They Never Told Me in Bible College that I might have to be the Sound Guy!

In ministry I've always valued the importance of a good sound system, but also learned the system is no better than the person operating it. Further, I don't know too many issues that can cause more disagreement in a church than the volume of the music. It can divide a congregation.

The sound can also make or break the minister's effectiveness, whether he be preacher or singer. When I first arrived at a new pastorate, the Sound Guy (and that by the way, is usually the official designation of the person who operates the sound system), informed me that I would never have to tap the microphone to determine it it was on or not. In fact, he forbade that I do so. He had some experience in the field of sound and had worked professionally with a couple of bands. He promised that he was a proficient and professional Sound Guy and that my mic would always be ready when I was ready. He said that he would watch me constantly and know my habits and patterns so that I would never have to worry about the sound. You know what? He was right. It was wonderful to work with him.

Ultimately he left our church and Robert volunteered to be the Sound Guy. Robert was not as professional as the previous Guy, but in due respect, his experience in the sound field had been cranking up the volume of his favorite heavy metal music he was listening to on his headset. Lest you think I am being critical of Robert, I watched him take his new responsibility seriously and grow in his skills through the following years that he was Sound Guy. On top of the fact that he got better and better, no one could ever play air guitar as well as Robert did when he was in the sound balcony out of sight of everyone but God and me during our Worship Service. Here's to you, Robert!

I never expected to ever have to be the Sound Guy. I am sure most of you will know who Larnell Harris is. Before he became well known and before he recorded and sold as many songs as he has, he came to our church to minister. He had no entourage to accompany him; no sophisticated sound system, no special lighting, no smoke, no nothin' but himself and a case of cassette sound tracks, one song on each cassette tape. He conscripted me to be his Sound Guy.

It sounded simple. We set up the cassette tape player at the front pew just a few feet to Larnell's right on the left front side of the sanctuary in plain sight so everyone could witness the Sound Guy at work. We set up a goose neck mic stand bent down to the speaker on the cassette player so the sound could be carried to the house speakers. He had his tapes all cued, meaning he had already advanced the tape past the blank leader tape that was always on a cassette. The music would begin immedialy, avoiding that awkward silence hissing in the speakers while waiting for the music to start. The tapes were all laid out in the order of performance. It sounded simple.

It sounded simple. Before the service, Larnell explained he did not like to talk too much between songs and that he wanted me to get the next tape into the player as quickly as possible and go ahead and punch the play button. He assured me he would be ready to sing at that precise moment. He went over a few subtle hand signals he would use to have me raise or lower the volume and suggested it would be important for me to pay attention. It sounded simple.

The service began, Larnell was introduced and I was on. I was johnny-on-the-spot at the end of each tape. Punch the 'eject' button, snatch out the concluded tape, pop in the next song and hit 'play' in one fluid motion. Other than the rattling noise of the tapes being manhandled, everything was going pretty smoothly.

It WAS so simple even though I was tightly wound and wanting not to disappoint or distract Larnell. I was clearly picking up his hand signals and ministry was flowing. It was unfolding as we had hoped and I was envisioning myself traveling as Larnell's roadie and Sound Guy. Then it happened.

The song had reached its climax. Larnell ended the song with a flourish and the music stopped. I punched 'eject' and as I did so, suddenly Larnell belted out this amazing acappella note. I was memerized by his talent and ability to give the song such a powerful unplanned finish. Everyone was in awe; you could feel the electricity in the air. God was with us. With an odd look of slight frustration, Larnell gave me a head nod to go ahead and start the next song and we launched into another spectacular moving performance. In my mind, the evening could have been no better. It really was simple.

After the service, Larnell made a beeline to me. I knew he was coming to congratulate me on a job well done and perhaps even offer me the full-time Sound Guy position. Alas, he launched into an explanation that I had essentially hung him out to dry on that one song. But the music had ended, I explained. Turns out, it was just a rest in the song, and what had appeared to be his impromptu spectacular ending would have been even more spectacular had it been accompanied by the dramatic musical conclusion now resting silently on the cassette. So much for simple.

