Prearrangements

Before coming to Ashland City and the Bethlehem Church, I pastored the Bethel Church in South Roxana, Illinois.  It was quite an adjustment for a preacher born and bred in the South to work in the Midwest.  More than once church folks snickered at my “southern” accent all the while not being able to correctly pronounce my last name!  Many of them turned Corn into Carn!  After six months of pointing out how my family had pronounced the name since we arrived before the Revolutionary War, I just gave up.

Among the membership was a good-natured man named Glen Gray who owned a Funeral Home.  In my interaction with funeral directors up to that time, I had always found them to be on the serious side.  Who could blame them when you consider the nature of their work?  But with Glen I got to see more than just the professional side of his character.  He was among the most consistent volunteers around the church, and I counted him a friend.  He could rub people the wrong way, but he always seemed to me to go out of his way to show support for his preacher.  That support often took the form of poking fun at me.  I like to think I gave as good as I got, but in hindsight he probably was on the winning side of those exchanges.  One of his most consistent remarks was about how I needed to make “prearrangements.”  The first time he mentioned this, I distinctly remember saying, “Prearrangements for what?”  The answer--my funeral, of course!  At that time I was still in my 30’s and hardly of a mind to consider my end-of-life arrangements.  I think the fact that I looked a bit shocked by his suggestion just about guaranteed that he would bring it up again, and again, and again!  

Fast forward a number of years to the end of my pastoral career.  In 2015 I had been diagnosed with Corticobasal Degeneration (CBD). When my neurologist first said those words I knew it was serious, I just didn’t know how serious.  I generally have the ability to cut to the heart of a matter, and so I asked Dr. Callahan, “Well, is this something that kills you or just makes you wish you were dead?”  Dr. Callahan looked as though such a direct question was a bit unusual. After a pause he told me, “No, it isn’t terminal in and of itself.   However, it does result in growing problems with swallowing, which often causes aspirational pneumonia, which can be fatal.  Of equal threat is infection that can become sepsis, and often a feeding tube becomes necessary.”  I would later learn that many CBD patients lose the ability to walk and to talk, and that dementia can be a problem.  The prognosis was typically five to seven years from diagnosis to death. Reflecting on my question to Dr. Callahan, I began to see it was the second option that I would be facing. CBD would make me wish I were dead.

Now, everybody is going to die.  No one I know disputes that fact.  As a preacher I have reminded people often of Hebrews 9:27, “And as it is appointed unto men once to die, but after this the judgment.”  Both theologically and experientially we know that death is a fact of life, but most of us think of it as so remote we can put it out of our conscious thought.  Suddenly I became preoccupied with the approach of my death.  What do you do when medical authorities are telling you your days are numbered?  That a relentless degenerative disease is closing in on you, slowly but surely taking away more and more of your life?  

In a sense I was prepared for this.  I have spent my adult life as a pastor, and that has meant I have seen people face death. Some have seemed overwhelmed by it, and no amount of family concern or pastoral care relieved their fear.  A few just lived in denial right up to the inevitable end.  As their minister, the one charged with the care of their souls, I would try to lovingly steer conversations around to the fact that God loved them, Jesus died for them, and God’s grace was there to sustain them.  I couldn’t just go along with their fantasy that nothing was wrong. At the other end of the spectrum were those who felt God had given them a raw deal.  Honestly, this is the worst sort of person to deal with as a pastor. No matter what counsel and comfort you try to give them, they throw it back in your teeth.  Their position is that you simply can’t know what they are going through, that all your advice is at best theoretical.  More than once I have just admitted to the dying I didn’t really know what it was like, but that I was certain Jesus knew all about it, and I was there on His behalf.

Thankfully, the reactions of fear, denial, and anger are not the only ones that I have encountered. Some have embodied the principles of God’s Word and the light of their faith just seemed to get brighter as the darkness settled around them.  I had a preacher friend who died of cancer.  I got to hear him speak perhaps six months before his passing, and one of the stories he told was of a particularly beautiful morning when he found himself saying, “I’m going to miss all of this!”  The thought then occurred to him that as nice as his home and its surroundings might be, they did not hold a candle to Heaven!  He also told of going to see his oncologist and being given a particularly bad report.  He decided that he and his wife should stop at his favorite Chinese restaurant for lunch on the way home.  At the end of the meal he cracked open his fortune cookie and began to laugh.  The fortune read, “You will move into a beautiful new home soon!”  As he told it, his wife didn’t think the message was that funny.  My friend’s thought was that God had sent that particular fortune cookie to him to put a smile on his face.

