Before continuing the ministerial auto saga, I have to stop and answer a question that was put to me. Why did we drive such heaps? The answer was, we drove what we could afford. During all this time I was in school of one type or another. For some of it, Marsha was in school, too. Also, I was in ministry and the ministry is a much lower paying profession than most people realize. They see the big televangelists on TV and assume we are all like that. Big homes, fancy cars, nice clothes. That is not how it is at all. In those early years it was far more important to me that my wife and son have the things they needed rather than me having a nice ride. Besides, I had my trusty tool box.

         A ‘69 Nova followed the Honda Civic. This was in 1983. As I said, I drove what I could afford. The Nova stands out in one important way. Some of the teeth were broken off the flywheel, so on occasion when I turned it off the flywheel teeth and the starter drive would not sync up. When that happened I would have to get the crowbar and crawl under the thing and pry on the flywheel until the teeth lined up. I hated that car. Next, in ’84, came a ‘72 Torino wagon, which was actually given to me in exchange for working on a fellow student’s VW 412. (This particular student had been paying me in rabbits. He would call me and tell me his VW was ailing and I would go wherever he was and get it running. Within a day or two there would be a couple of dressed out rabbits ready for the pot when I got home. Finally, I went way out in the countryside to fix his VW. The next day I came home to find the Torino.) His name is Ray and Ray reads this blog sometimes. Hey, Ray.

          In 1985 we bought a 1981 Ford Escort, which was one of our great cars. From 1985 through 1987 we drove that car well over 100,000 miles. In 1987 we bought a ’73 Pinto for $50 as a second car. Within a week the Escort threw a rod and we were left with the Pinto. That was fun.

          Shortly thereafter, still in ‘87, we bought a Mercury Bobcat. We were back to two cars. Until the Merc threw a rod less than a month after we bought it. The Pinto held up until the very first day at our new church. I was the new pastor and I wanted to make a good impression. I wore my best suit that first Sunday and my wife wore her sharpest outfit. She had our six year old son looking like a little preacher himself. Everything was great as we neared the church. Then, just as we turned into the church driveway the Pinto’s engine seized up. Something let go and oil spewed all over the exhaust system. Two of our deacons were standing outside the door of our new church to welcome us and we rolled into the drive in a cloud of blue smoke with an engine that was making banging noises. The car stalled and we coasted to the pastor’s parking spot in a cloud of smoke. All three of us bailed out of the car gagging and hacking with eyes watering. I sure made an impression.

          I needed another car quick and the only thing I could find in my budget was a 1979 Mercury Capri. Cost me $150, and I got what I paid for. It had been in an accident and while at the impound lot someone had removed the stereo with a crowbar. The accident had been on the passenger side so the passenger door wouldn't open. Since it was just a two door, that meant only the driver's door opened and we all had to climb through it. Adam, our son, first, climbing over the seats to the back, then Marsha, climbing over the gear shift, then me. It was 1988 and I thought I could have nothing worse than the Capri. Then I bought a ‘78 Chevy Chevette. Never, ever think it cannot get worse. I bought that car from my sister for $80, and with that she was ripping me off. The floor on the driver's side rusted out and I had to hold my feet up while I drove or they would drag the road. At stop signs or red lights I would take the opportunity to put my feet on the roadway to rest. It was a miserable ride in the rain or snow because anything on the road wound up in my lap.

          In 1989 things began to look up. We came into possession of a 1985 Gran Fury. I loved that car. We drove it 182,000 miles and enjoyed almost every mile. As a second car we bought a 1976 Mercury Comet. Very low mileage and also a very good car. It had a big V-8 in a very small engine compartment. It also had a racing cam and it would FLY! We were set for vehicles until 1995 when we had to let the Fury go. We bought a 1993 Geo Metro, at that time the smallest car sold in the USA. It had a weight limit of 680 pounds. 10 inch wheels. The doughnut spare was larger than the regular tires. Every time you got in you felt like you were strapping on a coffin. But, it got 54 miles per gallon. Our son was soon to be 16 and he had plans for the Comet that could FLY! So I sold it and bought another Ford Escort. Two cars great on gas. This got us through till 1998 when both cars died at the same time. Out of desperation we bought a 1991 Subaru. That’s when I found out what desperation really was. In March of 2000 we traded the subaru in on our first new car ever, a Hyundai Accent. Since then our automotive life has been much more normal. I have decided I don't like working on my junk just so I can drive to the hospital in the morning to be with a family. It really is nice to to just go out and start the car and go.