Although the evening was a ministry success and people were leaving blessed and refreshed, I knew immediately and instinctively that any offer of becoming the Sound Guy for Larnell Harris had gone as silent as the blank leader tape on the cassette. It had seemed so simple.

Every Good Pastor Has A Toilet Cleaning Story...

Bible College is a place for dreams to begin taking shape. The ministerial student envisions himself preaching eloquently, baptizing converts and giving wise counsel based on the Word of God. He sees life change in discipleship and community in Communion. He will be loved and appreciated for his strong, yet compassionate leadership. The church will thrive as he obeys God.

What nobody really told us is that the everyday, mundane events of administration and maintenance can eat up the Minister's week. My son, Seth, now a Childrens' Pastor, wrote the following. "No one ever told me I would pull teeth of little kids; no one told me I would have to clean up bubble parties in the bathroom, or rescue preschool workers from little boys who lock themselves in closets because they had gone pee in there."

I discovered quickly that I would have to print bulletins, make deposits and do the accounting, cut grass and trim hedges, do painting, plumbing, carpentry and electricity (scary), replace lighting, vacuum, and worst of all, clean toilets. While I am not very good at many of these chores, I can say that I have developed a certain skill level in all of them. In fact, in a strange sort of way, I have come to realize that each of these responsibilities has produced character that I may not have developed otherwise. Charis (my daughter-in-law), wouldn't you agree that character is important?

I have come to realize the importance of serving the Body of Christ with a good attitude in these mundane, behind-the-scenes activities. I believe this so strongly that I can now say with a strong conviction that no Minister is worth his salt if he does not have a good toilet-cleaning story. Yea, you guessed it; you get to hear my toilet-cleaning story.

I was Administrator of the Christian School our church had established. One day it was reported to me that the urinal in the boys' bathroom that served our third and fourth graders was stopped up. In case you did not already know this, urinals are not designed for solids. Only liquids will flush. So, I wondered why the urinal would be stopped up. It would have been nice to have had a full time custodian whom I could call on a two-way radio and send to the rescue. But no, I, the Pastor/Administrator, was the only one on call. Besides, we didn't have two-way radios. When I arrived to scope out the damage, I discovered that apparently some little boy had devised a way to deposit "solids" (feces, poop, #two) in the urinal. Even though I knew it was not going to flush, I was hoping a few timely flushes would dissolve the "solids" adequately to make it disappear. That was only a pipe dream. Ultimately I conceded I would have to find a way to remove the "solids" from the urinal. It was not a fun task and I secretly resented the teacher who reported the incident, but would not take the responsibility to do anything more. Finally the task was over and I could get back to the important duties of ministry.

The next day, the teacher reported to me again the same problem. I took care of it again and this time really scolded the boys in the class and threatened the safety of their lives if it should happen again. Well, the next day, we were back in the same mess, if you know what I mean. Since none of the boys would own up to the responsibility, I figured the entire group of boys would have to assist in the cleanup. To their dismay, I made each of the boys join me in the bathroom and with the pair of tongs I had conscripted for the daily duty, each had to remove a piece of the "solid". I do not understand to this day why I did not have some parents in my office and on my case for involving their innocent little kids in this disgusting task. I'm sure most were uninvolved and yet, all learned an important lesson in hygiene that day.

By the way, if my memory serves me correctly, and it doesn't always, my son, Heath, was one of the "depositors" involved. Heath, if I am wrong, please forgive me for the unjust accusation. If I am right, I hope you have your own share of similar experiences. I would wish this on you only because I understand the value of every minister having a good toilet-cleaning story.

Good Baptisms Gone Bad

I grew up in church and witnessed many water baptisms; you know, the good dunking kinds of baptism. We were Baptists, so, of course we believed it took a good head-to-toe-put-you-all-the-way-under-soaking-kind of immersion. You would think that just from witnessing so many baptisms, including my own about age 12, it would be a pretty simple thing to conduct a baptism. I suppose it seemed so simple that no one ever really thought to teach us in Bible College just how to go about such a service.