I suppose there are a number of ways to face death.  Of these four, fear, denial, anger, or faith, it is my prayer that I will fall into the final category, but I don’t suppose you can really know until death is imminent.  Ever since the control of my emotions became questionable, I have worried a bit about how I will come across to those closest to me.  Will my tears say to them that I am filled with fear rather than faith? I don’t know, but perhaps that is when a written record like this will help answer their questions.  

A few years ago I visited with an older minister who was slowly slipping into dementia.  I had greatly respected him through the years, and he was a man of sterling reputation.  As I was departing he gave me a prayer request.  With tears in his eyes and a quiver in his voice he said, “Please pray that I won’t do anything that will ruin my testimony.”  I assured him that I would pray.  At the time I didn’t understand his anxiety; now I do. As far as I can figure it, facing death is one of those times that calls for faith in God’s sustaining grace.

One aspect of that sustaining grace has come in unexpected ways, ways that put a smile on my face.  No, in spite of eating a lot of Chinese food I am yet to get the same fortune as my departed friend!  With me, one such event occurred when Joy and I went to a local funeral home to make the aforementioned prearrangements.  We sat across the table from a pleasant lady who explained the process to us.  The last item was to actually pick out a casket. First we looked at some pictures, but then we went into the “display room.”  I was surprised at how much variety there was to it, but we came to a decision after a minimum of deliberation.  There are few things more somber than picking out your casket, so I naturally thought this would be a good time to lighten the mood.  Turning to the lady I said, “Do you ever have people actually get into the casket to try it out for size?”  Since I said this with a straight face, she couldn’t tell if I was serious or not.  She responded, “Well, yes, that happens about once every couple of years, but, Reverend Corn, if you are thinking of doing that let me just say, caskets are not built for comfort.”  At this point an exasperated Joy told the funeral planner, “He’s just joking!”

No, caskets are not built for comfort, at least not the comfort of the occupant. Someday, and only God knows when, I will be in that casket and some of you reading this sentence will be looking at the casket and its occupant.  When that happens remember that I really won’t be in that casket.  I will be with “the God of all comfort.” 

Just a sinner saved and sustained by the amazing grace of God.  That is a comfort to me; I hope you can find comfort in it as well.

Homecoming

The first Sunday in May has been special to me for more than two decades.  That is the date for the Homecoming service at Bethlehem Free Will Baptist Church in Ashland City, TN, where I served as pastor for twenty-one years.  I retired due to a progressive disease called Corticobasal Degeneration, which made it impossible to do all that a pastor must do.  This was my second year to attend as the former pastor.  I was struck by how much has changed.

The building has changed.  After an interim of nine months, the church called a new pastor, Shiloh Hackett, before last year’s Homecoming, but the church leaders hadn’t really had time to change things much before that annual service rolled around.  I had heard that this year the church was working hard to do some renovations and that their goal was to have most of it done by Homecoming. On Sunday, May 6, Joy and I arrived at a church that had gone through a significant facelift.  It really is something what new carpet, pew cushions, windows, and paint can do!  I had the fleeting thought, “Why didn’t we do some of this while I was here?”  In answer, I reminded myself that this was not the same church it was when I came in 1995! 

The people have changed.  One significant shift that occurred during my tenure was on my deacon board.  At the outset of my ministry the man closest to my age was ten years my senior, and the rest of the men were old enough to be my father.  When I left the church, the deacons were young enough to be my sons!  That shift in leadership reflected a change in the age of the core constituency of the church.  We certainly had the retired crowd well represented, but there were times when I felt like I had buried a generation of the congregation.  

On this Homecoming day, I was greeted by formerly-little girls who now seemed more like young women and boys who were looking a lot more like their fathers.  I have always thought that children deserve the attention of their pastor.  That attention from a genuinely caring pastor can be one of the first steps toward God. The caring begins with being among the first wave of visitors when the child is born.  On more than one occasion parents have wanted a picture of me holding their brand new baby.  (I don’t suppose they could have an old, used one!)  At the Homecoming meal I got to talk with a young man about his first year in college, all the time thinking about the picture of me holding him as an infant that I had kept in my files for years.