          Before I begin with this edition of my blog, I would like to apologize for not putting out a posting this past Friday. I was busy most of them day with some personal medical issues and the blog had to go on the back burner. Hopefully I will now be back to three times a week. Also, I again would invite you to visit the blog of Mrs. Mary Earle. The address is http://mary-marysmoments.blogspot.com/

          And finally, there is a place at the bottom of the blog for comments but it asks you to submit a profile. If you would like to say something to me my e-mail is oldirishguy51@yahoo.com In case you wondered, I am an old Irish guy and I started using that e-mail waaaayyyy back when I was 51. On to today’s post.

          My favorite professor of all time told us that our two most important tools in our ministry would be our personal libraries and our vehicles. The books to give us information and the vehicles to get us to where we can do ministry. Over the years, my library was always worth way more than whatever vehicle I was driving. I needed the information in the books. The vehicles I could keep running one way or another.

          Many of my ministry memories include various cars. I have consumed countless cups of coffee driving to hospitals or nursing homes or wherever. I have become an artist at the task of driving a manual shift while digging a cheese burger out of a McDonalds’ bag. My cars have been rolling offices, almost as cluttered as the desk in my office. They have been my refuge at times, my place of prayer, the place I have put together sermons in my mind. I have pulled over and slept in my car and, on a few occasions, fallen asleep before I pulled over. For all the tens of thousands of miles I have driven I have gotten very few tickets, although that has been mostly good fortune. Like most pastors, I have never made a lot of money. Because of this I have had a series of cars that already had their best years behind them when I took ownership. Every once in a while, I got a car that actually had a working radio. Most leaked, either coolant or oil, usually both. Sometimes they leaked gas, too. Hoses and belts were normally well rotted by the time I started in on the car. For years, I drove on Maygo tires, as in ‘may go at any time.’ I thought ‘Fix-a-Flat’ was a great invention. I became very good at jerry-rigging exhaust systems, by-passing heater cores, patching leaky hoses and all the rest of the things you must do to keep a heap no one else would think about driving on the road. All have left a memory. Some are special memories. And they all had a name. Every car or van I have ever owned has been named Betsy. For no good reason. But, every time I get into my car and put the key in, I think to myself, “Come on, Betsy. Start!”

          I think that over the next few blogs I would like to list these partners in ministry. I do this so that one day, when the exhaust fumes reach the critical level in my brain and my memory fades, there will be a record.

          Our ministry, and our marriage, started in 1975. I had a 1967 Impala at the beginning of that year, but it died from rust poisoning. It was followed by a ‘69 Maverick. We traded that for a ‘62 Volkswagen van. (Yes, I know. I was a real wheeler-dealer. Thought I was, anyway.) The clutch was nearly burned out when I got it and we finally had to park it till I could get the part. While parked, someone helped themselves to it. It was followed by a ‘67 Buick wagon. All that was in 1975. In 1976 we had a ‘66 VW Beetle that threw a rod, a ‘62 Rambler that did what Ramblers did back then, which means it died, a ‘66 Ford Fairlane, a ‘64 Biscayne and, finally, a ‘73 Vega. Of all those cars, most would think that the Vega was the worst. But it took us 120,000 miles in three years, so it was actually a great deal. The only problem we ever had with it was I broke the wiper arm off trying to get the frozen wiper blade off the frozen windshield. After that I would simply drive down the road with my left arm out the window holding the wiper arm and manually wipe my windshield. Sometimes you have to improvise. The 66 Fairlane also deserves a quick mention. We were living in Tennessee at the time. I bought the car for $100 and it ran pretty well. Except I had to fill it up every 60 miles or so. I couldn’t figure it out. The gauge always said FULL and I would rap on the tank and it was always full, but I was left stranded a number of times. Finally, I got a fellow in our church to look at it. There was nothing wrong with the car, but the gas tank had been sectioned off. I was only able to put 3 gallons of gas in it. The other 15 gallons was moonshine. It had been a car used to transport moonshine and they used the gas tank to fool the police. It still had a load of ‘shine in it.

          In ‘78 we bought a ‘69 Impala. Just in time, too, because the Vega’s engine was finally packing it in. As a second car we purchased a 1968 Ford LTD that was immaculate on the inside and unbelievably battered on the outside. It looked like it had been one of those cars used in a charity sledge hammer beating. We went to a movie one night and were stopped five times by various police agencies. They would search the car and then send us on our way. None of the officers would answer my question of why we were being stopped until the last fellow. He told me a car fitting the LTD’s description had been involved in a robbery/shooting. I stared at him and said, “A car fitting this thing’s description?“ He laughed and said that yes, there was evidently another car just like it somewhere. They finally caught the criminals. They were drug addicts. To drive a car like that you either had to be addicted to drugs or incredibly broke.