Then came my first opportunity to perform a baptism. Many questions suddenly presented. Does the candidate just duck under the water or should he be lowered backward and then lifted again? How do you grab the candidate as he is lowered into the water in an adequate manner to prevent losing him or drowning him or seeing his feet float to the top as he begins to do the backstroke? If the candidate is a female, how do you hold on without being inappropriately friendly? What happens if she needs to hold her nose to prevent gurgling and choking? Should we provide those little swimmie nose clips, or does such a humorous sight diminish the sacred propriety of the moment, and what about those robes we gave to all the celebrants - How do you keep it from floating up over the head as he comes into the baptismal pool? What do you do if the very top part of the head did not go all the way under? What exactly were the words I was required to say? Should I pronounce, "...in the name of the Father, Son and Holy Spirit," before the dunking, as it takes place or as the candidate is being raised out of the water? How do you keep from squealing aloud at the coldness of the water because someone forgot to turn on the water heater, if it even had one, or if you were in the local river? How do you deal with the flailing of the candidate who has a fear of water, and what about the handicapped candidate in the wheelchair or on crutches? There were so many questions for which I needed answers.

Some of my favorite baptism stories follow. I heard the story from an older minister who was officiating a baptism in a river. They took a couple of steps too far into the river and found themselves in over their heads. The current began to wash them away and they both got baptized again.

Then there were friends of ours who grew up in a non-immersion church and were not sure how to "perform" when they entered the baptistry. As soon as the husband and wife stepped in and before the minister could really say anything, they just bent their knees and ducked under the water. The minister frantically splashed around in the water trying to "lay hands on" the couple as he sputtered the correct pronouncement, "...in the name of...".

My father-in-law decided it would be a good idea to wear fishing waders so he would not get his clothes wet. He failed to account for the level of water displacement that would occur when the candidate came into the pool with him. Water rushed into the waders and not only did he get his clothes wet, but he was now unable to move because of the weight of water in his waders. He also learned the hard way it is not a good idea to tap on the microphone set up just outside the pool while standing in the baptismal water.

My own personal worst nightmare regarding baptism occurred about 12 hours before the service. On this particular Saturday night, I had turned on the water to fill the tank. It usually took about 35 minutes to fill and was always a boring responsibility to have to wait on it to get full. I watched a few minutes till the water was above the mark at which it was safe to turn on the heaters. I decided to do a little more study in the office while I waited. I became deeply absorbed in my study, but finally finished and headed to my house for much needed sleep. I went to bed, then sat bolt upright about midnight with a nightmarish thought. Did I turn off that water? I could not remember doing so and felt it prudent that I rush back to check on it. You see, the baptistry we had did not have an automatic shutoff to cut the water flow when it reached the full mark. It had now been at least 3 hours, probably longer, since I had begun the 35 minute process. As I ran into the sanctuary, water was freely flowing over the sides onto the stage floor, running just as freely off the stage and all the way to the back of the 500 seat auditorium. I cut the water, but the damage had been done. I called one of the men in our church who had a carpet cleaning business to tell him what had happened, hoping he would volunteer to load his wet vacs and come assist me in the cleanup. However, he graciously offered me the use of his equipment if I would just drive to his house and pick it up, a 30 minute drive each way. I know it was my responsibility, but I was sure counting on a "servant-hearted member" to come help me in this pinch. He didn't. As I spent the next several hours wet-vaccing the sanctuary, putting down all the towels we owned and setting up drying fans, I can't say I was appreciating the ministry.

I almost decided that night to become a Methodist. They believed in "Sprinkling Baptisms".

They never told me I would have to act in the Christmas Play...

Though some may think differently, I am not much of an actor. It is hard for me to pretend to be someone I'm not. If I were trying to be serious right now, I could say that I don't act because the Greek word for an actor was 'hypocrite'. That word today has a bad connotation, so none of us want to be hypocrites. When I try to do any serious acting, I just get tickled at myself and start laughing. That does not mean I can't put on a show. I can perform, and I definitely love being the center of attention, especially if I have a chance to tell my "fork joke" (Don't ask now. I'll save that for another time.)

