A Day Late; a Quarter-Century Later

September 5 was the 25th anniversary of the first Sunday I ever preached and got paid for it. Or, in slightly more theological terms, the anniversary of my first day as a pastor of a congregation.

It was the first Sunday of September 1982. Classes at Lexington Theological Seminary were underway. My living arrangements, text books, and orientation to the city were in process, but I had yet to cement my “field work” position – the required, minimum one year ministry “lab” setting whose purpose was to provide the practical experience for which no professorial lectures could substitute.

Over the span of an hour and twenty minutes I drove from Lexington to Henry County in Kentucky, using the twisty back roads designated by the seminary’s field work supervisor. Having left earlier than I needed to, the wrong turns I made along the route produced anxiety and frustration, but no lasting consequences.

As I pulled onto the small gravel parking lot of the small country chapel called “Drennon Christian Church,” what first struck me was the gathering of people loosely assembled outside the building; I thought them to be the congregation’s welcoming crew...or jury pool. They were the people who would decide my fate, who would cast votes on whether to retain my one-of-these-days professional services as their pastor.

Greetings and salutations typical of people new to each other preceded what proved to be a relaxed and, I believed, successful worship experience. For the only time in my entire ministry, that day I reused a sermon, a reflection piece first preached for the congregation of my college days in Iowa City. After worship we had a bit of discussion time, then I went outside while the Drennon Congregation voted.... I won.

Did I ever win. Out of those nondescript beginnings arose a spiritual, pastoral, educational, affirmational relationship the likes of which I know I will never see again. Though small in number, the Drennon folk proved enormous in impact. Though without the alleged perks and prestige of larger congregations, the Drennon church demonstrated better than any collection of textbooks or classroom conversations what the church is, or at least is supposed to be: loving, tolerant, receptive people united in the cause of Christ.

That first Sunday provided an ample preview of coming attractions. Following worship, as was and would continue to be the practice throughout the three years of my ministry, a family in the congregation invited me for dinner. The drive up the hill from the church to their lane was quite the challenge for my Chevy Vega, but I forgot the mile-long climb when I took the first bite of what I thought was roast beef from the cornucopia set out on my host’s table. It was salty; that’s all I remember today. I thought Kentucky residents had found a new way to package salt, to make it more palatable to the salt-resistant by giving it the shape and color of roast beef. Turned out that the saline solid was country ham, which, as you may know (but I didn’t!), is salt cured.

In the instant of my first bite of country ham I knew I had been transplanted into a new and very different culture, I had become the biblical stranger in a strange land. My new church family lived different, talked different, were very different from me.

I, midwest. They, south.
I, city. They, country.
I, fast paced. They, relaxed.
I, one way. They, the other.

And yet it didn’t matter. Somehow we forged a strong partnership, an effective ministry. They and I, people who grew up on very different sides of the country, became great and trusting friends. My loyalty and appreciation for the Drennon Church so moved me as to produce annual return visits during the first decade-plus of my ministry with the church I now serve, a series that was sadly interrupted for several years in the late 90's into this century before resuming last September, a series whose latest member is my visit to the Bluegrass this weekend in observance of our 25th anniversary.

Perhaps most amazing about my relationship with the Drennon congregation was that I learned about and resisted the potential of my serving there a month or so before I decided finally to attend Lexington Seminary. I reacted coolly to the offered position; in fact, I was disappointed. I thought the church too small for my needs, too limited for my skill set (yes, I was pretty freaking stupid back then). In polite rebellion, I sought out another seminary – in Indianapolis; my second choice among Disciples schools – and even interviewed with a Presbyterian congregation an hour or so from Indianapolis. But God had other plans for me, a reality pounded into my spirit when I learned that the Presbyterian church could not call a non-Presbyterian pastor. Still, by grace and grace alone, the Drennon door was still open. Against my not-better judgment, God led me back to the open door, a door I reluctantly entered, a door because of which my life is forever and indescribably blessed.

I write this piece to let you know how much I love the people in that little Kentucky church, to praise God for gifting my life and pastoral journeys with what was, not surprisingly, supremely and exclusively the right soil in which my ministry to take root, and to encourage you to be on the lookout for your version of this kind of grace. I don’t know your needs, but I know the one who does. I don’t know your desires, your preferences, the road map you have laid out for your life, but I know the one who knows where you need to go and whom you need to welcome you there.

My Drennon experience, now a quarter-century old, tells me we can’t predict, or many times, even identify God’s directing hand. Often, the only view we have of divine guidance comes in life’s rear view mirror. But I know there is a hand, there is a map, there is an open door...somewhere. Just be prepared to change course when the map takes you where you didn’t plan – or thought you wanted – to go.

No single essay, no single book can say what I need to say about the church I met 25 years ago this week. So, two words will have to suffice: Praise God.


Pray with me:
You changed my life in a single relationship 25 years ago, God. Thank you. May at least one reader of these words have his or her own encounter with this kind of grace, God. May he or she not try to predict or even identify your move, but rather just be moved by it. In the name of Jesus, Amen.