          In ‘79 we bought a ‘71 Ford Pinto. That was in the years that they were called rolling bombs because of the location of the gas tank. After that, also in ‘79, we bought another Vega, this one a ‘74. It was one of the worst cars I ever had. It does have one memory, though. We lived in Florida and a hurricane blew in. The storm surge ran sea water way up our river and for days after people were catching sea creatures in the Miami river. I was driving somewhere one night and ran over a sea turtle on the highway. The thing was almost as big as my Vega and nearly flipped the car. The turtle died. Personally, I would have rather the turtle lived and Vega died.

          After the Vega, in 1980, we bought a 1973 Ford van. It looked great, being Florida and all, but it was a delivery van and only had one seat in it and no carpet. I wanted to take our church Youth group somewhere in it, so I told them all to bring lawn chairs. Some people think I am wise and thoughtful now, but that is only because I made my really stupid mistakes decades ago. I got all those kids in the van and started out. The first stop sign I came to they all started sliding in their lawn chairs and wound up crunched up against the dashboard.

          After the van came a series of company cars, which I had access to because I was a bi-vocational minister and my secular job was running an auto parts store. That ended with the purchase of a ‘71 Nova in 1982, just before we returned to school. Great car, that Nova. Until it broke. Literally. Broke in half just behind the front seat. Another story for another time. After that was a 1975 Honda Civic, which was an okay car. The only two problems the Civic had was that it had a bad starter and had to be pushed to start. (manual transmission) I did get a starter to put into it, but my hands were too big to get into the place they needed to get into. We were living out in the boondocks of Florida and I could not find anyone who would put the thing in for me. (“Don’t work on none of them rice burners, preacher boy. Get yerself a ’Merican set of wheels and Ah’ll hep ya out.”) The other thing was that the driver side door was hanging by just one hinge. You had to lift the whole door to shut it. That was really hard when you were by yourself and you had to start it. Since there are no hills in Florida I would have to get out of the car and start pushing it while the transmission was out of gear, left hand holding the door up and on and right hand on the steering wheel. Once I had sufficient speed I would jump into the car, lifting the door into closing position and slamming it shut with my left hand while clutching with my left foot, shifting with my right hand and steering with my right knee. Then, door closed, transmission in second and the car going more or less in a straight line, I would pop the clutch. Sometimes it would start, sometimes it wouldn’t. If it didn’t I would do it all over again.

          I am going to end this for today, I think. Hopefully, I will continue with this narrative in a few days. There was, however, one thing all these cars had in common; I kept a tool box in the trunk. Yes, sweet memories.

          I was in a pastors’ meeting once and one young pastor was complaining bitterly about the people in his church. Backstabbers, hypocrites, gossipers, just plain evil. He wrapped his tirade up by saying, “I wish I could have a church with no people in it!” To which an older pastor said, “With that attitude you’ll have that church in no time!” It got a big laugh, but there was truth, too. You cannot have a ministry without you have people to minister too. Where people are involved you will have some interesting moments. Some will leave memories you would rather not have.

In one church where I served as music/youth/assistant pastor, a drunken lady came to the Sunday evening service. Just as the pastor was about to begin his message she jumped up and announced she had a song to sing. She started toward the pulpit and I stood to head her off, but the pastor signaled me to be seated and he let her come up to sing. All the time she was walking to the front she was rolling the front of her dress up into her belt until, by the time she got to the pulpit, she had a knee length dress on in the back and a mini-dress on in the front. Then she launched into something called "Walk Around My Bedpost, Jesus," which I am not even sure is a real song. There is a song called “Walk Around Me, Jesus” and the chorus contains the words “Walk around my bedside.” This could have been the song, but she was so drunk it was hard to tell. (There is a YouTube video presented by a lady who is not drunk and can sing, if you would like to hear it. Go to https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=bfnEKEmKDmY Enjoy.) No musical accompaniment at all, just her raspy, slurred voice. When she had finished, she stumbled back to her seat. By that time, I had figured out that it was all a lesson of some type cooked up by the pastor, but he never commented on the song or anything. He just got up and preached as though that had been the special music. I asked him later if there had been a point to all of that, but he refused to talk about it other than to say that if someone had something from the Lord to bring you shouldn’t stop it. I guess my faith is weak because I was never able to see the Lord’s hand that time.

