Covenant Stories: A Delightful Collection of Misfits

Story #10 in the Covenant series

One of the unusual things about having church at the Duckblind Lounge was the display of available beers on the bar behind the podium where Kenny and I preached. Some preachers have choirs behind them in beautiful robes. We had Bud, Bud Light, Coors, and Lone Star. The first Sunday we met at Fox Run Elementary school, I stood up to preach and said, “Does anyone else feel uncomfortable here? Doesn’t this place feel strange?” I pulled a beer out of my coat pocket, sat it on the podium, and said, “There, I feel better now. How about you?”

Everyone laughed. I put the beer away, and we got on with the service. I remember thinking, “Yes, these are my people. We’re a bunch of misfits who have nowhere else to go.”

I had noticed by this time that we were attracting people who perhaps wouldn’t feel comfortable in more traditional churches. We never consciously planned to be a church for misfits. We never wrote that into a mission statement or anything. On the other hand, seeing the pastor pull a 12-ounce can of beer out of his pocket on Sunday morning can be a deal-breaker for more traditional people. I should have known that was not a smart thing to do if we were hoping to have 500 in attendance within the first year at Fox Run.

So do you think a pastor should pull a beer out of his pocket on Sunday morning as a little joke? I used to wonder about that, but now I don’t think it’s a matter of should or shouldn’t. I think the pastor pulls a beer out of his pocket, and God looks down from heaven and says, “Oh, so THAT’S how you want to play it? Okay. I can’t promise you a big crowd, but I might have some wayward pilgrims to send your way.”

And we definitely had our share of wayward pilgrims.

There was Janice, who for some reason whistled every hymn. No one ever asked her why. The rest of us would sing, and she would look away into the distance, lost in her own thoughts, and whistle. At first it was strange. Then we got used to it. Then it became wonderful. All these voices singing and this melodic little whistle drifting up from the back row.

Sharon showed up that first year with Stephen, her son who had autism. She told me how hard it was to go to church with Stephen. She couldn’t send him to Sunday school, and people would turn around and stare if he made noises during worship, which he often did. I remember thinking, “Well, this is one advantage to having a small church.” I gathered everyone together and said, “This boy with autism will be here next Sunday. He might make some strange noises or behave in unusual ways. Just don’t worry about it.” That’s all it took. People understood. As it turned out, Stephen could perfectly mimic a fire engine siren. He even included the Doppler effect, making it sound like it was passing by and fading into the distance. For an entire year I was puzzled by the fire truck that drove by the school every Sunday morning at exactly the same time.

Marty was an ex-Pentecostal preacher who had been fired after his wife left him. We were far too liberal for Marty, but he needed somewhere to be while he grieved and got over his anger. And he could play the guitar, so he lead our music for several years. It wasn’t exactly my style of music, but we didn’t have a piano player at the time. And then one day Marty was ready to go back to the Pentecostal church. On his last Sunday with us he pulled me aside and quoted Micah 6:8:

And what does the Lord require of you but to do justice, love kindness, and walk humbly with your God?

“When I came here,” he said, “I knew about justice. I leave having learned about kindness and walking humbly with God.”

And away he went.

The Nolan brothers, Tom and Dennis, joined us in the Fox Run days. Tom was a band director and Dennis a physical therapist. There wasn’t much unusual about them, I guess, but Tom thought the school podium was a bit stuffy. He said he had the perfect pulpit for me. The next Sunday he brought a battered, black music stand that his school was throwing out. I began using it for a pulpit, and I’m still using it 14 years later.

George met my wife at the hospital. George had AIDS and didn’t believe in God. He told me he wanted to go to church to see if the idea of God would grow on him, but he felt a little out-of-place as an agnostic. He explained very nicely that he wasn’t that interested in sermons or the talking parts of church, but he did love hymns and thought it might be nice to come and sing them, if that was okay. Now that we had whistling, fire engines, and Pentecostal guitar songs, I couldn’t see how one unbeliever singing hymns would hurt anything. And I was as surprised as anyone when George became a Christian, got baptized, and was voted by the congregation to be a deacon, all in the 18 months before he died.

I am not the type to think that Jesus speaks to me personally. But after George’s funeral, Jesus told me that according to the strange math of God, the entire existence of Covenant Baptist Church from its beginning until it’s end was justified completely by George. And since that is the only message I’ve ever gotten directly from Jesus, I feel okay telling you about it.

I could go on and on about the people who found us at Fox Run Elementary School. And I’m leaving out some of the really great people who joined us there and became leaders of our church. But before I stop, I have to tell you about Zeke. In part because Zeke was the most mysterious of all the pilgrims who found us at the school. Zeke Medina was the head custodian for Fox Run Elementary. The school district required that one employee be present on Sundays while we were there, and Zeke agreed to be that person. I don’t know why he wanted to do that. Maybe he needed the overtime.

We do communion every 6 weeks or so. On one of our communion Sundays, Zeke came to me after everyone had left and asked if I would give him communion. I asked if he was a Christian. He said he was. I handed him a bit of bread and some juice. “This is the body and blood of Christ,” I said. Zeke bowed respectfully and received the elements. That began a tradition that he and I shared together. Zeke never wanted to become involved with the church, formally. He got to know everyone, and we all loved him, but he would not attend the worship service. However, when we did communion, I would put some bread and juice aside for Zeke and serve him after church. He usually waited until everyone had left, then the two of us would have a short, solemn moment of worship together.

I invited Zeke to worship with us many times. He just didn’t want to. I don’t know why. He was one of those people who hang around the edge of a church for one reason or another, but will not get closer than that. I always felt like it was our calling to be as much of the Church as Zeke could receive.

We left Fox Run two years later. Though he was invited, Zeke did not go with us. But to this day when he sees me in the grocery store or around the neighborhood, he gives me a big hug and asks how the church is doing.

Some mysteries are never solved. Some of God’s purposes are not for us to know in this life.

I learned that at Fox Run Elementary School.

rlp

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