Friday, March 12, 2004
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Friday, March 12, 2004 |
| A journey back in time By DAVID EPPS “I was traveling on a stretch of highway last September that connects Asheville, N.C., with Johnson City, Tenn. It used to be that the 90-mile trip was an ordeal that offered catastrophe every half-mile or so. The narrow, winding roads that snaked around the mountains were treacherous and, during the winter, tested the nerve of all but the most suicidal drivers. All that has changed now with the advent of a new four-lane segment of interstate that allows one to fearlessly enjoy the lush beauty of the western North Carolina and eastern Tennessee mountains. Even in the early autumn, the mountains were ablaze with wildflowers, exploding with color. As one departs North Carolina, the road descends into Unicoi County, where the Nolichuckey River begins to widen and deepen in it journey south and west. Indians lived here. Hard-muscled and steel-willed European settlers, looking to push the boundaries of a new frontier, built cabins along the Nolichuckey. This is Davy Crockett country. Off to the right, as I approached Johnson City, sat a small, white-frame church building. A car was in the parking lot and the church door was open, so I decided to stop and have a look inside. I knocked and a lady who was just finishing cleaning the church greeted me. I gave her my name, explained that I was a pastor and would like to look around. Graciously, she welcomed me in. I stepped inside and memories began to flood my mind. It had been 29 years since I had first set foot inside this beautiful little church building. The wooden pews, the hardwood floor, the twin pulpits, the communion table, the altar rail, all varnished in a medium blonde color, seemed unchanged by time. There was a large cross in the center of the altar area that I didn’t remember. Everything else was familiar. I was 23 years old and a senior in college when I was assigned as the student pastor of Taylor Memorial United Methodist Church in June 1974. I arrived with a pregnant wife, a small son, and a stint with the Marines under my belt. Taylor had been the lesser church on a “circuit,” an arrangement in which more than one church shares a pastor, and was willing to have their own pastor for a while, even if it was a 23-year-old novice. As I recall, there were 23 people on the first Sunday that I stood in Taylor’s pulpit. Looking back on it, I feel sorry for what the good people of Taylor endured for the year I was with them. I had never had a preaching course, had no experience in leading an organization, didn’t know how to prepare a lesson plan, was terribly unsure of myself, and was painfully shy. If all that bothered them, however, they never showed it. One elderly man, George Thompson, took me on as a “project” of sorts and encouraged me whenever he could find something good to say. Euretha Anderson faithfully played the piano as though the church had 500 people instead of just a handful. All of them were good, honest, forgiving people. I learned to preach at Taylor by outlining Billy Graham sermons, substituting my own illustrations, and preaching them as my own. I went through two books of Graham’s sermons before I felt confident enough to try my own sermon. I had my first funeral at Taylor, as well, occurring after I had been at the church only a week. My presiding elder, The Reverend James Green, who was the district superintendent, was aghast when he learned that I preached the funeral dressed in a dark blue blazer, a white shirt, and canary yellow trousers with matching yellow tie. He gave me my first lesson on proper ministerial attire. It was at Taylor, following a Sunday service, that I walked with my son Jason, then almost 3, over to the fence that separated the church property from a herd of cows. He rubbed a cow’s nose and she sneezed, covering him in copious amounts of cow nostril mucous. He swears that he remembers the incident to this day! My second child, John, was born in September 1974 and was welcomed by the church as one of its own. We had no medical insurance and the church, and the district, helped pay for the arrival of my son. The congregation was accustomed to having two services a month. Together, we decided to have services every Sunday, which really cut into my Billy Graham sermon outlines. I set up a small office and tried to act like a real pastor. Most of the time, I felt like an impostor, afraid that the church would find me out. A lesser church could have destroyed a young, timid, wanna-be-minister who was exploring his call. But not the people of Taylor Methodist Church. Hardly a week passed that someone didn’t offer encouragement and constructive advice. Maybe there were unpleasant experiences at Taylor but I don’t recall any. Mr. Thompson used to say, “Keep at it, son. You’re gonna be a fine preacher someday.” I knew what he was saying; I wasn’t there yet, but someday I could be. Nearly 30 years later, Mr. Thompson, I'm still working at it. I’m still working at it. [Father David Epps is rector of Christ the King Charismatic Episcopal Church on Ga. Highway 34 between Peachtree City and Newnan. The church offers Sunday services at 8 a.m. and 10 a.m. He may be contacted at www.ctkcec.org or at frepps@ctkcec.org.] |