When I was a kid, the only Christian TV we had was Oral Roberts and Gospel Quartets. I was really touched and moved by those Gospel Quartets, so much so, that I decided I would become a Gospel Singer. Alas, my downfall was the lack of any semblance of timing and an even worse ear for the right notes. Dallise says I'm the only person she knows who can change keys three times in one verse and never know I did so. Now they didn't tell me in Bible College that I would ever have to sing. Imagine my horror when I was told extra Christmas Choir members were needed. Imagine the horror of the choir director when he discovered the colossal mistake of inviting me to be part of the Christmas Choir. I must say that in time I did develop some ability to sing whatever "part" the choir member beside whom I was standing sang. I can now boast that I sing Soprano, Alto, Bass and Tenor.

Oh, back to being a hypocrite...I mean, actor. One Christmas, a man in our church wrote a brilliant Christmas play titled, "Inside The Inn". He even wrote the lyrics and music for the songs. We had wonderful carpenters, artists and wardrobe specialists who built and painted the sets and designed the clothing. The story centered around the Innkeeper who was trying to find someone willing to give up his room at the Inn for Joseph and Mary. Everyone he asked refused. The message of the play questioned us all as to whether we would make room in our hearts for Jesus.

One of the characters in the play who refused to give up his room was a wealthy merchant. On the night we were performing at the local prison, the merchant was sick and I was quickly conscripted as his understudy. When I made my appearance on the set dressed in the elaborate flowing silk robes of a wealthy merchant and extravagantly, recklessly decked out in jewelry and makeup, I heard one of the inmates, seated no more than ten feet from me, say to his buddy beside him, "Now there's a 'fag' if I've ever seen one!" I don't mean to be politically incorrect in using this terminology. It's just the way it happened at the time.

I was actually scarred and scared all at the same time. My pride was injured and my emotions were wounded that I might appear to be someone I am not. I feared my body might also be injured as there was no barrier inside the ten feet that separated me from them. Somehow, I stumbled through the few minutes I had to be onstage and swore I would never act again.

If I had wanted to be an actor, I would have gone to acting school. Instead, I wanted to be a Pastor, and we all know there are no hypocrites...I mean actors, standing in our pulpits today.

My First Funeral, A Last Minute Funeral and a Midnight Funeral

They never told me in Bible College just how to conduct a funeral. In hindsight, it seems conducting funerals should have been a major subject. The statistics are that about 100 people around the world die every minute. That's 6000 deaths per hour, 144000 per day, more than 52 million per year. Every Pastor is guaranteed that he will have to conduct the funerals of at least a couple of those 52M people each year.

The very first funeral I ever officiated was that of a dear old lady to whom I often gave a ride to church. Even after spending time in the car with her on so many Sunday mornings, about the only thing I knew about her was that she raised rabbits. When she passed away, the Senior Pastor had to be away and assigned me the task of conducting the funeral. Her family lived elsewhere and I had never met them. I spent a few minutes with them at their hotel room planning the service. They did not want it to be too long, but also they did not want it to be too short. They wanted it to be personal, but not too personal. They wanted some Scripture, but not too much Scripture. They wanted this, but not that. It was clear they did not really trust me, but they had no other option. I wasn't even sure what was considered too short or too long. As I began to speak on the day of the funeral, I realized I had covered everything I had to say in the first three minutes, and was acutely aware this was definitely too short. I filled a couple more minutes talking about the fact that she raised rabbits, but I knew nothing about rabbits, so that ended rather quickly and awkwardly. It was at that moment I realized I really knew nothing about this family or the deceased. It was a disaster and the Honorarium I was secretly excited about receiving never materialized.

