PALESTINE — From the moment he appeared on our rural horizon, we all knew that we had ourselves a different kind of preacher. His predecessor, though a good man and as eloquent as one could ask for, was an office-type person who was seldom seen outside his study. An insatiable reader, he devoured books by the dozens, and liked to discuss the finer points of theology with anyone who’d listen — blissfully oblivious to the fact that most of us didn’t understand what in the world he was talking about. But now, after eight years, this brother was leaving us — moving out of state to be near his ailing parents. In searching for a replacement, the leaders of our little flock had discovered this fellow, Robert Lyndale, and had arranged for a trial sermon and a sort of get-acquainted fellowship meal afterwards.

Well, to make a short story long, that particular Sunday morning dawned bright and clear, and almost our entire congregation turned out for the big event. And what an event it was! Whereas, our departing minister was small and slight of build (and sometimes appeared to be a bit unsure of himself), Brother Lyndale was six feet tall, sun-tanned and muscular, and wore a big smile that seemed to say, to one and all, “Hey! I like you, and I’d like to get to know you better.” His trial sermon was a dandy — practical, down-to-earth, and with some things that would  make you stop and think.

After the fellowship meal that day, folks began to bombard our brother with the kinds of questions that were on their heart.

One man, looking the preacher squarely in the eye, said, “Let’s say the brethren agreed to hire you. What would you like to be called- Reverend Lyndale?” To that, the preacher responded kindly, “No, I wouldn’t be comfortable with that. You see, that word ‘Reverend’ is found only once in the King James translation of the Bible, in Psalms, chapter 111, verse 9, and even there it refers to God. So I’d prefer that you call me Brother Bob. Just because I fill a pulpit doesn’t make me any greater (or my job more important) than any of  yours. You see, folks, we’re all in this thing together.”

Somebody else inquired as to the kind of hours he would be keeping if he wound up being hired, and Brother Bob replied, “Well, to tell you the truth, I’m not much of an office man. I like to be out among my people - finding out more about them, and just helping anyway I can.”

Now that remark rang my bell, and evidently a lot of others, for Brother Bob was hired that very day, and he and his sweet wife Amy moved  into our parsonage two weeks later. True to his word, our new minister “hit the ground running,” so to speak. There was not a sick or home-bound soul for miles around who didn’t get a visit and a prayer from Brother Bob. One member (an old-timer) said admiringly, “That man’s a sugarstick, if there ever was one!”

In addition to some powerful, pulpit preaching, Brother Bob was very effective in personal, one-on-one home Bible studies, too. After he had been with us for awhile, somebody (as a cruel joke, probably) “siced” Brother Bob onto ol’ Cussin’ Jack Carruthers. Now let me say, up front, that Cussin’ Jack didn’t acquire that name by quoting Scriptures, or Sunday School lessons. Man! That guy could out-cuss 10 sailors, and give them some change. How in the world he ever did it only the Good Lord knows, but the first thing we knew Brother Bob was out at ol’ Jack’s place for an hour or so almost every day. If our preacher could find no other way to discuss eternal things, he’d simply fall into step beside ol’ Cussin’ Jack as he plowed corn or cotton. Jack was not a Christian, but Brother Bob taught him that he ought to be, for the sake of his own soul and in order that his dear wife “Miss Effie” might enjoy peace of mind before she passed on. Prior to being stricken with terminal cancer, “Miss Effie” was one of the most faithful members of our church, and many was the time she sought the prayers of the brethren on behalf of her un-Christian, foul-mouthed husband. But years passed, and nothing and nobody had changed ol’ Jack yet.

But little by little, through kindness and Godly example, our preacher began to make a dent in the heretofore impenetrable hide of Cussin’ Jack. When “Miss Effie” died, Brother Bob was there on the spot — reading scripture, praying softly, and holding one of her hands while Jack held the other. After her death, Ol’ Cussin’ Jack seemed to gravitate more and more toward Brother Bob and his wife. One Sunday, after a tasty lunch in their home, ol’ Jack, for the first time, sort of “opened up” and began to talk in earnest about heavenly matters.

“Preacher,” he said softly, “I know you thought I wasn’t listening all this time, but I was. Do you think ‘Miss Effie’ would somehow know if I did this thing — quit all my cussin’ ‘n’ stuff, and tried to do better. In other words, do you think God could ever forgive an old reprobate like me?”

There were tears in his eyes as Brother Bob said quietly, “To answer your first question: Yes, somehow I think ‘Miss Effie’ would know and would rejoice; to answer your other question — yes, it’s never too late for a believing, repentant person to come to the Lord. When (and if) you’re immersed into Christ, Jack, all your sins are washed away by the blood of Jesus.”

Ol’ “Cussin’ Jack” became simply Brother Jack that very night, right after the evening invitation, and nobody’s heard him utter a cuss word for a long time now.

He’s God’s man now and probably Brother Bob’s best friend.

Say! Ain’t God something?



This column sponsored by: Encompass Home Health (”a better way to care”), 2256 S. Sycamore St. Suite 2, Palestine, Texas 75801, 903-723-3991.