Titus 2:14 in the King James Version reads; Who gave Himself for us, that He might redeem us from all iniquity, and purify unto Himself a peculiar people, zealous of good works.  The key word is ‘peculiar.’ It is a word only used the one time in Scripture and means that something belongs to someone and no one else. It is an archaic definition that is rarely used anymore, although it was in literature as late as a hundred years ago. The NIV says Who gave himself for us to redeem us from all wickedness and to purify for himself a people that are his very own, eager to do what is good. This is, of course, easier to understand in our context today, but I prefer the King James, simply because I think we are all a little peculiar.

 I was the interim pastor of a small church in the mountains of Tennessee. A particular Sunday came and we had six visitors. That was kind of a big deal, except that they were a radio ministry group that visited a different church every Sunday. The one fellow, Brother Bob, did the preaching and sang lead in the Gospel singing part. His wife played the piano, two brothers played guitar and two others sang back up and provided the ‘Amens’ to the preaching. They had a half hour every Sunday afternoon at 2:00 PM on the local radio station. They were the stars of the Sunday religious programming in the area. I knew Brother Bob quite well. In that little town he was like a rock star. For whatever reason, he had taken a liking to me and treated me like I was gold.

          This Sunday he wanted me to come and sit in on their live program down at the station. I agreed, figuring it would be part of my education.  

          I got to the station at about ten minutes to two. I was looking forward to this because I had never witnessed a live broadcast before. I went in, shook hands and took a seat next to the wall in the small studio. The announcer proclaimed the name of the show to the listeners and cued Brother Bob. They threw themselves into their opening song, “I’ll Fly Away,” with great gusto. As they ended there were shouts of ‘Amen’ and ‘Glory.’ Brother Bob stepped up to the mic.

          “Brothers and Sisters in Christ, it is a great blessing today that we can gather together around our radios and listen to the Word of God. Right now the Holy Ghost is moving on me, so we are just going to go into prayer as the Spirit leads.” With that, he and everyone else in the group dropped to their knees and began to pray. Fervently. Mightily. Silently. The one thing that radio types hate more than anything else is dead air. All of a sudden, and for the immediate future, the air was dead. To the folks at home it sounded like the station was off the air. Not good for business.

          The engineer/producer/announcer looked up in alarm. He began to frantically tap on the glass window separating his booth with the studio. I looked up and he began pointing wildly to the microphone. Realizing he needed something, I stepped up to the microphone. What should I say?

          “Well, good afternoon folks. My name is Pastor Larry Wade. While Brother Bob and the good folks here are praying, I thought I might invite you to the services at our church....” I went on like this for a couple of minutes. I invited them to our church, I invited them to their own churches, and I invited them to listen to Brother Bob every Sunday at 2:00. It was near the 4th of July, so I invited them to the fireworks show. While I was doing this, I slowed my speech pattern way down. I really wanted Brother Bob to sign off from God and get back to the mic, but to no avail. Finally, with nothing else to invite them to and with no sign that the fervent, mighty and silent prayer was going to let up, I sang every verse of “Amazing Grace” without any musical help whatsoever. Halfway through the last verse they started winding up their prayers. Shouts of ‘Amen’ and ‘Glory’ once again filled the air. They joined me on the last line and then they went on with their program.

          That ended my radio career, despite the fact that Marsha once told me I had a good face for radio. I never even drove by the station again. However, everyone in town thought it was a great show.

          The very essence of ministry is people and people can be peculiar. That makes ministry sometimes very strange. But where else can you get such entertainment for free?

          This is Monday, February 27, 2017. In the Eastern Orthodox churches, both Catholic and Protestant, this is Clean Monday. Tomorrow, in the Western churches, both Catholic and Protestant, it is Fat Tuesday. And on Wednesday in Western churches, it is Ash Wednesday. Fat Tuesday is also known as Shrove Tuesday, Pancake Tuesday (in England) and Mardi Gras in France and New Orleans, which is just Fat Tuesday in the French language. Ash Wednesday commences Lent. During Lent, each Sunday is actually not Lent, which is important. In the last week of Lent, which is commonly called Holy Week, we have the Friday of Sorrows, Palm Sunday, Holy Wednesday, Maundy Thursday, Good Friday, Holy Saturday and ends with Easter.