It also struck me how many people in the crowd were folks I didn’t know.  Often, especially in the last years of my ministry, I thought I was the only person in the church who knew everybody.  That’s not to say the church was cliquish, far from it, but I have always thought people are sort of like Lego blocks.  They can only be connected to so many other people.  More than once through the years someone has called me aside to ask for an explanation of who “so and so” was.  Now, Homecoming always generates visitors, but there were a significant number of people who have joined the church since my retirement. I like to think that my exit had nothing to do with their entrance!  I do know that Pastor Hackett has been aggressive in his outreach, and the church has followed his leadership.  As I sat in the pew I thought all those new people were the tangible answer to one of my most persistent prayers--that God would bless Bethlehem.  I believe He has and will continue to do so.

Finally, I have changed.  When I left Bethlehem as pastor I walked out with the help of a cane.  By Homecoming last year I had taken to using a cane and holding my wife’s arm with the other hand.  This year I came through the door on a walker.  I knew that my voice was more of a problem, but the most significant issue I was dealing with was the control of my emotions.  I have mentioned before that CBD often results in Pseudobulbar Affect.  In my case it means I cry easily and often; it also means, though, that fighting to control the urge is exhausting.  This has a domino effect; my legs tighten up, making walking even more difficult and my voice harder to understand.  Seeing the church and everyone in it, being greeted by so many friends, was almost more than I could take.  Still, I held everything together until the announcement time in the service.  Pastor Shiloh acknowledged our presence and told of the contribution Joy and I had made to the church.  He then produced a certificate, which acknowledged a commemorative brick had been bought in our honor for Welch College’s “Pave the Way” campaign.  Try though I might, I could not prevent the tears from flowing.  As the pastor came to our pew I knew that I should stand to receive the certificate, but I just couldn’t.  I wish I could remember exactly what was said, but as I received the certificate and shook Pastor Hackett’s hand, the congregation stood and applauded.  I am 62 years old and that was the first standing ovation I have ever received.  

While we were eating lunch following the service I got to talk with several folks, and I noticed a couple of times that they referred to me as Pastor Corn.  One lady began her conversation with, “How is my pastor doing?”  I successfully fought the urge to respond, “I don’t know, but Brother Shiloh sure seems to be doing well.”  I know that there was no innuendo in her innocent question, but it did emphasize to me the fact that while I will always have a pastoral concern about the folks at Bethlehem, I am not their pastor.  

At my retirement reception I had told the church that one thing you never really know as a pastor is how much of a difference you are making.  So much of the pastoral task is intangible that often you feel like you are pushing a boulder up a hill only to have it roll down again.  It can be frustrating to be a pastor, but there are moments when it is extraordinarily fulfilling.  This Homecoming was one of those moments for me.

As things were winding down, it became obvious that it was time to go home.  Whenever I sit for any extended period of time I stiffen up.  The result is that my first few minutes on my feet are exceptionally difficult and almost always draw the attention of those around me.  In this setting, with so many friends present, my halting gait resulted in an over abundance of help getting to my car.  As Joy drove us home and we talked about the day, I thought about the fact that I had tried to help Bethlehem’s people with their Christian walk for two decades.  Now, among a great many other things, they were physically helping me with my walk to the car.  Maybe their demonstration of concern and love for me was an indication I had made a difference in their lives.  As we headed south on Highway 12 I thought of what I had told the congregation on numerous occasions, “I will always be proud of the fact that I can say I was the pastor of the Bethlehem Free Will Baptist Church.”  

Hope

This past Sunday I heard the first sermon in Pastor Bess’s series on 1 Peter.  It covered the first two verses of chapter one, and he introduced it with the quotation of an old saying, “Where there is life, there is hope.”  That saying is credited to Cicero, the famous Roman statesman of the century just before the Christian era.  Scholars tell us that this saying has been applied to dying men and women down through the years.  I guess the idea is, “They aren’t dead yet, maybe something will change.”  It is sort of a hope against hope thing.  Brother Wayne went on to quote one of my favorite authors (and apparently one of his) Warren Wiersbe.  Dr. Wiersbe sees hope as the predominate concept of 1 Peter.  In fact, he titled his commentary on that book Be Hopeful.  Wiersbe writes, “It is not the fact of life that determines hope, but the faith of life. A Christian believer has a 'living hope' (1 Peter 1:3 NASB) because his faith and hope are in God (1 Peter 1:21). This 'living hope' is the major theme of Peter’s first letter. He is saying to all believers, 'Be hopeful!'”  The overarching idea of the Brother Wayne’s message was that Christians have hope beyond the circumstances of this life.

I have heard for years that you can tell what a preacher is going through if you listen to enough of his sermons. I readily thought about the fact that my friend Wayne had a son who died an untimely death and now has a grandson, still in high school, who is battling with cancer.  It was an uplifting message, a message that Wayne needed to preach and that I needed to hear.

