Because I was a child of the Depression, my earliest recollections of my childhood church are tempered with the facts of Depression life. Take, for example, the fact that our steeple was blown off during a hurricane. There was absolutely no money to replace it, and so the building sat in the center of our New England village looking flat and half-constructed.
Then there was our pastor. Pastor Brown was a hardworking, God-loving minister. He was also a husband and the father of five lively children. A Depression fact was that our church at that period could not pay the minister a salary large enough to support his family. A less devoted minister might have moved on to a larger church, but Pastor Brown loved his congregation, and so he stayed . . . and became the butcher at the little A&P market. Some of his flock enjoyed getting freshly ground hamburger and a "God bless you" at the same time. Others felt that a minister should not moon light, regardless of the circumstances.
How well I remember the day my grandmother took me to the market for a loaf of white bread. One of the longtime members of our small congregation, a lady who was regarded as a pillar of the church, was talking to the butcher. She told Pastor Brown in no uncertain terms that she did not like him working at the market. As I waited to be helped, I couldn't help overhearing the conversation.
"Bear in mind, Reverend," the elderly lady said sternly, "that you work for us, your congregation."
My minister smiled gently, took her small hand in his large one, and said in a firm tone of voice, "My dear lady, I am here to lead, to teach, to help people know Jesus Christ. I'm here to comfort, to assist, to share the joys of my congregation, and to help solve the problems that arise in the church and among the people. But, dear lady, I work for God. I am by choice His servant."
Finally the membership voted to tell the minister he must either leave his position or leave the church. The pastor had no real choice. His children had to have shoes and warm coats. They had to have good food. We lost our minister to a larger church.
But a rather interesting (my dad called it funny) thing happened right after the new pastor accepted our call and came to our church. He was young, newly ordained, and single. He could manage quite well on the salary the church could pay. To say nothing of all the free meals he received from the church families with unmarried daughters! However, with the memory of the former pastor fresh in their minds, the board of deacons made it clear to the young minister that they expected him to please them and the membership of the church.
The youthful pastor stood there looking at the board of deacons. He was tall, husky, and had hair the color of fire, as well as 60 million (at least) freckles. And he grinned at his new flock.
"Well, I'll tell you," the young man said. "I'm here to please God. If I can please my congregation and still please Him, fine. If it seems to me that something might not please Him, then you are out of luck."
The years passed. Times became better economically. I grew up. And for some time those ministers of my child hood didn't enter my mind. I was involved with my church, and I liked the ministers we had, so those pastors from my childhood didn't seem to matter very much.
Then I went to spend several weeks with a dear friend in another state. Her husband was hospitalized, her parents were unable to come and help her, and her children were small. I had left the newspaper to free-lance full-time and could stay with her until her life became easier. While there, I met the new minister of her church.
"We like this," said the members.
"Certainly," said the minister.
"We'd prefer that," said the members.
"Absolutely, I agree 100 percent," said the minister.
"We'd rather you didn't," said the members.
"Then I won't, of course," agreed the minister.
"You're not to," said the members.
"Then, of course, I won't," said the minister.
Things got better for my friend. Her husband was home and recovering nicely. I could go home. The afternoon before I was to leave, I stopped at the pastor's study to tell him goodbye. He was just dropping a folder into the wastebasket.
"A sermon I wrote. One of the deacons read it and disapproved of it, so I have to discard it," he sighed. "I thought it was a good message, but of course, I have to please my congregation."
Pastor Brown suddenly come to mind. And then I thought of my wonderful, young redheaded minister.
"No, you don't," I said.
"What?" the minister asked. "I don't have to what?"
"Please your congregation," I said. "You don't have to please your congregation unless it also pleases God."
Maybe I shouldn't have said it! I raised my eyebrows slightly and said my goodbyes quickly and headed toward the door. I looked back as I left. What I saw brought a smile to my face.
The minister was getting his sermon out of the wastebasket.
I hope it was a good sermon. I hope they didn't fire him. I hope God is his number one employer all these years later.
I know something about all this. You see, as a Christian writer, I've got the same Boss. He's a great one to work for, isn't He?
