Their Love

When I was a kid my older brother made fun of my parents for showing affection for one another in front of us. We would join in saying something like, "Kissie face, huggie bear." I don't know where that came from, but it was fun to say and those of you who know Ken also know that he likes to tease.

Naturally, we preferred affection to strong words. I'm grateful for my parents’ love for one another and their determination to stay together now more than 50 years. Wow, Mom! But, even more than that I'm grateful for another love they each showed me through the years. I speak of their love for music and their love for the Lord.

Many years ago my father read the verse, "Ye shall seek me and find me when ye shall search for me with all your heart." That verse became very dear to my dad. After my parents were married, my mother wrote a song that went with this special verse. It has a very interesting name. "Quest."

Just think, in the 1940's my family on either side knew very little about the gospel. My mom was one of the first ones to come to Christ in her family, then just a few years later in another part of the world my Dad was sort of the first in his family. When God saved my mom and dad he put something strange and special inside of them. It is a deep and profound dedication to living for Christ and raising their family to serve the Lord.

My mom plays the piano quite well and mostly by ear. She would not consider herself a great pianist, but her playing and singing is now more than ever the dearest to my ear. After mom made sure I learned to read music, I began to play by ear myself. One day I played a song that I knew the melody to, but I didn't know where I learned it and I couldn't think of the words. My mom walked by and said, "I didn't know you knew that song. I don't think I've played it since I was expecting you." It was a song she wrote and we wondered if the only time I could have heard the song was from the womb. --Hmm.

Church planting combined my parent’s great loves, the gospel ministry and music. They didn't have a piano, so while mom was expecting me, she played an accordion every Sunday for church. You ever hear how loud an accordion is? --Hmm.

These seemingly unrelated lines have been running through my head today. It causes me to think of the influence the music we listen to can have on our children. It reminds me that our children will catch on to what inspires us the most. As I recall the last lines of my mom's song, "Quest," are "When ye shall seek me with all your heart." My dear parents, with all their talents and shortcomings, truly have sought the Lord with all their heart. The cool thing is, I am so desperately determined to do the same.

I can still hear mom's piano playing ringing through the house. I may have added a few notes as I am known to do, but if you could hear mom play, you would hear very distinctly how her style influences mine. I probably first heard it when I was—what's the word—a fetus.

Dad and Mom, Thanks for loving each other. Thanks for seeking the Lord. Thanks for your lovely, Christ-honoring music.

"Quest" By Jane A. Pierpont
Windows Media File

Getting Kicked Out of Church

You know you’ve been bad, when you get kicked out of church. But, wait. I can explain.

We packed up all our gear in the car that Sunday morning and headed off to a guest speaking engagement. I was still a little too inexperienced to play the piano and accompany my mother’s singing, so we toted along a stereo and speakers with a cassette player. The small country church we were visiting that day had the preaching service first and then everyone divided up for Sunday School.

It was one of those older buildings with stained glass windows and a high ceiling. It wasn’t long and narrow like some. The sanctuary was actually fairly wide, like a courtroom. Off to the left, the jury box was the choir loft.

The organ was to the right. It seems that the piano was on the platform kind of behind the pulpit and up against the wall, which would make the pianist sit with their back to the congregation.

The pews had these big thick corner posts that were obviously made in a day when people gave little thought to forest conservation. My first piano teacher lived nearby and we were not sure about her soul, so we invited her to visit on the Sunday my dad was the guest speaker. She came.

My mom sang a beautiful, stirring song and dad started in. I was so proud of him. He was doing such a good job. Dad is “Old-School”. He is a straight shooter and a soul-winner. That day his message was a very practical one and actually quite non-confrontational. Dad has a real gift for teaching and he was showing the people how to, “lead a soul to Christ.” Toward the end of his message, to show everyone how simple it really was to share the gospel, Dad asked my mother to come back to the platform and roll-play what it might sound like for a Christian to show someone else how to be saved. My mom played the part of a soon to be, new convert and Dad was going to show her the verses in the Bible he called the Roman’s Road.

