From the Archives - "It's Time"

from the 1.21.02 Newsletter - this comes after just over six months as pastor at Saint John's. We were struggling to find our way and concerned if we'd ever grow again.

Mr. Odell lived down the street from the parsonage.

His first name was Odell, but being 24 and in my second appointment, and being taught some manners in life, I couldn’t bring myself to call him Odell without a courteous title.

His wife, Miss Erma Jewel, was a member of one of the three churches I was serving at the time.

Mr. Odell came to church with her, but wasn’t a member. He was among the cadre of men who gathered on the front porch of the church, shootin' the bull, smokin' like chimneys, and laughing as the "preacher" (that's what they called me, not "the" preacher, or Rev'd Jeffords, or even Johnny, just "preacher) was breaking a few speed limits trying to get to church on time haven't just finished services one and two at 9 and 10 o'clock, respectively.

Mr. Odell and Miss Erma Jewel were always there when the doors were open, and very supportive of a then single, student-pastor learning as he went through Divinity School.

Being neighbors as we were, it was not uncommon for them to check up on me, neither was it uncommon for me to go see if I could borrow a tool or something. They were on up in years, and Mr. Odell’s health was poor. He had emphysema brought on by a lifetime of smoking – a habit he couldn’t break.

Now, in middle Tennessee, the predominant church influence, especially in the country, is Church of Christ. The church you went to might say “Methodist” or “Baptist” on the sign, but the vein of Church of Christ doctrine ran deep, even in the doors of a different church with a supposedly different understanding of the Gospel.

All of which is to say, that Miss Erma Jewel, as sweet as she was, and as committed to Mr. Odell as she had been for all their lives, was convinced that unless he joined our church, he was going straight to hell.

I believed in evangelism, though not the kind of evangelism I’d later understand as truly authentic to the gospel. So in my naivete’, I decided that I’d make Mr. Odell my project. I was going to bring him to Jesus

It was a few weeks before I was going to be graduating for Vandy, and accept my first appointment back home in the Memphis Conference. It was time for me to make my move. He was over to the parsonage one day helping me by holding the ladder so that I could clean out my gutters, which is really funny, because I'm like twice his size.

The conversation, to the best of my memory, went something like this:

I’m up on the ladder. “Mr. Odell?”

“Yea, preacher,” looking up at me.

“Mr. Odell, I was looking through our church roll (not true, but a clever device to get the point I wanted across), and was surprised to see that you weren’t a member of the church.”

“That’s right.”

“Well, I know that Miss Erma Jewel has been a member for such a long time (like 50 years), and I was wondering why you’ve never joined.”

With raspy, wheezy voice, he said, “Well, I tell you. I haven’t joined the church because it’s just not my time to do it yet.”

This was hardly what I was expecting.

I was certain I hear something like, “because you Methodists are to damn liberal,” or, “you don’t really baptize, you just sprinkle,” or “I just go to church because that’s where my wife goes.”

But, “It’s just not my time to do it yet?” My whole evangelism plan was shot.

I asked, “Well, when’s it going to be time?”

He said, “I don’t know, but when it is time, I’ll just know it.”

"Mr. Odell, you know Miss Erma Jewel wants you to join in the worst way, and since my last Sundays are upon us, it would be a great going away present to me. Why don’t you just come on and do it?” (In hindsight, and after years of reflection, that had to be about the dumbest, most disingenuous of approaches I could have taken.)

With firmness, he said, “Because this is my choice, and if I do it at all, it’ll be when I’m ready.”

He wasn’t mad at me. In fact, I think he was surprised that I hadn’t asked him about it much sooner, and it made me wonder if every other preacher who'd lived in that house, just down the road from his, had taken their shot.

But I figured the “I’m about to leave” strategery was magic. No such luck. And I didn’t bother him with it anymore.

Eight or nine years ago I was reading a newsletter from that church, and saw the pastor’s article about Mr. Odell. He had, in his mid 80’s, made a profession of faith and joined the Church. When the pastor asked him what took him so long, he quoted Mr. Odell as saying, “it was time.”

Well I'd be dadgum.

I remembered my conversation with him. In retrospect, I’m so glad he didn’t join when I attempted to manipulate him. See, we, who are of the body of Christ, do things not in moments of our time (chronos), but in God’s time (kairos). Had I been more attentive to him and his needs then, I would have known that.

Are you keeping time? Who’s time are you keeping? If you’re living in the world of your own agenda, you’re rarely, if ever, available for the manifestations of ‘kairotic” moments.

A few months after reading the inspiring account of Mr. Odell joining the church, I read the newsletter posting sympathy for his death. Was he hell bound had he not joined the church?

Hardly.