The truth is that I was not very hopeful as I entered the Ashland City Free Will Baptist Church that Sunday morning.  The previous Sunday I had preached there, and before I began my sermon I shared a prayer request with the congregation.  I had applied to participate in a clinical trial of an experimental drug.  I had passed the preliminary qualification, and they were in the process of evaluating my medical records before a final decision would be made.  I wanted to participate in the clinical trial because it offered some hope.  There is something soul crushing about being told you have an incurable degenerative disease.  As you lose more and more of the normal things of life, there is a fear of what will go next.  More than once I have thought, if it would only stop here I could adjust and learn to live with my situation, then the realization hits that something else has become too hard to do.  It can make for a dark world, but when I read about this clinical trial I saw a flicker of light.  I even joked with the congregation that I was approaching this with hope and apprehension. Hope, because this medication had worked on rats, and apprehension because it would be administered at the University of Alabama Medical Center in Birmingham!  I know I just lost the sympathy of a lot of U of A fans with that line, but why couldn’t Vanderbilt have been doing this study?  In any case, the Wednesday after that prayer request I got word that I did not meet the medical criteria for participation in the study.  That flickering light of hope had been snuffed out.  One of the manifestations of Corticobasal Degeneration is Pseudobulbar Affect, or an inability to control one’s emotions.  I am not too proud to admit that after getting that news I just sat in my Study and cried.  

I was not looking forward to Sunday since I knew it would inevitably result in questions about the clinical trial.  While I had posted on Facebook the fact that I didn’t make the cut, I knew not everyone is into social media.  I worried that I would not be able to maintain my composure if asked to repeat the bad news.  Some would express sympathy, and some who were yet to hear the bad news would have to be informed.  It happened pretty much the way I anticipated, and my dear wife fielded most of the inquiries. I did get a bit tearful but thankfully by that time the service was starting, I could focus on something other than myself.

As a pastor I have often told congregations that in worship the focus should be on the Lord, that we should lay aside our problems and be guided by the Bible into a more profound understanding of God.  Now that I am just a listener, a listener who can’t escape my problems, I think I would modify my pastoral admonition.  No, I think it is better to bring our problems and preoccupations with us to church and apply the truth we encounter there to them.  Sometimes, like with me at church that day, the whole service will seem like it was tailor-made for you.  It felt like the message, the songs, the prayers, and the concern of fellow believers was just for me.  It brought light back into my darkness.  

Now, I know that my friend Wayne, and the song leader Doug, hadn’t gotten together and conferred about how they could minister to me on that Sunday.  No, the arrangement of things came from a higher source; I believe this was part of the work of the Holy Spirit.  God took all of the elements of the service and applied them to my wounded heart.  After reading that sentence you might conclude that I must have a pretty high opinion of myself to assume the God of all creation cared enough about me to go to all of this trouble, but you would be wrong.  The high opinion I hold is not of myself but of the God that loved me enough to save me and care for me as the Shepherd of my soul.  On that Sunday the good Lord fulfilled in my life one of the most precious promises of the Shepherd Psalm-- He restored my soul.  What’s more I firmly believe God does this sort of thing for His children all the time, at least He wants to.  The truth of the matter is, I strongly considered not going to church that morning.  Besides being depressed I was more tired than usual, and as Vince Lombardi once said, “Fatigue makes cowards of us all.”  As I have already said, I was a bit fearful of my reactions to people’s questions--but just think what I would have missed had I given in to my fear.  

To conclude the service Pastor Bess had us sing This World Is Not My Home, which is hardly a typical invitation hymn.  Once we got through the first two verses, he wanted Doug to lead us in the first verse again, but Doug suggested the third verse instead.  Since it was hardly the time for a debate, the Pastor agreed that the third verse would be fine.  That third verse says,

I won’t have long to stay, My work is nearly done.

I’m happy now to say, My race is almost run.

So long my eyes have set, On heaven’s open door

And I can’t feel at home in this world anymore.

The first two lines of that verse pretty well summed up my situation.  I’m striving to make the final two true as well.  Wouldn’t you know it, my friend Wayne called on me to close the service with a word of prayer.  With that third verse still in mind I prayed, “Lord with all the things of this world crowding into our field of vision, help us to keep our focus on the promise beyond this life.”  God had used that day to make a change in my life.  I had come in the door feeling hopeless.  I was leaving feeling hopeful.