Pastors’ Pals: The Honesty of Children

People often ask, “Why did you get out of the ministry?”  I chalk it up as ignorance to what are the ministries of a Director of Missions.  As a pastor people would tease me about not working for a living.  I would tell them if they would get right with God, they could be a pastor.  Others would say, “I wish I had a job where I worked three hours a week.”  I gave the same response.  Get right with God and you will work only three hours a week.  Now as a Director of Missions they pay me not to preach.

When asked what I miss most about being a pastor, I tell them the discipline of sermon preparation, visiting people in the hospital, and the children.  I did make friends with the children of Bethel Baptist Association serving there fourteen years.  I really miss my time at pastors’ pals.

I always had a fun, spiritual, and humorous time sharing the child version of my sermon.  I have had the congregation say that I needed to do the whole sermon like a pastors’ pals.  I could not figure if I was childish or if the congregation’s educational level demanded I do the children’s version.

While at Gallion Baptist Church, I attended an Alabama Baptist State Board of Missions event where the host church had a pamphlet just for children.  It was trifold with a picture of Jesus playing with children.  I brought it back and created my own version.  I downloaded a penciled etching of Jesus playing with the children and pasted it on the front.  The inside was blank except for one line:  This blank page is place you can doodle, draw, or write.  I have some of the drawings in my keepsake stuff.

I have often wondered why Jesus’ twelve disciples tried to keep the children from seeing Jesus and sitting in His lap.  Well, the other day I reminisced about my pastors’ pals and other times I have entertained children.  They are honest, and they listen when you do not think they are.  Two things came to me.  One, they recognized who Jesus was.  Two, they were brutally honest and were willing to share.  I had church members that wanted me to discontinue my pastors’ pals but I am a Rebel and understand the bond of children with their pastor.

One time I was preaching, and I asked a question.  It was not rhetorical.  I wanted feedback.  A little boy answered.  His mother scolded him, then I said, “Please do not scold him.  He answered the question because he was listening.”

I could write a book about the Godly, humorous, and embarrassing responses from my pastors’ pals.  Some of my pals are over thirty years old now.  They remember some of the exciting and wonderful lessons they learned.

I will never forget the threat of a momma one Sunday at Friendship Baptist in Clanton.  Pastors’ pals surrounded me.  The pianist had a special tune which caused them to rush to the stage. This morning was Mother’s Day.  I was talking with them about telling their moms that they loved them. I mentioned something about thanking them for living in nice homes and to do something special for them, such as picking them flowers.

Little Samuel Botts said, “We ain’t got no nice house.”  I said, “You live in a nice home because I have been there.”  His response erupted in congregational laughter and a death threat from his mom who was sitting in the choir.  He said, “It ain’t never clean.”  His momma yelled, Samuel Botts I’m gonna kill you.”  She didn’t.

As I think about him and dozens like him, I understand possibly why the disciples wanted to keep the children away. 

And they brought unto him also infants, that he would touch them: but when his disciples saw it, they rebuked them. But Jesus called them unto him, and said, Suffer little children to come unto me, and forbid them not: for of such is the kingdom of God.  Verily I say unto you, Whosoever shall not receive the kingdom of God as a little child shall in no wise enter therein (Luke 18:15-17)

By-the-way, little Samuel Botts, now thirty years old serves on the security team at his church.

"Can't Have a Masterpiece Overnight"

One of my hobbies is woodworking.  I love the smell of sawdust.  I can tell the difference between the smell of pine and red oak, between cherry and Ipe (Brazilian hardwood), and maple and poplar.  The different smells remind me of different times in my life.

Pine rosin dripping from pulpwood reminds me of early mornings in the woods with a stick of pulpwood on my shoulder stumbling toward the truck to load the wood.  I can tell when a pulpwood truck passes the office.  It is an unforgettable aroma.

The smell of fir studs, braces, and headers being cut in the building of a house reminds me of all those homes I helped Mr. Bill Langston build.  Floor joists, ceiling joists, and plywood, being sawed emits another aroma that you know when you smell it that something new is being constructed and family begins life there in excitement.

The smell of a cabinet shop is unique.  I spent many hours building captain beds, baby cradles, cabinets, rocking horses, and dozens of other wooden creations for family and friends.  With every finished product came the want, they tried convince me the need, from friend and stranger to build them something.  They would brag and woo of my beautiful works of art.  Philip Gulley in his book Front Porch Tales says, “A man has to be careful not to let his hobby become his business.”

During an extended layoff from the cement plant, I had to build things to support my income.  In fact, my family peddled my crafts and bartered them at flea markets.  They did well until the economy turned bad. After that, I gave most of my handicrafts to folks as gifts for birthdays, anniversaries, or Christmas presents.

Woodworking is slow and tedious work.  You have to measure twice and cut once.  For a polished finish, there is much sanding and buffing.  You cannot hurry it or flaws will show and your work will be for nothing.  Woodworking is a good way to learn that doing something worthwhile takes longer.  That is something that a hurry up and want it now society cannot appreciate.  When you take the time to do it right, you have something to pass down to your grandchildren.

For some people it is hard for them to see the finished product.  My sister wanted me to build her a home entertainment center.  I went to her mobile home, this is important, to get the dimensions where she wanted it and how she wanted it to look.  My brother sells hardwood.  In fact, I had to call his office to see how to spell Ipe.  I got him to get the wood for our sister.  He gave it to her. 

I spent several days working on this beautiful piece of furniture.  I sawed, assembled, and sanded trying to get the perfect look.  My sister and husband stopped to see the piece.  It was nowhere near completion.  When my brother-in-law saw it, he said, “I don’t want that piece of junk in my house” (mobile home).