          During Lent, we are to give up something of value. This could be a food or treat or something such as an activity. This is where the idea of Fat Tuesday comes from. During Lent, if you are really seriously into all of this, you are to give up all animal products except for Fridays, at which time you can eat fish. In the days when meats and dairy products could not be stored, the Tuesday before Ash Wednesday, the commence of Lent, was a feast day out of necessity. Everything was going to spoil, so you ate it. Hence, Fat Tuesday and Pancake Tuesday. In time, this became a huge celebration, even after the restriction of animal products was eased. Now, Fat Tuesday is a celebration of debauchery. We can see the wild celebrations of Mardi Gras on TV, viewing the parades, the drinking and the nearly naked (and sometimes completely naked) women dancing in the streets. At midnight, it must all be over because Lent is starting. Hard to believe, but the insanity of Fat Tuesday/Mardi Gras is part of a Christian religious celebration.

          It is also hard to understand, but the Sundays during Lent are not a part of Lent. Therefore, all restrictions of Lent are not in force. A pastor I once knew, and his entire family, gave up TV for Lent. This was no small thing for these folks. All meals were taken in front of the television. There were TVs in every room with a VCR (this was a few years ago). Giving up TV seemed like a real sacrifice. However, because Sundays were exempt, they taped all their favorite show during the week and binged on Sundays.  

          Someone from another part of the world, say Cambodia, where their worship does not include Christ, would likely fail to see the point in all this celebration, especially over something so bitterly sad. And if they were in, say, New Orleans at the Fat Tuesday celebration and saw a woman in next to nothing drinking and whooping it up and then happened to be in a church the next day and saw that same woman in a somber dress kneeling before the priest and having the mark of the Cross placed on her forehead in ashes, what kind of insanity would they think they had stumbled into?

          We have made Christianity so confusing and so complicated that we turn people away. Then, in order to made it meaningful to us, we do everything except what we should be doing, which is to share the simple plan of salvation to the lost.

          I once asked a acquaintance of mine what the Biblical connection was with giving something up for Lent. His immediate reply was we give up something important for the 40 days of Lent (It is actually 45 days from Ash Wednesday to Easter, but Sundays don’t count, so it is 40 days.) to link ourselves with Jesus and His fast of 40 days. But, even when someone fasts for Lent they only fast during daylight hours and they can eat all day Sunday if they want. We had a bit of a scandal in my hometown about 40 years ago. At the Catholic church, there was a pre-Lenten meal going on in the church hall for one of the women’s group. The priest was invited and apparently the women were boasting about what they were giving up for Lent. Finally, the priest was asked what he was giving up. He said he was giving up sex for Lent, to which every woman in the place let her mouth drop open. “Well, why not?” The priest was reported to have said. “You ‘give up’ things in your lives that are unimportant to you. Why shouldn’t I be allowed to do the same?”

          We are coming to an amazing time of the year, the most amazing time, as far as I am concerned. We are remembering specifically the last few weeks of the life of Jesus. His ministry on earth is coming to an end. Soon we will be faced with the intrigue of those who hated Him, the betrayal of one so close to Him, the fear of those who had pledged themselves to Him, the mocking of those who, only a week earlier, were hailing Him as King, the pain of His beatings, the awful nobility of His crucifixion, the despair of His burial and then the glory of His Resurrection. Why do we feel the need to clutter all this up with the banality of tradition? Shouldn’t the shear majesty of His love and sacrifice be enough?

          The greatest story ever told and then we riddle it with empty actions and pointless tradition. ¹Bless the LORD, O my soul! O LORD my God, you are ²very great! ³You are clothed with splendor and majesty.

           For a period of time in my ministry I worked with churches going through crisis situations. This would be churches on the verge of closing. Before that, while still pastoring, I sometimes worked with pastors going through crisis situations. These were people who were on the verge of leaving the ministry. Usually, the church in crisis blamed the previous three pastors for their demise. The pastor in crisis, on the other hand, blamed his last one or two churches for his problems. Every once in a while I would come across a church that would regret some of their past actions and admit to their own faults and every once in a while a pastor would say to me that he had really messed up/ Although the church or pastor that was willing to accept the blame was rare, they were also the ones who could be helped. The church or pastor that pointed the finger at someone else was the church or pastor that was headed for a bad ending.

          There are those churches that batter their pastors. I knew a pastor once who had a knife pulled on him in a deacons meeting. There are pastors who wreck churches without a care. The pastor who takes the church into an expensive building program and then leaves halfway through to take another church that is bigger and better and pays more and was impressed with him for being 'successful.' But I have always felt that if the church goes into their search fully open to the Lord and the pastor goes into the search fully open to the Lord and then they meet each other halfway, they have a pretty good chance of success. There are some very good churches and there are some very good pastors.

