Category Archives: My 50 Year Perspective on Ministry

My love affair with the church

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As much as anyone you’ve ever met, I’m a product of the Church.

For some reason, the churches in my life revolve around the number three. I served six churches as pastor–three smaller ones and three larger ones–and in between, I logged three years as a staff member of a great church.

And, to carry out the theme, the churches that nurtured me from childhood through adolescence were three in number. Oddly, they were of different denominations, which may be one reason I’m more of a generic Christian than a denominational one.

The New Oak Grove Free Will Baptist Church of Nauvoo, Alabama has been our family’s church since the late 1800s. My grandparents joined that church in 1903, and my mother, in her 96th year now, is its senior member. Although “Oak Grove,” as we call it, sits 15 miles from any sizeable town, it will run a couple of hundred in attendance on Sundays and the buildings are all new and lovely. Mickey Crane has been its pastor for over 30 years. My mother thinks he’s one of her sons.

Remember how Paul remarked to Timothy that he had been nurtured in the faith by his mother Eunice and his grandmother Lois (II Timothy 1:5)? My mother is Lois and my first Sunday School teacher was Eunice.

I have good underpinnings.

That church loved its children. It was a wonderful place to grow up.

As her mother before her had done with a houseful of children, Lois got her six young ones ready on Saturday night. Then, on Sunday, we walked across the field and through the woods, a mile to the church. Among the blessings from that investment, God gave this good woman two sons for the ministry. Ron and I have logged nearly a hundred years of preaching between us.

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Please write in your Bible

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“This shall be written for the generation to come; and the people who shall be created shall praise the Lord” (Psalm 102:18).

Please go to the front of your Bible and write in it.

Start by putting your own name.

Often, when I pick up the Bibles of friends to see what they have written in them, I’m chagrined to see they don’t even have their names.

Write in your Bible, friend. Please.

At Christmas 1973, my aunt Eren gave a new Bible to her mother, my wonderful grandmother Bessie Lowery McKeever.  Grandma died in 1982, but not before marking up that Bible.

I now own it.  It is a treasure beyond price.

One morning, I read something I had never seen before, that made the tears flow.  (I was looking up the text above, and Grandma’s Bible was handy.)

In the margin beside Psalm 103:17, Grandma had written “One of Papa’s favorite verses.”

But the mercy of the Lord is from everlasting to everlasting upon those that fear him, and his righteousness unto children’s children.

I never knew Grandpa Lowery, her father.  Many years ago, she told me he was a preacher of the Word, and a Baptist at that. As a little girl, Grandma would accompany him as he went out to preach. Other than that, I know nothing of him.  Thanks to Grandma’s notes in the front of this Bible, I have his name:  George Marion Lowery. And his wife, my great-grandmother, was Sarah Jane Blocker, whose birthdate is listed as January 1, 1852.  (Grandma Bessie was born in 1895, was married in 1910, and became a mother the first time in 1912 when my dad Carl arrived, and for the twelfth time with the birth of Georgelle in 1936, six months after being widowed.)

In his lifetime, my dad presented me with two Bibles. The first came in 1948 when he asked me to “come go with me,” and we walked off the West Virginia mountain, and up  the railroad tracks to the town of Sophia. Inside a variety store he asked the clerk to “Show us your Bibles.” He told me, “Pick you out a Bible.”  I was stunned.  This was the last thing I expected.  I chose a black zippered beauty which I read every night for years.  Then, many years later Dad gave me Grandma’s Bible. I’m still finding notes she left in the margins.

This is about people writing in their Bibles.

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If I were starting ministry again….

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If I were a young man just beginning to minister for the Lord, I would want to make sure I did these things (in no particular order)….

One. That I stayed close to the church.  Loyal to it, involved in it, faithfully preaching that the church is the only institution the Lord formed, and I would work through the local church. If I’m unemployed at any time, I will join a church where I live and serve the Lord faithfully.

Two.  I would get as much formal education as possible.  I would move my family to the campus just as we did the first time, and get to know the professors and students personally.  The bonds formed in class and in between class periods last a lifetime.  If some of my education was online, that would be fine.  But the basic seminary education, I would do on campus.

Three.  I would try to master all the electronics available that help with the work of ministry.  I would avoid gimmicks but would accept anything that could enhance my work. That’s why at this very moment this 83-year-old is sitting here at the breakfast table typing on his laptop with his smartphone 12 inches away.  I’m typing this for my blog which I trust will be read by a lot of ministers young and old.  Oh, earlier this week I was interviewed for a podcast directed toward helping small churches.  What I know about podcasts would fill a thimble, but if they help people, I’m all for them.