Suddenly a man was standing there at the end of the pew. He was shouting at the top of his lungs. I was small, but to me he seemed like a pretty tough guy. There he was, yelling at my dad and using his open hand to pound on the corner of the pew in front of him. I know, about now you’re waiting for the punch line, but don’t hold your breath. What transpired next, I’ll never really understand and I almost don’t expect you to believe, but this is what I heard.

“Enough! That’s Enough! You’ve gone seven minutes over and that’s enough. I am a deacon in this church and I speak for this church and I’m ordering you out of here.” He turned and pointed to the back door. He yelled as he pointed. “OUT, OUT, OUT!”

That day I learned what a man was. My dad had to have just experienced the most startling and humiliating experience of his ministry and he didn’t even blink. He didn’t say a word. He didn’t act hurt. He didn’t act angry. A total non-reaction. My brother and I looked at each other in absolute disbelief. Then dad bent down and started unplugging our not-so-portable sound system which we carried in my mom’s old accordion box with a little extra padding.

The congregation sat there even more stunned than we were. They didn’t move. No one spoke. I followed my parents down the isle and out the front door. We hobbled down the steps to our car as the congregation watched. We just sat there for a moment. Then my older brother began to say, with tears in his eyes, “I feel so sorry for those people.” The unmaking of a man that day saw the making of two men in my eyes. My father and my brother.

Dad backed up the car and pulled out onto the road. We began to make our way to see my brother, Ken, at his church where we had already planned to have dinner together at the parsonage. As we drove down the road one more horrific thought came to our minds as we all realized about the same time that my dear, first piano teacher, that we had invited especially for that day, was still sitting back there at that old church. Even as a boy I thought to myself, “What must she think of Christianity now?”

You know, the strange thing is? That experience never discouraged me from entering the ministry. It actually helped me realize that we really are in a battle. We aren’t playing church. There are sides to choose and I had already made my choice.

If my memory serves we enjoyed a wonderful time of singing and laughter at my brother’s church in the evening service, and the fellowship of other believers there. I’ve never had an experience quite like that since, and I sure hope to avoid ever again being kicked out of church.

My Hometown

It’s cold up here in Michigan but I bet right now it’s warmer in Mount Vernon, my adopted hometown. When you’re the son of a Baptist church-planter you get weary of answering the question, “Where are you from?” I’d take a big breath, “Well I was born in Bellefountaine…” I’d go on to explain that I never lived there. I was just born there. Then I’d them tell about the first church I remember my dad Pastoring. –The one where we had a big orange church bus that dad drove to pick up children for Sunday School. Nothing on that bus was power-assisted, so as my dad maneuvered that sixty-six-passenger bus through the suburbs of Dayton it looked like he was trying to twist the head off a steer.

I remember well because one year for a publicity stunt I road the bus in a silly costume and “impersonated” the Easter Bunny. That was the last time I wore feet pajamas. I felt weird, but I’m a pioneer and you’d be surprised what I’d do to make sure there was somebody for my dad to preach to besides our family. This didn’t come from a sense of duty as if I couldn’t get out of it. Nor did I have to feel bad for my dad when he preached to a small group. He was a pioneer, too. He could preach to 6 or 60 as well as 600. No, it wasn’t motivated by pity. I was the Easter Bunny and I did it without complaint. Why? Because I knew that the ministry was the life-blood of my father and I wanted to help.

Then there was Coaltown—there wasn’t a coalmine within 100 miles but you tell me how towns get their names. Then there was East Zion, and, Windsor, and well… you get the idea.

Now I simply say, “I’m from Mount Vernon. It’s in Knox County Ohio, about an hour Northeast of Columbus.” There! I said it. Just like that and I’m done. —No life story, no explanations of my dad’s style of ministry, nothing about being in two schools for Kindergarten and two schools for 1st Grade. (I know what you’re thinking. I wasn’t held back. That’s two schools a piece for each of two years. And I don’t want you feeling sorry for me. I’m a very well adjusted person. I’m just not very good at sitting still.) So, I adopted a hometown.