          Then, of course, there are churches that think they walk with the Lord when they are only seeking their own way. One church was running over 200 in morning worship when their pastor left. The search committee sent around questionnaires asking the congregation what kind of pastor they wanted. There were questions concerning age, health, marital status, children at home, appearance, education, experience and some others. The people filled them out and turned them in and from that information the search committee came up with a composite for their candidate. Sounds pretty good. The problem with that, though, is that the church has laid out a template and then they want God to give them a pastor who fits that template. They assume God will honor their efforts when, in fact, God likely has other ideas. So it was at this church. The Lord sent them a candidate who exceeded most of their desires and met the others, except one. They wanted a pastor under 50 years of age. The candidate was 51. Therefore, too old. They continued the search finally finding their guy. He met their requirements and he was only 49. He lasted just a few years. the next pastor lasted only a year and a half. The church is struggling with around 50 on Sunday morning, their once fine Youth group is gone and they are approaching the church in crisis stage. The pastor who was to old by a year has been richly blessed by the Lord and is in a wonderful place of ministry. The same can be said about pastor. The pastor who went to the just mentioned church was looking for a stepping stone church that would take him higher. Now he is part time in the ministry. 

           Earlier this week I talked about Dr. Bill Wilkes. A fine man who richly blessed my ministry. I have known many good men in the pastorate. One character that sticks out in my mind was a fellow preacher I met while pastoring in a medium sized city in Ohio. Big and boisterous, he was a former motorcycle gang member who found the Lord and became one of the best preachers and pastors around. Still loved his motorcycle, though. One day his wife and he were on the bike going to look at a new sign that was being made for the front of their church when a drunk driver hit them. The wife came out of it okay, but the pastor was severely injured. In the end they had to take his left leg off just below the knee. That, along with some nasty internal injuries, laid him up for a long time. Finally, he was able to get back to his pulpit and his parish.                                                                                                                     

          He had always had a tremendous sense of humor, but his ordeal had understandably toned him down a bit. Another thing he had always been known for was his killer game of golf. That also seemed doomed now.

           But, in time the annual clergy tournament came around, which he had always won, and he announced he was going to try to play. Remember that here was a man with a wonderful sense of humor. (He had once been playing a round with a group of pastors and had hit a goose that was swimming in a pond. The bird got it in the head with his tee shot. The unlucky fowl died immediately. Everyone was shocked, but he just shook his head and said it was the first time he ever heard of someone scoring a birdie on a tee shot.) Anyway, several years before his son had given him a pack of three golf balls filled with talcum powder as a gag gift, and our hero had fallen for the gag once and thought it was very funny and had never used them again. Now, however, he hobbled out to the tee with one of those balls in hand. "I hope I still have something left in me," he said. All the pastors leaned in a little closer to see if their friend could indeed hit the ball. It was a solemn occasion. He selected his driver, teed up and drew back for a mighty swing. At the point of contact the ball exploded and talcum powder filled the air and coated everyone that was close by, including the hero of this story. As the powder settled he looked down the fairway as if he were following the flight of the ball and said with great satisfaction, "Yep, I still got it." 

           We are limited only by ourselves and that usually comes when we decide we know best. Many want to serve God, but in an advisory capacity. Let Him lead you and you will do great things.

College and seminary was all very fine, but there is no teacher like experience. The best and safest way to get experience in the pastoral ministry is to be another pastor’s assistant. I spent some time as an assistant to a few pastors and I learned from each, But one stays in my mind in a special way. The Reverend Doctor William Wilkes. The good Reverend Doctor pastored Sunset Heights Baptist Church in Hialeah, Florida, which is a suburb of Miami. Actually, from Miami to Fort Lauderdale it is all one big, sprawling city, and Hialeah made up a big chunk of that metro area.

          I learned a lot from this man, some good, some not so good, but I loved him dearly.