Four.  I would work to safeguard regular time for my family.  If I’ve learned anything from decades in the Lord’s work, it’s that for a pastor everything is urgent, every crisis demands his immediate attention, and failure to respond at once will result in someone criticizing.  But to surrender to that tyranny is bad for the preacher, hurtful for the one criticizing, not good for the church and devastating to a pastor’s home life.

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21 ministry lessons learned the hard way

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I began serving the Lord when I was 11 years old, began preaching the Word when I was 21, and began pastoring a year later. At the moment, I’m 83 years old.  Here are a few lessons this life of ministry has taught me….

One. Never tell anyone anything you don’t want repeated.  The single exceptions are the Lord in prayer or your wife in the bedroom.

Two. Never put anything negative in a letter.  It will still be circulating and poisoning people against you long after you’re in the grave.

Three.  Never fail to check all the references of a prospective staff member.  And then check a few more.

Four. Differences of opinion–in a church or on a staff–can be healthy, but dissension/competition should be nipped in the bud.

Five.  Neglect your family and you will have a lifetime to regret it.

Six.  A sense of humor can be a lifesaver–if you know how to control it and when to let it loose.

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Some things, my friend, you just do not want to know

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“He leadeth me in paths of righteousness, for His name’s sake” (Psalm 23:3).

Pastor, you do not want to know why that committee turned you down for that position you wanted so badly.

I’m rereading my daily journals for the decade of the 1990s.  Much of it I’d long since forgotten, so in many respects, it’s fun.  One thing struck me, however, about the year 1992.

I was looking for a way out of this church!

By “this church” I mean the one I served as pastor nearly 14 years (1990-2004) and remained as a member through 2016.  It had come through a crisis 18 months before I arrived that almost resulted in its self-destruction.  The Lord sent me to half a congregation, millions of dollars in debt, an odd-shaped sanctuary that had had major problems from the beginning and constantly needed work, and a dysfunctional leadership team of some of the greatest souls in the kingdom mixed with some of the strangest birds ever.

My wife and I were hurting financially and it appeared to be getting worse.  We were living in rented quarters and were cutting into the small savings we kept from selling our house in North Carolina.

Some of the leaders were unhappy with us from the first and looked for ways to undercut everything we tried.

Nothing about this was fun.

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The accidental blessing that lasts a lifetime

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I was a freshman in college and as was the custom in that school at that time, every student worked on campus two days a week. We were remunerated at the rate of fifty cents an hour for two eight-hour days.  Hey, this was the late 1950’s and no one was complaining.

Anyway, on one of my classroom dates, a classmate named Bob asked if I’d like to make a little extra money.  He’d been asked by the wife of the college president to wash the windows at the presidential home.  “Sure,” I said, “I’ll give it a try.”

That afternoon, Bob and I washed windows at the presidential home.  Not a huge job, nothing too difficult, but not my favorite thing to do.  So, next day, I did not show up.  This was no big deal to me because I had never committed to a second day in the first place.

That night in the dorm, Bob said to me, “You’re in trouble.”  I said, “Really? For what?”  “The president’s wife was upset that you did not keep your promise.”

I said, “I made no promise.  And so I broke none.”

“Well, even so,” he said, “she wants to talk to you.”

I shrugged it off.

Next afternoon someone called my name on the floor of our dorm.  “Telephone!”

It was the president’s wife.

“Can you meet me out front in five minutes?”

“Sure,” I said, still wondering what was up.

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Battle scars: They come from serving God and dealing with His people

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From now on let no one cause trouble for me, for I bear on my body the brand-marks of Jesus (Galatians 6:17).

“…I bear branded on my body the owner’s stamp of the Lord Jesus” –the Moffett translation.

“…I bear on my body the scars that mark me as a slave of Jesus” –Goodspeed.

At Mississippi State University, the Kenyan student carried horizontal scars across his face.  “Identification marks for my tribe,” he explained to me.  Wow.  Tough clan.

We were returning from the cemetery in the mortuary’s station wagon.  The director and I were chatting and did not notice the pickup truck coming from our right and running the stop sign. We broadsided the truck.

My forehead broke the dashboard.

I bled and bled.  And got a ride to the hospital in the EMS van.

The emergency room people decided I had suffered no serious injuries and taped up the two gashes in my face.  At the wedding rehearsal that night, I sported a large white bandage on my forehead, just above the eyebrows. It made for some memorable wedding photos the next day.

