Going to Jesus

Daily Thoughts

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Thought for Today
Apr. 20

ON THE DEATH OF A TRUE PASTOR

Monday afternoon, April 17, 1989, my brother called to tell me that our father had taken a turn for the worse, and when I arrived in our hometown later that evening, it was clear that he had done so. I knew that, in all likelihood, there would be a funeral within a few days. Still, in his extreme weakness, the presence of the anointing of God was so rich that it captivated the saints who visited him. One elderly saint told of his visit: "When I had been there a while", he said, "I asked Preacher Clark if he wanted me to leave now, and he shook his head, 'No'. So, I sat down again, and the love of God came into that room so strong that I could not move. I was paralyzed by the love of God."

Tuesday evening, brothers Earl Pittman, Jim Gregory, Sammy Puckett, and I gathered in my father's little room and experienced a heavy, settling measure of the Spirit of God. We spoke of things pertaining to the Kingdom of God as my father lay on his bed listening. When I remember those sacred scenes, I remember the room as having a sweet glow, and I feel again the great joy with which God was carrying us through what would otherwise have been an unbearable experience. I am still in awe of God's power to comfort, even to encourage hearts that are laboring most heavily with sorrow and despair. I felt as if I were being borne up in the arms of Jesus, where there is no despair, no frustrations, and no complaints. There is only faith, and deep, deep joy.

Weeks before my father's leaving us, as it was apparent that the time was drawing near, I had feelings of despair. "O God," I thought, "what a grievous loss to the body this will be! How can I ever possibly communicate to people what we all will be losing? So few really appreciate the depth of his wisdom in Christ, the depth of his love for people, the child-likeness of his soaring faith, the gifts of healing, miracles, prophecy, tongues and interpretation, discerning of spirits, which have manifested themselves through him for the sake of the saints for so long? O God, who will ever know who this man is, or what he meant to the body of Christ as a whole?" There was such a frustration and fear in my heart. My mind was worried. Who would ever know, or care?

I cannot tell when those heavy feelings left, precisely. All I can tell you is that sometime during the next several weeks, my heart was filled with a faith I'd never known. It was, and I'll say it again, as if I were being carried, spiritually picked up and carried, far above the shadows of this world's sorrow, far beyond the reach of Solomon's "vexation of spirit." I was lost in the love of God, unable to fret about tomorrow, for joy that I was in Christ today. Life is bright, above the shadows. There is no death, above the shadows. From the heart's store of treasured thoughts, an old song comes to mind just now. Some of the words are these:

Wednesday, the 19th of April, a dear Sister Mary, herself young but soon to die, called my wife Barbara, asking what was going on with my father. "He's been on my mind all day," she said. Also, she had just been made aware of the fact that the Passover would begin at sundown that day, and she felt very impressed that this Passover would hold special meaning for Preacher Clark. It would be his own personal "passing over" into the presence of Jesus.

That evening, our little congregation gathered for a prayer meeting, where, I must say, the grace of God was upon me in a mighty way, and I exhorted the saints with a boldness of faith and joy only God can give. After this, however, a strange and wonderful thing happened. I discerned as we sat there, hearing testimonies and a few songs, that the Lord was finished with this meeting, yet not nearly enough time had passed for us to have had a regular meeting. I sat there, waiting on the Lord, wanting to know what to do, but not knowing. Sister Betty Pittman then sang a song she sings so well, "Going Home". And when she had finished, the Spirit of the Lord let me know exactly why I had felt that the meeting was over that night.

I addressed the saints there, "We do not do well to sit here," I said, "while my father [our pastor] lies over there at the nursing home alone. He needs us over there more than we need each other here."

My brother and Sister Betty, both nurses, went ahead of us, and when the saints arrived, my father had been placed in a recliner, very weak, but aware that we had come. We took him into the dining area, where we sang for him, and without having to say it, we knew what we were really doing there: with thankfulness to God for having been nurtured in the way of Jesus by him, we were relinquishing him now to God. Yes, there were tears. His dear sister, Aunt "Onie" sat by his side, holding his hand, weeping, touched with the sanctity of the work God was doing before our eyes. We sang again the song, "Going Home", and my heart melted with grief that the time had come.

