Category Archives: My 50 Year Perspective on Ministry

How destiny hangs by a thin thread; life can change forever in one tiny act

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At the age of 86 (and counting; still doing good! walked my mile early this morning), I’m reflecting on how life works. From time to time I’ll be posting these little memoir-essays on my FB page.  The plan right now is not to leave them up very long before posting a more typical piece.  The point is to keep the essay.)

I was thinking how little things matter.

ONE DAY IN 1945, my mama made me a cartoonist by one small act.

Mom had three children in school and three at home. When I was 5, Carolyn was 3, and Charlie was 1.  Mom was always working hard and furiously–cleaning, cooking, washing clothes, everything.  And I recall the day she put Carolyn and me at the kitchen table, gave us a tablet and a pencil each, and said, “Now, sit there and draw!”

I learned that day that I loved to draw. And never stopped.

People ask if mom knew what she was doing.  My answer is: All she was doing was getting us out of her way, trying to find a little peace and quiet.

The Lord took it from there.  Next year when I went to first grade, the other children would gather and watch me draw.  Could I draw well, people ask?  Of course not. I was six years old.  But the point is I could draw better than the rest of them.

For reasons unknown, the single most asked question when I’m sketching large numbers of people is this: “How long have you been drawing?” When I say, “81 years,” they are stunned into silence. So, then I explain what Mom did.

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Hospitality to strangers: I love receiving it, love giving it.

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(This is a repost from this website in 2004.  Rather than update it, I’ve decided to reprint it as is.  We were living in metro New Orleans where I’d been pastoring since 1990.  Sometime in the Spring of 2004, I left the pastorate and became Director of Missions for all the Southern Baptist churches of metro New Orleans, a five parish area that reached west to LaPlace and south to the end of the Mississippi River.) 

It was Monday and I was headed for Alexandria, three hours away, for our annual Louisiana Baptist Convention due to get underway at 5:30 that evening. I’ve made the drive from our New Orleans home so many times–Interstate 10 west through Baton Rouge to LaFayette, then north on Interstate 49 to Alexandria–that I needed a change of scenery. That’s why I took highway 190 out of Baton Rouge, through the sugar cane country toward Opelousas, then north on US 71 to Alexandria.

In the little town of Bunkie, I came upon a gasoline war of sorts, with service stations selling their stuff for $1.75 a gallon. I stopped to fill up and noticing the time, asked the attendant, “Where’s a good place to eat around here? A plate lunch.” He said, “The Bailey Hotel. One block past the light, then left one block.”

The sign in front says the Bailey was built in 1907, although the building has that fresh, springlike appearance like someone has just sunk some money into this place. Inside, I was the only diner in the restaurant, unless you counted the happy chattering of the Lions’ Club on the other side of the partition. As I sat there enjoying the special of the day, a little white-haired lady entered the room and began rearranging flowers. She greeted me and said something, and in a minute she was standing at my table telling me about the Bailey Hotel.

“I told my son not to buy this place three years ago. But he bought it anyway. And we’re glad. We love it. Although we need to get the word out on the rooms. These 30 rooms could use some customers.”

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Lessons the day we buried my wonderful mother

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(This was first posted fourteen years back, on this date in 2012. I thought it deserved a second airing. See what you think.)

Monday and Tuesday nights of this week, I slept in our family farmhouse alone. It’s the first time in my long life I’ve done that. That house was built early in 1954, and ever since my parents have lived in it, never venturing away for more than a day or so. They were the ultimate homebodies. Over the years, whenever I visited them, I never needed to call ahead to see if they would be at home.

They were always home. Always.

Now, the house is empty.

Dad died in November of 2007; Mom died last Saturday, June 2, 2012.

Mom and Pop are united in Heaven. They each lived past their 95th birthday, and Mom almost made it to 96. Longevity is a good thing if you get the living part right. They aced it.

Tuesday, we had Mom’s funeral. Her casket sat at the foot of the church altar just as her youngest son Charlie’s had in April 2006 and Pop’s did 18 months after that.

The same three preachers did Mom’s funeral as did Pop’s (Pastor Mickey Crane, my brother Ron, and I). The songs were different, and maybe the scriptures. But the congregation was much the same.

It felt like the second verse of the same song.

This Thursday morning, lying awake in bed when I wish I could have been sleeping, I thought of lessons you learn or get reinforced in family funerals that you might otherwise miss. I came up with 12; there are probably 500.

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The pastor’s in trouble, so he prays. (Good idea!)

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Nothing jerks our prayers out of the “blessed generality” stage like a crisis. The best kind of crisis for that is for a close loved one to get in serious trouble–car wreck, cancer, emergency surgery, that sort of thing.

But a close second is a personal crisis, the kind where someone is making life miserable for you and it’s taking all the reserves you can muster to get out of bed in the morning and walk into one more day. You either quit praying altogether, the worst possible choice, or your prayers lose their vain repetitions and meaningless phrases and get down to business.