He was a good man who believed and lived his life well. But it offered great solace to his beloved Miss Erma Jewel.

St. John’s - let’s put down our agendas, our watches and listen…be aware of God’s time in our midst, and follow.

From the Archives - "A Letter to My Son"

This appeared in our newsletter on 9.25.01, just two weeks after 9.11. It comes in advance of our youngest child's baptism, but it carries the thread that ties the moments we celebrated his brothers' baptisms years earlier.


Dear Jack,

Son, I write this with hope that one day you’ll read it. This Sunday, your mom and I are going to do something with you that you won’t remember actually happening, except that we promise to help you know what is true about that day and what it means for your life, and for our lives, too.

We’re bringing you to the altar to celebrate a covenant, a promise. We’re going to bring you to the waters of life. We’re celebrating your baptism. What we’re doing is letting everyone within the sound of our voices know what we already know, that you, son, are God’s special child, and God’s gift to us. Mom and I, your brothers too, are so blessed to have your life wrapped up into ours. We love you so much, and we know that we’ve been given the joy and responsibility of raising you in the awareness that you are never apart from God’s loving presence and God’s grace.

All your family is going to be there in great number to celebrate this day. Your Granddaddy’s going to hold you, place water on you, and say some special words that mark you as one of God’s children. Mom and I are going to declare again that we are also God’s children. It will be a holy moment. It will be sacred. In that moment, you will be given a name – Jack Ryan Jeffords, “one of Christ’s own.”

Mom and I, even as we celebrate, know the importance of doing this. We’ve been at the altar before. We’ve been there to be baptized ourselves. We’ve been there to be married. We’ve been there to give thanks to God for the lives of family and friends who’ve died. We go there regularly to feast upon the grace of God through Jesus in Holy Communion. We go to the altar to pray. This is the holy place for us to gather for this joyous occasion.

Now Jack, your church family’s going to be there, too. Their responsibility to you is, in many ways, just as important as ours. Your church family is going to make promises about their intent to help raise you in the faith. Gathered all around will be your sisters and brothers in Christ. Within that beautiful sanctuary is gathered one family, to celebrate one Lord, through this one baptism.

As you grow up and the pressures of life start to become real to you, you’re going to have to work really hard sometimes to remember what is true about your life and faith. That’s the struggle we all face. There are times when it’s rather clear about who we are and the direction of lives guided by faith with God in the midst. But there are days when it’s not so clear.

Even as we celebrate this day I struggle with my faith and my feelings as I see what evil people can do to each other in our world. What makes it even more confusing is that sometimes people use the same God that we come before to justify their purposes. My struggle has nothing to do with whether or not God has changed. God hasn’t. It has more to do with whether or not I’m making myself completely available to God’s presence. When I’m not, it gets tough. Those are the moments when I need to be reminded of my baptism. You’ll need a reminder, too.

Sunday, Granddaddy’s going to give us a candle, and he’s going to tell us to light it every September 30, to be a living reminder that something powerful and eternal took place in your life. One day, this promise made for you by us will be yours to accept and embrace. While mom and I make plenty of decisions for you during your young life, this one’s going to be all yours. One day, you’ll be called to stake your claim in the name of the One in whose name you were baptized at the tender age of 7 weeks. And as you ponder, your family, your church family, and even our Lord cheer you on.

God bless you, my beloved son.

Election Returns - Déjà Vu ?

So, I'm going into my local polling place to do my civic due, and I'm wondering if anyone remembers the fit I threw in the place 4 years ago. Surely not. It's the first time I've voted there since the "incident." I've been voting early every other time since, but with vacation, no such luck this time out.

As I hand my voter registration card to the nice lady at the table - I braced for what I might hear...

and I did...

"Sir, I can't find your name in our book?"

Oh, hell no - not again.

The following is my newsletter article for the first week of August, 2002.

Is this a great country, or what?

Last Thursday, I went to my local polling place to cast my vote for the candidates of my choice. The exercise in democracy is something I’ve always taken pride in. I have memories of watching the party conventions during the 60’s, and although quite young, the anger, the zeal, the conviction of citizens of the same country being diametrically opposed to, well, everything, fascinated me.

Now, my beloved wife doesn’t understand this about me. As much as she loves me, you ought to see the looks I get when I’m home on my day off and I’m watching CSPAN!

So, Thursday, taking my role as a citizen seriously, I went to vote.

Made my way through the maze of folks waving posters in my face, offering guides to help me find the right candidate when I'm in the polling booth, and even a few of the folks running for office were there to remind me how much they’d appreciate my support.

One guy's mama was there asking me to vote for his son.

Thank God for the 100 ft. line that ends such madness.

From that line on, It’s all about the citizen and his or her right to cast a ballot in peace for a candidate.

