One of my dear elderly friends is a member of a local church here, the church I was baptized in as a baby. She is on the board, meaning I know not what, but what I do know is that she often calls the pastor to tell him how he is doing.
“And how is he doing?” I asked. We were watching a storm come in.
“Well mostly fine. Sometimes he steps on toes, goes too long without talking to someone, you know, and I let him know they’re upset. He’s always quick to speak to them the following week, and long to stay. But he’s not good at home visits and hospitals. I’m always on him about that. He says they didn’t cover that enough in seminary and he’s scared. People won’t understand that, I tell him, so you have to go anyway.” She sighed, as if over a wayward son.
I shrugged. “He came with communion when Pop was dying and I thought he did great.”
“Pastor Dave came to Harold? ‘
“Who was there?”
“Just the three of us. ”
“I didn’t know.”
“Oh. I’m sorry. It was beautiful. And unexpected. He didn’t call, I don’t think, just showed up at the door with a little silver communion set.” It was like something from a storybook, that day, like a scene with Father Tim from Jan Karon’s Mitford, except cowritten by George MacDonald, for I still could hardly make sense of it beyond praise. “Pop was in and out of consciousness. He apologized for not coming sooner, but it was alright. I didn’t know he was scared.”
We were quiet awhile. She was disrupted, not because she wasn’t grateful, but because she wasn’t grateful sooner. She was further disrupted when she considered what else she may not know. This man had received her correction humbly, perhaps even foolishly, for such open criticism could hardly be healthy to the average pastor, apart from his wife, if he’s lucky. He hadn’t shared his victories, even to an old woman who would’ve relished and repeated them. A whole year had passed since that day when he brought the Lord’s supper to a stunned girl and an unconscious old man long loved by the church he was appointed head of, daily serving and only sometimes welcome in himself. Too heady, too preachy, too northern, they’d said.
“And he’s always quoting old people,” one told me once.
“Old people? Like yourself?” And I guess I deserved that dirty look.
“Dead people. Long dead.”
Maybe it was those long dead people who taught him not to stand on his rights and maintain his superiority and make it known how dearly he deserved his wage. Maybe it was Samuel Rutherford’s down with your top sail! Stoop man, stoop. It is a low entry into heaven’s gates, or Paul’s, do nothing from selfish ambition or conceit, but in humility count others more significant than yourselves, that gave him that secret character we only occasionally stumble upon in this world. But it’s living people who will love him for it, I thought, as I saw the dark skyline pass from my friend’s determined face. She had thought of a way to show him and I knew her well done would be a good foretaste of the Father’s, and worth every bit of her pastor’s long obedience.