Any pastor who has shepherded a flock of His lambs will experience some incidents that border on the bizarre over the course of time. I was a senior pastor for 48 years, 40 of them in the same church, and I can testify that I had my share of events that belong in the “Truth is Sometimes Stranger Than Fiction” file. For what it’s worth, may I share with you a few?
- As a ministerial student, while on a Christmas break, I was asked to preach in a small country church that I had never set foot in. I did so with all the passion that a 20 year-old preacher-boy could muster from the text of Matthew 5:23,24: “Therefore if thou bring thy gift to the altar, and there rememberest that thy brother hath ought against thee; leave there thy gift before the altar, and go thy way; first be reconciled to thy brother, and then come offer thy gift.” Later that day, I found out that my grandmother and one of her sisters, who had not spoken to each other for years, were both in the service. I never heard that they ever reconciled; and, in all truth, I didn’t know until after the sermon that they were estranged. But, they did hear a word from Jesus that day as I bore down on what He said about worship. “Out of the mouths of babes”—or 20 year-old preacher-boys!
- As a fairly new pastor in Indianapolis, I was asked to conduct a graveside service in a small cemetery near Indy for an infant who had died in childbirth. One of our deacons accompanied me, as I had never been to this cemetery before. We were busily chatting as we traveled, and instead of taking I-74, toward London, Indiana, we took I-70, toward Richmond. Somewhere close to the Indiana-Ohio line, I mentioned to my deacon that we must have missed our exit, and it was about that moment that he realized we were on the wrong highway! We made a quick adjustment (all before GPS) and headed toward I-74, arriving at the cemetery 45 minutes late. All the family had departed, and the only person in sight was a young woman, a cemetery employee, shoveling dirt into the small grave. As I approached her, I noticed a small firearm lying on the ground (I assumed for her personal protection) at the head of the infant’s grave. I quickly introduced myself and Brother Henry and asked her how long the family had been gone. We had a brief conversation, and it seemed as though the Lord led me to say, “I am a pastor, concerned for souls. If that were your grave, do you know that your soul would be with the Lord?” In a few minutes, I explained the gospel to this young lady, and she bowed her head and asked Jesus to be her Savior. Later, I called the family to express my deepest apology for not having been at the cemetery on time. They graciously forgave me and, in the ensuing years, called on me to conduct several more services for family members. It was, no doubt, a divinely directed delay that day when I missed the exit to the London cemetery!
- One Sunday morning at Thompson Road Baptist Church, one of our senior saints, sitting next to her husband, “died” in the morning service about halfway through the message. She just laid her head onto her husband’s shoulder and was for several minutes motionless. There was a nurse close by and a fireman and a medical doctor in the house of worship that morning. The nurse checked for a pulse and found none; the fireman knelt close by to help, if needed, and the doctor or someone in the rear of the auditorium called for an ambulance. It was decided that our dear friend had passed, so someone made a decision to hold the medics off until the service concluded, so that no more of a disturbance would be made. The service ended and the EMT personnel brought a gurney in and carefully placed the body onto the apparatus, proceeding then to the ambulance and on to the hospital. It so happened though, that on the way to the hospital, the EMTs reported movement in the deceased. By the time they arrived at the Emergency Department, our “departed” friend had revived. Upon further investigation, the woman had experienced a “sugar low” and had passed out. Soon she was her lovely self again—but decided it would be best not to try to make it back for the Sunday evening service. All were relieved that we would not be paying our last respects to another one of our senior saints!
- You may have heard the slogan, “With a name like Smuckers, it’s bound to be good.” Well, with a name like Slutz, they’re bound to be related. So, one afternoon years ago, I was traveling east on Thompson Road, about a half-mile from home, when, to my amazement, I saw approaching from the east a late-model car with a personalized license plate on the front. It read “SLUTZ.” I thought that surely could not be, so when I could see the car in my rear-view mirror, the license plate under the trunk lid read SLUTZ. Dumfounded, I told my wife when I got home that she’d never believe what I had just seen, then related to her my “Believe it or Not” story. That was Saturday afternoon. The next day, during the morning worship service, I noticed a man sitting alone in the very back row of the auditorium. When I greeted him after the service, he told me his name, and his last name was Slutz. In a brief conversation, I found out that he was a hog farmer from Ohio and had heard that there was a pastor in Indy with his same last name, so he decided to visit. He invited me to the Slutz reunion on a certain Sunday, but of course I told him I was always “tied up” on Sundays. I learned that in certain towns in Ohio, there are many people by the name of Slutz, which is of German origin. In fact, I am told that near Zoar, Ohio, there is a whole cemetery full of headstones with that particular name! And, all the while, I always thought we were the only family anywhere with the name of Slutz. There are, indeed, thousands, with variations of spelling and pronunciation. The truth is truly stranger than fiction!
(Pastor friends, share your “Believe it or Not” story and I will publish it with your permission.)
YOU and GOD 