One Sunday morning, a member stood to ask the church to pray for the family of a lady who had been ill. I asked publicly about her current status, and to my surprise, was told the paper said I was officiating the funeral the next morning at 10:00am. I was speechless and quite rattled by this news. I didn't even know she had died, and again was not that well acquainted with her or the family. As you can imagine, I rushed straight to the funeral home after church to find out what was going on. The long story short is that the family thought the Funeral Home Director had spoken to me and the Director thought the family had contacted me. I spent a few minutes with the family and with God's Grace, we pulled it off the next morning. Thank God for "Prayer Request" time!

My most unusual funeral was a midnight funeral. This story is about Nancy, a Single Mom at that time, with whom we are still friends. This is my memory of that night. About midnight I received a frantic phone call from Nancy saying that her dog had just been hit by a car and killed. "Could you please come over and help me bury the dog right now so my boys will not have to see him dead tomorrow morning." I rousted one of my sons from bed and we went to Nancy's house. She was grieving over the loss of the dog and, I'm sure, grieving over the loss her boys would experience. We took him into the woods behind her house, I with the dog, my son with the shovel and Nancy with the flashlight. Amidst Nancy's tears, I dug the hole, placed the dog in the hole and threw in the first shovelful of dirt. When the dirt landed on his chest, the dog moaned, and Nancy lost it. "Oh no, He's alive! We can't bury him!" She wasn't sure whether to be glad he was alive or terrified that we were about to bury him alive. It took me a few tense moments to convince Nancy that the shoveful of dirt had simply compressed his lifeless lungs forcing the moan from his dead body. Finally she consented for us to continue the "burial service". After a few moments spent consoling Nancy and letting her know I would be available to talk to her sons the next day, the midnight funeral service concluded and my son and I headed back to our warm beds.

So that no one thinks I am being unkind to my wonderful Professors in college, I have to admit that even had there been a course on conducting funerals, no one could have thought to include Midnight Dog Funerals as part of the curriculum.

I now spend time with the families of the loved one who has passed away. I jot down notes from the stories they tell me and that they recount to one another as they remember. I then weave those stories into the comments I have planned for the service. Families love that personal touch and always feel that I have captured the essence of who they are as a family. As one friend said, "People will not remember many of your sermons, but they will remember that you were there during the death of loved ones."

Eating Peacock, Laying Tile and Getting Peed On

They never told me about all the odd jobs, both paid and volunteer, that ministry offers, or seems at times, demands. At various times in my 33 years, there have been seasons that necessitated my working a little part-time job to make ends meet.

I spent one summer working on the ranch of a church member putting in fence. He paid me, even though I cut his expensive tape measure into two pieces with the post hole diggers. It was also there that I first tried a peacock sandwich. He kept peacocks on his ranch running wild. Early one morning he heard a fuss and went out to find one had just been killed by a predator. It was still fresh, so he dressed it and we baked it and ate it for lunch. What did it taste like? You guessed it... Chicken! He was also pretty big on Mountain Oysters, but I passed on those. If you're not sure about Mountain Oysters, ask your friends; someone will know.

Another summer, I worked with a local Pastor and friend who had a construction remodeling business on the side. He left me on the job in a hot, closed-in space with a jackhammer tearing out a concrete floor. I have never been so tired at the end of a day.

Then there were all the odd things you just help people do out of the goodness of your heart, right? Our Worship Pastor, Gary, had promised my son, who was President of the high school Christian Club, that he would lead a couple of songs at See-You-At-The-Pole. The night before the event, he called begging off since he lived some distance away. I sort of put my foot down about it and suggested strongly that it would be wrong of him to back out at such late notice and that it was important for him to keep his word. To his credit and my gratitude, he honored me and made his appearance.