Mount Vernon has a lot going for it for a small town. It’s called the Colonial City. It has a Nazarene University where everybody’s entirely sanctified except the girls that work in the business office where you pay your bill. “The Naz”, as I affectionately call it, has a beautiful chapel building with a steeple you can see from miles away. I finished my Bachelors there back in the day it was still a college and proud of it. Mount Vernon is a 2-McDonalds-town. Well, 2 ½ if you count a gas-station-McDonalds. You can generally park on the street downtown whenever you’re willing to circle the block once or twice. There’s a Bob Evans even though the interstate doesn’t come anywhere near the town. There’s a one-horse Wal-Mart, the best Radio Shack in the country, and a barber that will butcher your hair but the information is worth the price of the cut. I hope there are a lot of towns like Mount Vernon, but to me I don’t think there ever could be. That’s why I adopted it.

The Bug

By the time I was seven I had a full blown case of something I don’t know the name of. Somewhere between Utica and Vandalia I must have come in contact with the bug. You know when you have it when you find yourself writing sermons while your listening to someone else preach, you enjoy arranging chairs in straight lines, you get a warm sense of satisfaction when you put a good shine in your shoes, you’re ears perk up whenever you hear of a church that doesn’t have a pastor, and you respond to every invitation. I’ll never forget the first time I actually got to do the baptizing myself—outside, beautiful day, shallow pond, singing, food, the whole bit. There is something absolutely wonderful about administering the ordinances of church with your own two hands. You just have to experience it to know that sense of satisfaction you get from passing out the elements as Christ did himself. Of course, that’s not something you toy with. It’s the kind of thing that helps you to be your best. Sin confessed, accounts settled. I love it. It makes my heart pound. I suppose that’s how I know I got the bug.

If you have it you may notice an unsettled feeling at times. You feel driven and you couldn’t imagine what it would feel like not to be. You may feel inadequate but you still feel like taking on the world on some great crusade. Not everyone has this rather selective bug, but since I do I can only tell you what it’s like to have it. Don’t worry though, it won’t kill you. I mean, you’re gonna die anyway…of something…right?

Anyway, if you have a fully developed case of this yours is probably one of the only names in the bulletin with your phone number published beside it. No matter how hard you work the rest of the week you may often find your workweek peeking on Saturday night. You work like the devil on Sunday and take Mondays off when you can. You have a hymnbook with several dates written in the margin beside your favorites and you can tie your tie without even knowing your doing it. You have a parking spot at the local hospital and you’re on a first name basis with several morticians. But, even with all the furry and surprises it keeps calling you back. Like a breeze on a hot summer day right about the time you can’t take the heat any more—as if someone knew just what you needed. There it comes; clean, cool air. That refreshing breeze may actually be a tear in someone’s eye when you’ve made your point and they finally caught it. Or, watching the unbelieving husband walks the isle after he finally left the bar for the last time. It could be that kind lady that won’t let you pay her for her home-made bread, or the older gentlemen that stands up when you walk into the room. It’s a shifty vigil to watch for a man’s soul. But if you have the bug you go to sleep at night with your lips moving whispering the names of people you probably wouldn’t even know otherwise. Don’t feel like the Lone Ranger, though. Our kind doesn’t run in packs but we’re all over the place.

If you don’t have this bug you might like to know how you can spot someone who does. We watch people’s eyes. Listen between the lines. Sometimes we’re thought of as a salesman, but that’s not it. It’s just that we never know when the next person we meet is going to be a life long friend. We may not always make the best first impression but we grow on you. We sometimes pull over for hitchhikers, or give up a few bucks against our better judgment. We take you to the gas station and offer to take you back to your car. We study name badges and actually try to remember. We go to convenience stores even though we don’t play the lottery because our heart is burdened for the person who works behind the counter. Many of us kind of have a way with used cars or resale shops, but we don’t all golf and eat fried chicken.

There are some people who don’t manifest a full set of these symptoms. However, there is a possible explanation for this. If full symptoms never develop you may just be a carrier.