My son, Bennett, and I returned home about 8:30. With my wife and daughter out of town, Bennett and I decided to give away quarters at the mall. He calls it “going to the arcade.”
We needed the time together, father and son, and I needed a break from thinking about church. After seven fairly smooth years, I had made an unpopular decision involving a popular staff member, and a group of church members, small but vocal, was calling for my head.
The evening was a good distraction and I had relaxed a bit, until we turned down our street. Under the streetlight in front of our house sat three men. I didn’t like the looks of this. Even at a distance, I knew they were from the church.
“Go on upstairs, get your shower, and go to bed,” I told Bennett. “I’ll check on you later.” And I walked toward the three men on the curb.
Dear Jezebel My wife, Liz, and I liked to say that we’d never had a bad day in the ministry. Oh, sure, sometimes things didn’t go as we planned—the budget fluctuated or a service didn’t come off well—but no really bad days. Until I decided to make a staff change.
The church was growing and because of that we faced new challenges. It appeared to me that after 24 years, it was time a new worship leader. Our music minister was a valuable part of our team, but it appeared to me he was in the wrong place now, given the times and our needs. He was gifted in other areas, skills we needed, and I approached him about making a move.
He resisted.
Preacher, if you stay straight and moral and ethical and biblical, we will die for you. If not, we will kill you.
For a year he resisted. My recommendation and his resistance both became public. Some people took sides, and the debate grew hot. Given his longevity, I debated whether I should leave. The two most visible ministers can’t be at cross purposes for such an extended period without crippling the church. Finally I made the strategic decision only I could make. I asked him to resign.
By then a group of about two dozen people had made it their goal to force me to resign. Before long, I wanted to. I really wanted to.
We had a business meeting on the calendar the day the staff member announced his resignation. I wondered how it would play out. After a few routine reports, one man stood up and announced the amount of my salary. “That’s how much you make,” he stated, “and you’re not worth what we pay you!”
That unleashed a three-hour barrage of insults and accusations. As moderator, I was required to remain neutral, even though the attacks were mostly about me. I didn’t want to keep silent, but by God’s grace, I did.
In the next months, I wanted to leave the church. I didn’t want out of ministry, just out of Pensacola. I prayed fervently, “God, I’ll go to Toadsuck, Arkansas, if you’ll send me there. Just find me a place, send a pulpit committee, and I’ll go.”
Why is it you never hear from a pulpit committee when you need one? I stuck it out, even though I hated going to the office. I knew more vicious reports would greet me each day. It grew really nasty.
The attacks not aimed at me targeted my wife. Liz is active in the music program, often writing special holiday programs and celebrations that draw thousands each year. She had worked closely with the staff member I asked to resign. Word soon went around that the termination was her idea. “He’s just doing his wife’s bidding” is a remark I heard more than once. One time Liz received an anonymous letter at our home, pages of hurtful assaults. The envelope was addressed to Jezebel.
For the congregation, most of whom were not directly involved, the fighting and plotting became reason for embarrassment. Our 110-year-old church had a fairly peaceful history by local recollection, but suddenly everyone connected to Olive Baptist Church was on the defensive. “What’s going on at your church?” people demanded to know. By some accounts, the church was sure to split, or already had. Others wanted to know how much longer I would last.
So did I.
Three mighty men It was dark as I walked toward the men on the curb, and silhouetted against the shafts from the streetlight, I could see who they were. They were three of my dearest friends at the church. Were my own friends here to tell me it was time to go?
“What are you all doing here?” I called out.
“Oh, Preacher, we’ve been on a little trip today,” one said.
Another man said, “You ever read Second Samuel 23?”
“I’m sure I have, but refresh my memory.”
“Remember how David was hiding out in a cave with the Philistines camped nearby. And he sighed, and—
“And wished for water from the well at home in Bethlehem,” I said. “I know the story.”
“Remember how you used to talk about the well in Pisgah,” another of the trio said. “You said it was an artesian well that flows right out of the ground so cold and pure that you’d stick your head down there and drink water ’til you nearly drowned.”
“On hot days, as a boy, I—”
“Well, we got up at five o’clock this morning and drove to your home in North Alabama. We’ve been to Pisgah.”