Earlier in the week, my father, languishing and tired of this life, had shaken his head slowly and said to me, "If it was just over." I had told him then, "It won't be long", and those words seemed to have comforted him. Now, the time had actually come, and if the grace of God had not been so abundantly poured out upon us, we would have been swallowed up with grief. As it was, we felt a wholeness, the completion of a matter. As Aunt Onie said, smiling through her tear-stained eyes as she left, "Everything's alright. It's finished."

After everyone had gone home, and my father was helped into his bed for what would be the last time, I decided that I should stay with him that night. My father did not like to be alone, and I felt impressed to spend this Passover night with him. That is one decision I will never regret. I held his listless hand much of the night, doing what I could to let him know that he was not alone now, until at last I fell asleep in my chair. And when, about 6 a.m., a nurse woke me to let me know there had been a definite change in his breathing and heartbeat, I knew it was time. First, I went to phone my brother, who had been working all night in the emergency room of the local hospital, and then I went to my father's bedside and took his withered hand into my own. "Well, daddy", I said, "It looks as if today's going to be your graduation day. I believe you'll be going home to be with Jesus today." Despite saying this, I didn't know how quickly he would be gone. By 8:30, it would be over.

I called some of the saints, some relatives, and of course Barbara, my wife, who was still at our home, over two hours away in Lexington, NC. She woke the children and dressed quickly, but wasn't able to make the trip in time to be with him when the angels came. Those who were there witnessed the peace and power of the scene. Uncle Joe, whose only pastor in his seventy-three years had been Preacher Clark, was there. Brother Earl and his wife Betty, both of whom had been led to Jesus by him, were there, and a few others.

As I sat beside him, I gently rubbed his tired hand and said, "Daddy, these old hands are growing cold and dark. You can look for the angels at any time now." The minutes passed, and as his breathing became more erratic and his blood-pressure dropped, I thought of how much he must surely be wanting it all to be finished, and of how the flesh, even at this point, was still warring against the Spirit. "Isn't it something," I whispered in his ear, "how this old flesh just doesn't want to give up?" His little, affirmative nod to this comment was the last response he showed to anything except for opening his eyes to look for Brother Earl to come in the door a few minutes later. Just minutes before he peacefully fell asleep in Jesus, my brother sat on the bed and held one hand, while I held his other one, and we sang one of the old songs, "Heaven Holds All to Me." Some of the words are:

I thought of my mother and grandmother, both of whom I had stood beside as they, too, had peacefully fallen asleep. Now, my father was yielding, after eighty-eight healthy years, to the gentle arms of Jesus. How many times he had mentioned saints of years long past, whom he had known as a young minister early in this century. I can see him now, with a far away look in his eyes, talking of them. "Just think", I can hear him say, "whole congregations I've pastored, and every one of them gone on!" Now, as we watched him breathe his last, long breaths, we knew he could be counted in that number.

One of the very most meaningful truths which my father taught those who listened to him was that being a pastor was exactly that: BEING a pastor. Being a pastor is not something one DOES; rather, it is something one IS, if indeed one is a pastor anointed by God. The present system in Christianity of selecting or voting on pastors is anti-Christ in its very nature. If a congregation or board of deacons or elders were wise enough to chose for themselves a pastor, they wouldn't need one. By his Spirit, God gives certain pastors to certain people, and it is a life-time responsibility. George Clark was our pastor until the moment he left this earth. Without even trying, and to the end, he was still instructing us in the way of the Lord, still disciplining us to trust in His mercy, still teaching us, by example, that God is faithful. If a man is a pastor sent by God, he cannot retire, any more than Israel's High Priest could retire. A pastor is a gift from God, not to be refused if one would grow in the grace and knowledge of God.