Yesterday, going through a stack of notes from the 1990s, I found such a prayer of mine, written in the thick of church conflict. It’s undated, so there’s no way of determining what particular struggle was going on then. We went through so many, the first six or seven years of my 14-year pastorate at the last church we served.

The prayer was written in longhand and filled two pages. It’s about as specific as one would want a prayer to be. No more “bless him” and “help her.” But on the other hand, it does not call names and I’m glad to report, it’s not as harsh as some of the Psalms where David or whoever is praying for the children of his enemies to not live to see that day’s sunset.

Here is the prayer, along with a few comments. I send it forth in the hope that some servant of the Lord in the fight of his life may find encouragement to hang tough and be faithful.

“Father, what I’m praying for is that….

1) Everything I preach may come from thee. Lead me please regarding subjects, texts, stories, applications, and especially in the delivery.”

When people are fighting the pastor, invariably they attack his sermons.  The critics are hitting us where we are most vulnerable, because few of us feel that our preaching is all it should be. They will find fault with what you are preaching, the scriptures you use, the stories you tell, the way you say it, everything. If you are doing all things well, they will criticize your tie–or the lack of one.

The remedy is to turn their opposition into motivation to pray harder, study more diligently, and do everything you know in order to preach the sharpest, most powerful sermons you’re capable of doing.

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My personal story of Dr. Billy Graham

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I was in a congregation of ministers at First United Methodist Church in Birmingham once in the early 70s when Billy Graham entered.  A shock wave moved across the auditorium.  It was amazing, and I had no explanation for that.

He was God’s man.  No question about it.

During the last years of the 1980s, I pastored Charlotte’s First Baptist Church and visited with Billy and Ruth Graham on several occasions.  His sister Catherine McElroy was in my church, along with her family.

So, when their friend and my congregant Dr. Grady Wilson was in surgery in Charlotte, I would sit in the waiting room with Billy and Ruth.  (And no, I certainly did not call them that!).  Once, when we had exhausted things to talk about, I handed them a note pad and asked them to write their favorite scripture verse and sign it.  That this was a presumptuous thing to do never entered my mind.

Billy jotted down “Psalm 16:11” and signed that familiar name.  I said, “I’m glad you wrote that because I’ve quoted that verse for years as Billy Graham’s favorite.”  Ruth Bell Graham laughed and said, “My favorite keeps changing!” As I recall, she wrote Proverbs 3:8-13 and signed it. My secretary had those two notes framed and they hung in my office for years, until I donated them to a fundraiser for a New Orleans ministry.

In November of 1987, the entire Graham team came to our church for the celebration of Evangelist Grady Wilson’s life.  My funeral message that day was rebroadcast worldwide on the Hour of Decision radio program which was so popular for a generation or more.

I recall how people in Charlotte remembered Billy’s mother.  Mrs. Graham had been such a powerful witness for Christ, they said, and they told of Bible studies she had led in the retirement home where she had lived her last days.

But my favorite story about this great evangelist took place at our first meeting.

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Some things you get over, some you love forever

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“Those that were gain to me I counted loss….” (Philippians 3:7)

First. 

As a young pastor serving a church in the bayou country, I noticed that pentecostal church down the highway.  I admired their reputation, and their publicity looked attractive.  They were growing while the small church I pastored was struggling.  So I visited their revival service one night.

Once was enough.

The preacher was delivering some shallow, hardly biblical at all, message and was whooping up the excitement to keep the people dancing in the aisles.  When the furor died down, he would step up to the microphone and continue his tirade.  When the people returned to the uproar, he casually walked over to the piano–the player had not slowed down the constant banging at any point–and carried on a conversation.

I quickly had enough of that and never envied that church or its pastor again.

From that moment on, whenever I hear of a church that is blowin’ and goin’, I’m not envious.  “Bless ’em, Lord,” I say and tend to my sheep.

Second.  

I discovered old radio programs.

Several decades ago, I was thrilled when I found a company selling vintage radio programs.  As a child of the 1940’s, I grew up in the golden age of radio.  I was the only one in our family who would sit by the radio drinking in the stories and comedies.  So, in the late 1970s when a company was selling eight-track tapes of those old programs, I ordered several and was in heaven….for a time.

In time, I discovered that Sirius XM has a classic radio station, so I subscribed.  I still listen occasionally, but I’ve long since gotten past 95 percent of the programming.  Most of those early radio shows were dumb, shallow, and pointless and the decades have not improved them.  Very few of the programs from that era hold up today.

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Joe is interviewed for a national magazine. Well, in a way.

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On the final page of a popular magazine–which shall go unnamed–a celebrity is interviewed in each issue.   I thought I’d give it a try and answer the questions myself. (At the end, I added a few more.)  

Need to say that I first did this five years ago.  I am redoing some of the comments, because some things have changed.  Okay, now.

Here goes….

What is your idea of perfect happiness?

Being in the place God put me, doing the work He gave me.  It doesn’t get any better than this.  Likewise, the best definition of hell on earth is to be out of His will.