I admit I was hurt, just as a mother who has just been told that her baby is ugly is hurt.  I finally realized that my brother-in-law did not see the finished product.  I decided to finish the piece.  I continued to sand, stain, and polyurethane.  I stained it dark walnut and put three coats of Sears’ best semi-gloss polyurethane and it.  It was gorgeous.  I loaded it and carried it down to my sister’s house.  I’m sorry I mean mobile home.  We put it in. My sister did not know what to say.  I told here that I did it for her as a gift.  She did not owe me anything except for the materials.

My brother-in-law could not believe it when he saw it.  His family marveled at the workmanship and the beauty of the piece. He never said anything to me except how people bragged on his home entertainment center.  By the way, it covered a whole wall in his living room.  I never said it to him but my workmanship increased the value of his mobile home when he sold it.

Today’s craftsmanship is sometimes slapped together with people expecting it to last a lifetime.  I do not think that I have ever finished anything I ever built.  I say that because when I finished, I thought it could use a little more sanding here and little more polyurethane there.  I continue to rub stain, lemon oil, or Old English on pieces that I have finished from years ago.

The woodworking principle is true about life.  As Gulley says, “Folks get discouraged because they cannot become saints overnight.”  God has to do a lot of smoothing and a lot of finishing making us His masterpiece.

For we are His workmanship, created in Christ Jesus unto good works, which God hath before ordained that we should walk in them (Ephesians 2:10 KJV).

Like the old songs goes, “He’s still working on me. . .”

"Sure You Do"

Paul Harvey, in his commentary “The Rest of the Story," tells of a WWII military serviceman stationed in Europe.  He wanted to buy a present for his fiancée.'  He had limited income so he went to a pawnshop to see what he could buy.  Having no luck finding a diamond ring, he bought an amber bracelet for less than two hundred dollars. 

Through the years, the bracelet became a sentimental piece for the couple.  The man decided to do something special for an upcoming anniversary.  He thought it would be nice to have the bracelet restored.  The bracelet had a broken hook. 

He took it to a jeweler to which the jeweler asked if it was for sale.  The man said he wanted it repaired.  The hook broke again so the man took it to another jeweler who asked if it was for sale.  After a third trip to another jeweler, the man received the same query if the bracelet was for sale.  The man said, “Why?”  The jeweler said, “You do not know?”  The man gave him a magnifying glass and said read the inscription.  It was engraved, to Josephine from Napoleon.

While at the University of Montevallo, I took an art class.  Boy did I feel out of place!  I am not an artist when it concerns painting.  The class, the History of Art, was one of the criterions for the Bachelor of Art degree I was earning.  Tommy Karn, my Director of Missions at the time, suggested that if I was going to attend Seminary, that I should get a Liberal of Arts degree.  He said that I should get the degree in something that would aid me to be a bi-vocational pastor.  I elected history and English and my college advisor suggested that I take the History of Art classes. 

I was totally out of place in art.  Everyone and everything there seemed to be in the abstract and I am concrete.  I think being a concrete person had something to do with working at the cement plant. JUST KIDDING!  I felt out of place being a preacher in a class of future Picassos.  I found art history fascinating and learned how to love and appreciate art.

On one occasion, I went to an art exhibit at Bloch Hall, the art building.  Luke, an oriental art student, was the featured artist.  I was amazed at his artwork.  At first, I thought it was some kind of abstract paintings.  The colors were beautiful.  There were bright pinks, whites, blues, and so forth.  They appeared to make no sense.  Each one of the paintings had a title.  I looked at one entitled “Sailing Ship.”  I remember studying the work very carefully trying to see a ship.  It was not there I thought. 

As I looked at it for several minutes, I began to see this beautiful ship with gigantic sails, the ocean, and the clouds.  It was magnificent.  It was one of those paintings that you had to look, then back away, to see the real beauty. 

Now, understanding the style of painting Luke had on display, I went to another titled “Dragon.”  Again, the canvas had these brilliant colors of pink, yellow, and white boldly stroked and spread across it.  I could not wait to find the dragon so exquisitely positioned there.  Suddenly, there was this giant Chinese dragon prancing across the canvas. The artwork was special.  I had never seen such beauty in art.  Everyone in attendance that afternoon commented on the genius and talent of Luke.  Even the president of the University bought a painting that day.

Art History was not the only class I felt a little awkward.  Another was an English poetry class.  Poems have a way of soothing the soul.  David and other Psalmists of the Bible are reminders of the power of poetry.

In this particular class, we examined the poets, their works, and the poem interpretations. Simple poems are really complex and revealing the more that you dig.  One of the things that I lost in the house fire was my notes from this class.  I developed a deep appreciation for poetry and I have written several poems because of the class’s influence.

Having missed a very intriguing class one Friday, my Methodist preacher friend and fellow returning adult named Billy wanted me to share with him what he had missed.  The professor for the class was absence and had one of his secretaries in his place to have us do some busy work.  Billy and I decided that we would ask the secretary if we could go to the business lounge where I could “catch” Billy up on the interpretations of the poems.

I will never for get the look on her face and her answer.  The look was one of “I don’t believe a word you are saying” and the response was “sure you do.”  “You are trying to get out of class to talk about football.”

I guess Billy and I did look a little bit too much masculine and not dainty enough to be reading poetry.  She did let us go, but I do not think she was totally convinced.  Billy and I did make an “A” on the test regardless of what the secretary thought.

For we are his workmanship, created in Christ Jesus unto good works, which God hath before ordained that we should walk in them (Ephesians 2:10, KJV).

The Greek word that Paul used for workmanship is poiema, the word we use for poem.  Bracelets, art, and poetry are creations of the artist.  What does that say about God and us?