          Dr. Wilkes was a dignified man who had little use for humor in the pulpit, although sometimes he did give it a try. You could tell it took a lot out of him and that it made him uncomfortable. I have wondered sometimes if my whole purpose there was for comic relief. He recognized the need for humor; he just couldn’t bring it off himself. One bright and glorious Sunday morning the good Reverend Doctor was really getting into his sermon when a young lady, a visitor to the church, stood up and moved down the aisle, going from the back of the church to the front of the 450 seat sanctuary. As she walked past the pulpit she stopped and looked up at our stern looking pastor, who was clearly not amused. "I gotta go pee" she announced. The pastor's mouth dropped open and she continued on her way, leaving a speechless sanctuary behind. The really bad thing about this was that when you opened the door leading out of the sanctuary, the lady's restroom was right there. She left the sanctuary door open, went into the restroom and left that door open, too. She really did do as she had announced to the pastor.

          We had a racetrack ministry at that church. On Monday nights, my wife and I would take a few of our youth, load them into the church van and go to a horseracing track that was in our city. Most don’t know this, but there is a fairly large community of people who live at the track, at least in Florida where they race year-round. Grooms, handlers, stable hands. The unseen portion of horse racing. Of course, these people need Christ in their lives just like anyone else, but they were mostly forgotten. At this track, however, there was a chaplain. He and I became friends and we went out on Monday nights to help. My wife would play the guitar and sing, the kids would do puppets and I would bring a short message.

          One week, Dr. Wilkes got it in his head that he would like to go with us, which was great. We arranged that he would bring the message to the folks there. He showed up at the appointed time to get in the church van and go with us, but he was wearing his best three-piece white suit, (this was 1979 and white suits were snazzy) diamond tie pin and expensive shoes. The rest of us were in jeans, pullovers and sneakers.

          “Uh, Doctor Wilkes, sir,” I said. “You might be a little over dressed. We have to park next to the stables and the room we meet in is really more like a bar.”

          My dignified mentor looked over at me with his best senior pastor look.

          “Nonsense. When a man puts himself into the position of proclaiming the Word of God he must look the very best he can look. You must never dress down to lift up.” Which I believe to this day. But it was a race track.

          He was the boss, after all, so off we went.

          By the time we got home he had stepped in horse manure twice, been nuzzled by a couple of horses, stood next to a beer on tap dispenser to preach and had suffered the indignity of having many of the people walk out on him. He never went back.

          In time, Marsha and I and our son Adam (one year old) left that church and moved to the panhandle of Florida to a little country church as pastor. Sandy Creek Baptist Church was a long way from Hialeah, both in distance and in culture.

          It was really a country church. We were so far from any town that the paved road ended at our church's driveway. It was a thirteen-mile drive just to get to where I could buy a morning paper. But I was Sandy Creek’s pastor and I was loving it. However, I felt that our little church needed some spiritual fire, so I contacted Dr. Wilkes to see if he would come and preach a revival. He happily agreed and he and his wife came to do so. I had arranged for us all, he and his wife and my family, to eat at a different home each night of the revival.

          I felt good about the eating arrangements, except for one place. I was worried that Dr. Wilkes, who was kind of prissy, would be uncomfortable. The home was a group home for mentally and physically handicapped adults. A widowed woman ran the place and did an extremely good job. Without much money, she kept her four or five charges looking good and in good health. The house was old and somewhat run down, and like most homes in that part of the south, did have a problem with cockroaches, but she managed to even control that issue. She was a fine, country lady doing the best she could.

          I shouldn’t have worried about Dr. Wilkes, or his wife Bonnie. They had such a good time that I was a little ashamed of myself for having such fears. It was really fine, until..........

          We had gone into the living room and were visiting with the residents of the group home while our hostess was preparing dinner. Dr. Wilkes and his wife were fully involved in listening to and sharing stories with the residents. My wife, knowing of my fears, looked at me with a smug look as though to say, "See, I told you not to worry." I began to relax.

          Then, the most wonderful smell began to waft out of the kitchen. Dr. Wilkes and I both got up and headed for the source of that smell. We were, after all, preachers. Preachers love to eat, dignified or not. Entering the kitchen, we saw our hostess making little cornbread cakes on a large griddle. She would fry one side then flip it over and fry the other side. If you have never eaten real southern cornbread (not that mix stuff with sugar in it that they sell at Kroger’s) made on a griddle, you have yet to eat. Dr. Wilkes was overjoyed. He told our hostess that his mother had made cornbread cakes in exactly the same way and he hadn't eaten them in years. Since I had enjoyed her cornbread on several occasions I assured the good doctor that it was just about the best cornbread I had ever eaten, right next to my own mother's. Our hostess was beaming with the praise she was receiving while trying to be humble. But, you could tell she was pleased with our very true words.

