesus.

When eight-year old boys get excited, their bodies burst with energy.  Twenty times I’d been told to calm down that Sunday. I was trying to, but the excitement had to go somewhere. My excitement went to my bladder.

Now it’s Sunday night. With others, I’m standing in the baptistry, in a pool of water. Every eight-year old boy knows the magic of being in the water: you can do things and no one knows. 

The preacher recited from memory the story of the Ethiopian Eunuch. Pressure was building inside my plumbing. The preacher said, “Let us pray,” and began one of his very long prayers thanking God for creation, Jesus, salvation, those being baptized, the faithful work of the evangelist, the wonderful songs that drew us close to Jesus, for the generous offering, for life itself, for his education, for justice and mercy. It was a long list of thanks. Meanwhile, in my eight-year old body, the dam was about to be over-topped.

Growing up in church, I had always heard about the sweet moment of surrender. The moment came.  Excitement released.  The volume in the baptistry increased slightly.

The preacher finished by thanking God for “The sacred waters of baptism and the willingness of these candidates to enter these baptismal waters.” If only they knew.

I never told this story until after my step-father passed away and went to be Jesus. I’m pretty sure Jesus met him at the gates of heaven, laughing, and said, “Lawrence, you remember the night you were baptized?  Let me tell you the rest of the story.” I once told this story to a Presbyterian and a Lutheran pastor.  After they wiped the tears from their eyes, they laughingly said, “Sounds like everyone who was baptized that night was baptized and sprinkled.”

I’m sure that some people who were baptized that night, March 4, 1968, are still alive. Please accept my profound apologies. But remember baptism is a picture of what Jesus has done for us. The Gospel was present at my baptism:  the impurity of who I was and am, was and is overwhelmed by the grace of Jesus.  Thank God for his grace.

This, by the way, is why I never let eight-year old boys in the baptistry until right before I baptize them.