What is your greatest fear?

Just that very thing: being out of his will.  I fear nothing so much as disappointing Him.  That could happen to any of us. None of us is immune to temptation. That keeps me on my knees every day.

Which historical figure do you most identify with?

Abraham Lincoln. I’ve been to his birthplace (a log cabin in Kentucky), the restored “New Salem,” Illinois, where he lived as a young man, and through his home in Springfield.  I’ve been to his burial place, and in Washington, D.C., to Ford Theatre where he was shot and the house across the street where he died, as well as through the White House.  I own many books on Lincoln.

Or maybe Winston Churchill.  I’ve been to Chartwell, his country home in England.  And have shelves of books on him.  Oh, and I have shelves of books on Harry Truman who was president during my childhood. I’ve been to his home in Independence, MO and to his birthplace in Lamar, MO, and twice have visited his presidential library.

Which living person do you most admire?

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I owe an apology to Mary Hazel Miller

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I must have slammed that good lady a hundred times over the last two decades of preaching.

Here’s what happened, and how I learned that I probably did her wrong.

In preaching a sermon I call Rejoice Anyway–a staple of my preaching ministry for a number of years–I would mention two elderly women in a church I used to pastor who illustrated the contrast between how to do it and how not to.  Here’s what I said–

Mary Hazel Miller and Maybelle Montgomery were both members of my church.  They were perhaps 75 or 80 years of age, and as different as night from day.  Maybelle lived in a humble cottage off the hill from downtown.  She did not have a lot of this world’s riches, but was easily the happiest Christian lady I’ve ever known. She was always rejoicing in the Lord. .  

They called from the hospital to say Mrs. Montgomery was in emergency with a broken hip.  I dropped whatever I was doing and drove down to check on her.  When I walked in the emergency entrance, she spotted me first.  Lying on a gurney, she called out so everyone could hear: “Praise the Lord, Preacher!  He left me one good leg!”  I burst out laughing, and gave her a hug.  I said, “What are we going to do with you?”

Now, Mary Hazel, on the other hand, was the most negative member I’ve ever had.  I’d go visit her in the hospital–that kind of negativism seems to put you in the hospital on a regular basis–and all she would do is complain.  “Oh, Doctor McKeever!  I don’t know where those doctors are.  The nurses rarely come by.  My sisters said they were going to come see me but they’ve not been here, either.”

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How to interview yourself and have fun doing it

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“Let every man examine himself….” (I Corinthians 11:28).  The women too. 

Toward the end of each issue, Vanity Fair magazine interviews some celebrity.  The questions they pose are good ones.  Consider answering them for yourself.  (Bear in mind their subjects are well known in the secular world and not someone you and I will meet at the next denominational conference.  So, don’t worry about how they answered these questions.  In truth, I was often a little put out with them.  But what I’m suggesting here is that you consider answering them for yourself.)

Here are the questions in one recent issue–

–What is your idea of perfect happiness?

–What is your favorite journey?

–What do you consider the most overrated virtue?

–On what occasion do you lie?

–What do you dislike most about your appearance?

–Which words or phrases do you most overuse?

–What do you consider your greatest achievement?

–What is your greatest regret?

–What is your current state of mind?

–If you could change one thing about yourself, what would it be?

–Where would you like to live?

–What is your most marked characteristic?

–What do you value most in your friends?

–Who are your favorite writers?

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My biggest regret from a lifetime of ministry

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This is my journal entry dated October 1980.

I was 40 years old and Margaret was 38. We were in our 19th year of marriage, and pastoring the First Baptist Church of Columbus, Mississippi.  Our children were 17, 14, and 11.

Here’s my journal entry for October 9.

The month of October got off to a poor start around the McKeever household.  I announced to Margaret that until October 27th, there were no open days or nights.  The month was filled with church meetings, committees, banquets, associational meetings, speaking engagements at three colleges, a weekend retreat in Alabama, and a few football games. She cried.  Once again, I had let others plan my schedule in the sense that I’d failed to mark out days reserved for family time.

Years later–long after she had transitioned to Heaven–I read that and wept.

The irony of this is that a year or two earlier, we had come through months of marital counseling and felt that we finally had a healthy marriage.  In fact, one Sunday night six months after this journal entry, Margaret and I would take the entire worship service to tell the congregation of our marital woes, of our attempts to make this relationship work, of our extraordinary efforts to get counseling, which involved driving 180 miles round trip twice monthly for two-hour sessions with a professional therapist, and of the Lord healing our marriage.

We were supposed to have a healthy marriage, and here I am putting everyone and every thing ahead of my own family.

What’s wrong with this picture?

That is my greatest regret from over half a century of ministry: I failed to take care of my family.

I write this now for the benefit of my children and grandchildren.  I write it for the benefit of pastors and ministers in the Lord’s work of whatever kind.  Take care of your family!!

Now, I am not groveling in self-pity. While I grieve, I share it hoping to help someone.

Don’t do what I did.

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