          Just then, a cockroach scurried out from behind the griddle. Without missing a beat, she took the spatula in her hand that she had been flipping the cakes with and smashed the cockroach flat. Then she went back to flipping. The good doctor didn’t say a word. When supper was served he manfully took a couple of the cakes, looked over at me and told me to eat up and we sat there and ate cornbread. Good eatin’.

          Both Dr. Wilkes and Bonnie have been in Heaven for some time. I have so many stories! But for now, I will end by saying that I can’t think of them without smiling. Every young wannabe preacher should be so fortunate as to have a mentor who impacts him so greatly. Dr. and Mrs. Wilkes make Heaven look so much sweeter for me.

          “We have the right!” That is the rallying cry of protesters in this country. And, they are absolutely right. This is the United States of America. We have rights. Over the weekend I saw a video of American children whacking away at a piñata, seeking to break it open so that they could get to the candy inside. The piñata was made to look like the president of the United States. The parents of the children stood around shooting video and laughing and cheering on their little ones as they taught the lesson of disrespect. But, they have that right. A FedEx driver heroically shoulders his way into the middle of a protest to save an American flag from being burned. It is on video. The burning of the flag used to be illegal except in controlled circumstances where the purpose was to dispose of a tattered and worn flag, but that must have changed for it is done often now with no repercussions. But, regardless, the protest and disrespect to the flag was legal. They have that right. We have rights until they impinge on the rights of others. Of course, even that has gone by the wayside.

          “We have the right!” Even when the rights that we have were paid for by those who sacrificed their rights to military service and, in many cases, who sacrificed their very lives. Yes, we have rights. Rights guaranteed in the Constitution of the United States of America, even the right to disrespect that same Constitution. We have the right to act foolish. We have the right to disrespect. We have the right to protest the government even while we cower behind that government demanding safety and aid when trials come.

          “We have the right!” Because we have the right, all this was inevitable. When you don’t have to pay for something yourself, you will misuse it. But, it is more than just that, too. Where we are now has its roots in the past. Where we are now goes back to a time when parades in small towns on Memorial Day were exciting and the people lining the streets brought their hands up to cover their hearts as the flag went by. A time when old soldiers would wear whatever portion of their uniform that still fit and would come to attention to salute the flag they had proudly served. A time when ‘protest’ was done in a voting booth. The ugliness of today goes back to a simpler, calmer time that we find ourselves longing for. A time when abortion was illegal and a time when there was prayer in school and a time when children were required to say the Pledge every morning, yet it didn’t seem like it was required. A time, it seems, that we can never return to now.

          “We have the right!” All of this goes back to a time when we began to exercise a basic right. A right that predates the country, a right that goes back to the very beginning of mankind. Somewhere along the way we began to exercise the right to not pray. God has never stood over us and demanded we pray to Him. When mankind has abandoned prayer, society has begun to decay. Despite what is taught in our schools now, this country was founded by people coming here, at least in part, to be able to worship in Spirit and in truth. People prayed for safety and protection, people prayed for one another, people prayed forvision, people prayed for grace. Many will talk about the displacement of the native people as a way to condemn those early settlers, but they didn’t come here to displace or exploit. They came here to live freely and exercise their faith. They shared their faith with those already here, and they were mostly turned down. They still sought to live in peace. The people on this land have always prayed. Our people have always reached out to God. We have been a good people, rising to help those who couldn’t help themselves, standing in the gap to protect others. And all the while, taking the Good News to the world through the finest mission work ever.

          “We have the right!” Yes, we do have the right. We have the right to abandon the very One who established us. We have the right to ignore the very Book that would create in us a sense of decency and moral courage. We have the right to neglect the simplest of obligations, that being prayer. These rights were given to us by the Father Himself. We have always had free will, we could always choose. Like any choice, we either make the right choice or the wrong choice. And we, as a people, have chosen to make God and His Word and our communication with Him a ceremonial event for Sundays and special occasions. We have chosen wrong.

          2 Chronicles 7:12-15---Then the LORD appeared to Solomon in the night and said to him: "I have heard your prayer and have chosen this place for myself as a house of sacrifice. When I shut up the heavens so that there is no rain, or command the locust to devour the land, or send pestilence among my people, if my people who are called by my name humble themselves, and pray and seek my face and turn from their wicked ways, then I will hear from heaven and will forgive their sin and heal their land. Why have we turned our backs on being humble before the Lord? Why have we turned our backs on praying to Him and seeking Him out? Why have we turned our backs on righteous living and instead chosen evil? If we turn back He will heal our land! WHY HAVE WE TURNED AWAY? We have the right.