This was my first time to vote in Shelby County since moving back to the city. With voters’ registration card in hand I approached the table with the book in which my name would be listed to show that I, indeed, was registered to vote at the precinct ever so convenient to my house. The kindly poll worker to whom I gave my card greeted me.

I pronounced my name and watched his finger scan the page on which the “J’s” were found. I was puzzled as I watched his finger go up the page and down the page - up and down.
“Let me help him,” I thought. So I turned my head so I could see what he was seeing, “There’s a ‘Jeffords,’” I said. Ooops, not me, it was Kristy,

Apparently, I was not in the book.

Confused, but not troubled, I was sent to the head polling person to correct this little glitch. Only he was busy with someone else. He was tucked away in a corner, speaking on a telephone to the Election Commission Office concerning a guy who had just moved into the precinct from another precinct in the county, who wanted to vote here. The guy was leaning up against the wall - looking put out - his two kids were running all over the place and I was glad mine weren’t with me.

“Should’ve had all this fixed before he got here," I thought.

We looked at each other, gave that southern “what’s up?” head nod without speaking a word. He told his kids to be still, stay with their mother, don’t bang on the piano. Again I was glad the boys were with Kristy,

I waited 15 minutes for the head man to come back to tell this guy I was waiting behind that all was taken care of and he may enter the polling place to vote.

“About time," I thought.”

“May I help you?” He asked me.

I told him yes, and shared the problem. I handed him my voters’ registration card most certain that he’d be able to correct the problem and send me to do my civic duty. Standing beside him as he spoke the with “big office” downtown, he shared my name, spelled it, gave my address and all the other pertinent information located on my voter’s registration card.

I cannot begin to characterize the look of confusion that began to creep upon the face of this head pollster.

“Did you cancel your voter’s registration?” he asked as he listened to the voice on the other end of the Line.

“Cancel? No sir. I don’t know what you’re talking about. Why would I be here if I cancelled?"
It was about this time I knew something was up.

He said as he handed me the phone,

“She’d like to talk with you.” - which, I understand, is unusual for the common man to be able to actually speak to a human in the election commission office especially on Election Day.

“Hello,” I said.

“Mr. Jeffords, our records show that you cancelled your voter’s registration upon your request.”

“No m'am, not possible, didn’t happen, I don’t know where that came from.”

“All the same, sir, you are not going to be eligible to vote today.”

“But I have my voters’ registration card, how can I not be eligible, why am I here to vote if I cancelled it (I was convinced my logic would allow her to see the error of her ways and she would say, “Mr. Jeffords, you make great sense, I’m going to authorize you to vote.”).

Instead, she said, “Oh, we give out a lot of voters’ registration cards, that doesn’t mean anything. For all we know, you’re a convicted felon.”

Now let me say at this point that I had been a pretty good boy. But that last comment from “Miss Thang” down at the Election Commission Office did It. I don’t think I was yelling, really, but everyone kind of stopped what they were doing, including the guy I had been waiting in line behind, his wife and kids - they all just took in the moment as I made the pronouncement to the lady on the phone -

“I can assure you, mam, that I am not a convicted felon,”

“Doesn’t matter, you still can’t vote today. But to correct your error, please come at your convenience to the Election Commission Office at..”

“Wait a minute,” I said, this is not MY error, It’s YOUR error, and you’re telling me that to correct an error that I didn’t make, I’ve got to come to you?”

“Yes, sir.”

Click. She hung up.

No “have a nice day,” no “sorry for the inconvenience.” No “kiss my toe.” Just click.

As I stormed out of the polling place I was so mad that I wasn’t capable of embarrassment. We passed that point a long ways back. I’m not really sure what all I said. I am sure, however, It wasn’t very nice. Poor head pollster guy caught my wrath and all he was doing was trying to help me.

Again, I was really glad my kids weren’t with me.

The next day, I was working out in the garage and I noticed that there were a couple of kids playing across the street in the house that some family had moved in to while we were on vacation. We hadn’t yet gone over to introduce ourselves.

Hey, it’s Memphis, you know privacy fences, mind your own business and all that.

We’ll get around to it - one day.

“Hmm, they look familiar," I thought.

When their dad opened the door to call them into the house for dinner - that’s when I got embarrassed. Seems like I knew them already, and the part of me they knew was not the part I like folks to see, especially someone I’ll be calling “neighbor”.

And they saw it in full bloom the night before at the local precinct as I waited in line behind them. I’m just hoping that while he cast his ballot in the booth, whatever vote he cast about me and my character I can attempt to overcome. Lord knows, I need to.

Now, back to today...

"Oh, there you are, Mr. Jeffords, sorry, I was just looking in the wrong place."

"Whew!"