That happened nearly 40 years ago and I still carry the scars right between my eyebrows.  They look like frown marks, but they’re not.

They are scars from serving the Lord.

My wife Bertha, bride of over six years now, says her husband Gary had scars in the same place, also from the ministry.  “We were walking to our church in the French Quarter,” she said. “Suddenly, a woman screamed and ran toward us, yelling ‘Don’t let him get me!’  Someone, perhaps an angry husband, was chasing her in a car.  Gary handed me our child and told me to get back.  He positioned himself between the woman and one very angry man.  In the scuffle, the man hit Gary right between the eyes, causing a deep gash.”

Bertha said, “I don’t remember what happened next, and know nothing of the outcome of that couple.  But we had to go to a clinic quickly.  Gary carried the scar from that fight the rest of his life.”

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I prayed for my preaching–and got answers I did not expect

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(This is a reprint of an article I wrote for Leadership magazine several years ago, maybe 2001. It was later picked up and included in “The Art and Craft of Biblical Preaching,” a textbook edited by Haddon Robinson and Craig Larson, published by Zondervan, 2005.)

I had been preaching for more than two decades, and I should have been at the top of my game. The church I served ran up to 1,500 on Sunday mornings, and the live telecast of our services covered a fair portion of several states. Most of my colleagues thought I had it made, and if invitations to speak in other churches were any sign, they thought I could preach.

But I didn’t think that.

My confidence was taking a beating as some of the leaders let me know repeatedly that my pulpit work was not up to their standards. Previous pastors carried the reputation of pulpit masters, something I never claimed for myself. To make matters worse, we had numerous vacancies on staff and my sermon preparation was suffering because of a heavy load of pastoral ministry. But you do what you have to do. Most days, my goal was to keep my head above water. Every day without drowning became a good day.

That’s when I got serious about praying for my preaching. Each night I walked a four-mile route through my neighborhood and talked to the Father. My petitions dealt with the usual stuff–family needs, people I was concerned about, and the church. Gradually, one prayer began to recur in my nightly pleadings.

“Lord,” I prayed, “make me a preacher.” Asking this felt so right I never paused to analyze it. I prayed it again and again, over and over, for weeks.

I was in my fifth pastorate. I owned a couple of seminary degrees. I had read the classics on preaching and attended my share of sermon workshops. I was a veteran. But here I was in my mid-forties, crying out to heaven for help: “Lord, make me a preacher.”

I knew if my preaching improved, if the congregation felt better about the sermons, everything else would benefit. I knew that the sermon is a pastor’s most effective contribution to the spiritual lives of his members. To do well there would ease the pressure in other areas. So I prayed.

Then one night, God answered. Continue reading →

My personal story of Billy Graham

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

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 was in my church, along with her family.  On several occasions we shared a waiting room while their friend and my congregant Dr. Grady Wilson was in surgery.   Once I handed them a notepad 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’ve teased that I should put that on my resume!)

In those days I recall how people in Charlotte spoke about 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 BG story concerns our first meeting.

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My first Bible

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The year was 1948, I was eight years old, and we lived on a mountaintop in
West Virginia.  My coal miner father, Carl J. McKeever, was thirty-six, a hard worker, and dedicated to his family of six children to the extent that he would occasionally double back and work a second eight-hour shift down inside the mines.  This was the year, incidentally, that a photographer for the Saturday Evening Post took dad’s photo and gave it half a page in an issue the next year on “The Bloody Price of Coal” (which dealt with mine safety, or lack thereof).

I was the fourth child and third son.  Now, I need to say that Dad did not go to church, even though my wonderful Mom had all six of her brood in the local Methodist church every Sunday.  Dad’s language would have made a sailor blush, and the whippings he administered to his children were legendary (and would probably get him arrested these days).  Dad would often spend Sundays in front of the radio listening to preachers, something I could not understand for someone who was not living for God and made no pretense of it.

So, imagine my puzzlement when one Saturday Dad said to me, “Come on and go with me.”  Nothing more than that.  So, I accompanied him as we walked the path off the mountain down to the railroad tracks at the bottom.  We walked past the tipple and bathhouse, past the company store, and on up the tracks toward the nearby town of Sophia, WV, perhaps a mile away.  Not one word was spoken as I recall, and I had no idea what this was about.

In Sophia, we walked into the “dime store,” probably a Woolworth’s.  Inside, Dad asked a clerk, “Where are your Bibles?”  She showed him and we walked over.  He said to me, “Pick you one out.”  I was so stunned I said, “Sir?”  He said, “Pick you out a Bible.”

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