“That’s a six-hour drive from here,” I said.
“Yep. We’ve been on the road 14 hours today. We just got back about a half-hour ago, and we’ve been sitting here praying and waiting for you to come home.”
“We drove up there and met your mama and daddy,” the first man said. “They showed us the well, and we brought you this.” He reached in the back of the car and handed me a quart fruit jar full of water.
I cried. I’m not ashamed to say it. We all did. Three mighty men had brought me refreshment from my own Bethlehem. I was deeply moved by their gracious act of love when I so needed it.
We prayed, and after a while, I said, “It’s getting late and you must be very tired; I guess you boys better go home.”
“We’re not done yet, Preacher. While we were there with your daddy—he’s kind of a quiet guy—he said that when you were a teenager, you’d go out on this big rock on the brow of the mountain and pray.”
It was true. At 17 I was called to the ministry. Back then we said we were “called to preach.” That was the only call we knew. In fact, five of us on our high school football team were called to preach. Often I went out to the rocky ledge near my home to talk to God and sometimes to practice preaching. I spent many hours there praying over my call.
“Your daddy said you’d lie out there and plead, ‘Lord, show me what to do,'” the mighty man continued, “so we asked your daddy to take us there. We had a little prayer meeting and busted off some of that old rock.”
He brought out two large chunks of rock.
“We want you to put this in your yard. Any time you get discouraged, just go out there and stand on these rocks. Know that the God who called you will be the God who sustains you.”
I swallowed hard, ready to squall again, but they weren’t finished. “Remember the flowers that grow on the mountainside there?”
“Rhododendrons,” I said. “Beautiful.”
He pulled out an old Maxwell House coffee can, full of moss and dirt, with blooms sticking from the top. “Guys! Those are protected; it’s a $50 fine for—”
One chuckled. “Our preacher taught us it’s easier to ask for forgiveness than permission.”
“We want you to know that the God who is the Lily of the Valley will always bring a fresh flower to your soul if you will trust him.”
Then they drew closer and their tone was very serious. One man handed me a card. “Put our phone numbers in your wallet. Whenever you have trouble, wherever you are in the world, call us. We’ll get there quick as we can.”
“We have talked about this all day—six hours up and six hours back,” the largest man said as he stuck out his hand to grasp mine, “and we want to make this statement to you: We will die for our pastor. We will die for you. If you stay straight and be moral and be ethical and be biblical, we will die for you. If you are immoral and unethical and unbiblical, we will kill you.” (Now that’s a deacon!)
“Preacher,” he concluded, “we’re not serving you, we’re serving the King who called you. And we are in this together.”
I knew they meant it. Mighty men indeed.
Something to stand on That was a turning point. After the night visitors left, I continued to praise God. I went inside and checked on Bennett. He was sleeping soundly. I knew I could make it through. We could make it through.
Our deacons stood with me, even those who disagreed with the decision. “The pastor didn’t do anything immoral,” one fellow said. “We asked him to lead, and he’s led.”
Perhaps I could have averted the crisis, or at least minimized it, if I had brought some of these men around me earlier. Knowing how they stand with me, I have relied on them since.
The mighty men themselves have kept a low profile. I told the story to the church several years after it happened, but few people know who the three water-bringers are.
On the anniversary of their visit, we and our wives gathered for dinner, with the rocks and a photograph of the flower on the dining table as a centerpiece. It was a great celebration as we saw how God was healing our congregation and preparing us for a new season of growth.
As for the water, the jar sat on the credenza behind my desk. I vowed I would not pour it out as an offering, as David had poured out the water his mighty men had risked their lives to fetch for him. I would keep my jar of artesian well water as a memorial to God’s goodness. Not long after, as I shared the story with a pastor who needed encouragement, I turned from my desk to show him the water, and it was gone. The cleaning lady had poured it down the drain. A drink offering, after all.
But I still have the rocks. They are planted in the side yard at my house. Sometimes I stand on them and remember the men who stand with me. I recall where the rocks came from and the God who called me. And whatever the situation, I never stand alone.
Ted Traylor is pastor of Olive Baptist Church in Pensacola, Florida.
Copyright © 2004 by the author or Christianity Today/Leadership Journal. Click here for reprint information onLeadership Journal.
