Salvation and a Missed Trip to the Bathroom
I was ten years old when I found
myself on the top row of the Charlotte Coliseum sitting between my father and
mother. Dad for sure did not want to be
there. It was the last night of the
Billy Graham crusade and the only reason for my father’s attendance was the
result of a peace offering that he gave my mother after they had some sort of
disagreement.
My Catholic father, who only
attended mass once in a while just before his early Sunday morning golf matches, had no room in his mind or heart for altar calls
and “finding Jesus.” Such customs and
terminology were completely foreign to my Dad whose religious language was in
Latin at the time. Sure he did not
understand it but he was not supposed to.
So that night near the end of the
evening when George Beverly Shea started singing after Billy’s invitation to
accept Jesus into your heart, I saw my Dad rise out of his seat. I assumed he was going to the bathroom so I
followed him.
To my surprise I found myself standing
beside my father in the midst of a large group of people many of whom were
crying as “Just as I am” was being played and sung. We never made it to the bathroom. Instead we were escorted into a petitioned
off room and sort of interviewed by a volunteer, who happened to be a
Presbyterian minister.
My father had joined the throng of
people not only physically but emotionally.
He was crying. I had never seen
my father cry. What followed was a
series of pamphlets that came to our home in the mail as a way to lead my Dad
and me closer to salvation. My religious material was geared to my
age as was Dad’s. Somewhere on the
journey he decided that if he was going to be serious about this salvation thing
he would have to become a Methodist and join Mom and me in the quest to “find
Jesus.”
I remember the official letter he
got from his Catholic priest informing him that his decision to leave the faith
meant that “his soul was in danger of hellfire.” I also remember our soft spoke Methodist
preacher, Bill McCulley, angrily telling that priest over the phone, “Who in
the hell do you think you are telling this dear man about the status of his
immortal soul?” Wow, that was a big
thing for this quiet unassuming pastor to say.
“This must be serious,” I thought.
Cliff Barrow's funeral recently reminded me that George
Beverly Shea’s rich baritone voice is now silent and he has joined that
heavenly choir, but I still remember that bathroom detour that was part of my “salvation
journey.” The newspaper article telling
of Barrow's funeral mentioned that the wheel chair bound Graham was mostly blind
now and his powerful preaching voice was limited to quiet “one word sentences.”
The article also chronicled Graham’s
pilgrimage from a hell and damnation type message if you did not find Jesus in
time to broader words about love and caring.
My personal theology is and was a far cry from Billy Graham’s but I will
be forever grateful for the power of George Beverly Shea’s voice and the door
that Billy Graham opened for my father and me to “find Jesus.”
I have come a long way since missing
the bathroom that night but I still remember Mom and Dad putting on the records
and hearing “Blessed Assurance Jesus is Mine,” and “How Great Thou Art.” We would sit in the Living Room watched over
by a picture of Jesus entitled “Inspiration.”
I found that picture recently in my
attic. Jesus looks like a cross between
Richard Simmons and Boy George. The expression
on his face is such that you might scare him if you suddenly said, “Boo.” But that was the Jesus of my younger years and
for a while he was just fine.
He is not so fine now but then Jesus
can’t be captured anyway. He is bigger
than George or Billy or Jody but he finds a way to reach people in mysterious
ways for sure.
I have taken many detours since that night I thought I was
headed to the bathroom. It seems that
the spiritual journey is full of surprises and turns in the road. Our task is to stop, look, and listen; and
ponder where we end up.
So George, thank you for that voice
that reached out and melted the heart of my father. And Billy, bless you as you wait to meet face
to face the man you offered to so many including a crying Catholic and his son. Your mind perhaps is cloudy now and you have
no idea of the number of people you led to Jesus…but the Jesus who is not in
any picture frame knows.
I marvel at the variety of paths
that the spiritual journey offers. One
of mine happened on the way to the bathroom.