Sometime later, he asked me if I would come to his house and show him how to lay ceramic tile in his bathroom. Since I had learned to lay tile for myself, I offered to assist him one Saturday. On the appointed day, the last thing in the world I wanted to do was lay tile, but I remembered my speech to him about keeping one's word. I realized that instead of putting my foot down, I had put it in my mouth. There was nothing I could do but go. After watching Gary for a while, I realized he was doing a great job on his own. It was a small room that would not accommodate both of us working at once, but I certainly could not suggest that I was unnecessary and should go home. After sometime, Gary said, "Pastor, I think I have it under control now, so why don't you go home. Besides, I know the only reason you came is because you had to honor your word after making me honor mine." I did not realize it was so obvious. As we sat talking a few minutes before I left, his new puppy came running over to me, hiked his leg and peed on my foot. Gary was so embarrassed and with repeated apologies got the puppy under control. I was definitely ready to go home. Gary, however, in the next Sunday morning service was not so embarrassed. He told the whole church about how I had made him follow through with his promise and how funny it was that I then had to eat my own words and be there to help him. On top of everything else, he then announced to the entire morning congregation that his dog had peed on the preacher's foot. Of course, everyone thought it was hilarious.

They never told me in Bible College that I would get peed on, sometimes literally as in the story above, and other times figuratively. I think we'll save the figurative stories for another time (or maybe never).

Breaking the Color Barrier

Even though the Civil Rights Movement had survived its turbulent first days of expression in Selma, Montgomery and Birmingham by the time I was off to Bible College in 1972, I really still had no preparation for dealing with racial issues in our fine Southern churches.

So, what does a Pastor do back in the mid-seventies, when standing on the stage as the worship begins, he looks up to see a new family come in the sanctuary doors of our southern, all-white church congregation. The family consists of the African American Dad (at that time it was appropriate to say that he was Black), a Caucasion Mom (called a white woman) and two beautiful children. I remember thinking that we were going to very quickly find out what we were made of as a church family. They joined in the worship and, I'm sure in hindsight, felt rather uncomfortable being there, yet determined to find a place.

At the end of the service as I was making my way toward them to get acquainted, I saw one of our members making a bee line for the couple. I was just close enough to hear the conversation. "I want you to know right now that I don't think it is right for you two to be married. I think it's wrong and I don't like it at all." I was beginning to shudder with the realization that any hopes I had for a gracious reception of this family into our church was nigh impossible, when to my absolute shock and awe, this member went on to say, "But, I'm gonna tell you one thing right now. If you want to come to our church, you're going to be welcome here!" Wow, I almost passed out with gratitude.

Another man probably did more Bible study in the next couple of weeks than he had his whole life, looking for a scripture to condemn this inter-racial marriage. He caught me one Sunday morning right after the service with a scripture reference, Ezra 10:10. He said, "Pastor, I found a scripture that proves they shouldn't be married. Look at it this afternoon and tell me tonight what you think of it." That afternoon I looked up Ezra 10:10, which reads, "And Ezra the priest stood up, and said unto them, Ye have transgressed, and have taken strange wives, to increase the trespass of Israel." Of course, he was referring to the phrase , "strange wives", which Ezra meant as a reference to Israel marrying the women of the ungodly nations among whom the Israelites lived and adopting their idolatrous customs. This member wanted to twist the scripture to imply that inter-racial marriage was an abomination to God. As soon as I saw this man that evening, he came running up to me, "Did you read that scripture? What do you think about that verse?" I said, "You know, it says that the Israelite men were not to take 'strange wives' unto themselves. Is that what you wanted me to read?" "Yes," he said excitedly, "What do you think?" I said, "Well, I'm not sure exactly what you're getting at. There is nothing strange about her. She's as white as any of us!" My friend muttered something under his breath and walked away.

I am happy to report this family did find a welcome in our church, even from these two men. It turns out our new member was a talented musician who had actually performed with some pretty famous people, such as Bob Hope. He took an active role in our music ministry, leading some pretty impressive Easter Cantatas and Dramas in his tenure with us. They eventually moved on, but we were grateful to have had them as part of our church family for the time they were with us.

Now we have elected an African American President. I suspect we can all say, "We've come a long way, baby!" The experience I noted above was not the only racial battle I have fought within church settings, but I'm grateful for each one that has strengthened my resolve to embrace all people with the message of God's love.