Yesterday my wife stumbled on to an old wooden pulpit
sitting out in a pile of junk to be sent to the trash. Convinced we needed this “gem”, she pursuaded
Jeremy and me to quit our all-important Black Ops 2 conquest and go and grab
it.
To say it was “rough”
was an understatement. I took one look
at it and could tell it had about six coats of touch up paint on it and the
last coat was probably put on when it was moved to the basement youth room
area. (Somehow white and orange didn’t
seem to be the colors you would find in an auditorium.) For some reason, maybe it was my wife’s voice
in the back of my head, I told Jeremy, “Let’s get it – we will sand it up and
see what happens."
Later that night we decided to pop the little 1’x1’ top off
the stand and you wouldn’t guess what we found.
Under this simple top was a message for the builder – “Built by L.W.
Sayer for the F. M. Church, July 11th, 1895”. To say we were shocked was an
understatement. 117 years had past since
that pulpit had been placed in the church – 117 years.
Today I started to strip away the old paint. I have to tell you, I am fascinated by this
junky old piece of Guernsey County history.
Several times I stood behind the pulpit and every time my heart flooded with so
many thoughts. Let me share a few
of them with you:
1 – As I stood there, I reached out, like most preachers do,
with both hands on the back corner of the pulpit as if to steady myself before
the message. I said to Jeremy, “look at how
worn down these corners are!” The paint
was gone. The sharp edges were gone. Just years of oil off the sweat of the men
of God who were leaning on the pulpit, moved by the Spirit of God to preach the
word to eager and listening hearts.
I imagined the fire and brimstone evangelist letting them
have it- face-red, veins popping out of his throat with his voice billowing
through the room.
I thought about the quiet preacher, the humble theologian,
who had slaved over and over the message all week, and now felt solely unworthy
to bring what he had prepared.
I wondered, “How many men had the privilege to stand behind this old chunk of wood and preach to the people? How many revival services did this old pulpit attend? How many missionaries returned home to stand and tell their stories of the nations hearing about the Lord Jesus Christ?”
I wondered, “How many men had the privilege to stand behind this old chunk of wood and preach to the people? How many revival services did this old pulpit attend? How many missionaries returned home to stand and tell their stories of the nations hearing about the Lord Jesus Christ?”
Worn corners…because the word of God was heavy upon their
spirit…WOW!
2 - I also thought about all the people sitting in that
building for 110 plus years. O, the
messages they must have heard. How many
times did the pastor or missionary share the greatest verse in the Bible? “For
God so loved the world that he gave his only son, that whosoever believeth in
him should not perish, but have eternal life.” How many weddings and
funerals did the congregation come too?
How many times were they comforted by the 23rd Psalm? How many broken souls wondered in on their
last leg and received mercy when they heard the Romans road? How many times was this place packed to hear
God’s word expounded at Christmas? How
many people heard about Jesus for the first time on Easter?
You know, the more I work on this old chunk of wood, the
more special it seems.
3 – The smell of the citrus paint remover now is filling the
room. I’m sure it would be important for
me to have a mask on, but none the less I work on. As I was removing the 6 or so layers of
paint, I thought about the burden I felt the first time I was the interim
pastor at Calvary Baptist Church in Cresaptown, MD. I recall leaving my office and going to the
auditorium to practice my delivery and completely breaking down in tears. How can I speak for this God? How can I do anything for Him? Of course, as I scrapped away, I thought –
“How many times did the pastor(s) weep on that very pulpit for souls to come to
Christ?”
Ministry is a series of heartaches surrounded by moments of
great joy. Pastors are often broken,
beaten men who feel the weight of the responsibility of preaching the
Word. I know the tear stains are there,
I just couldn’t see them yet.
4 – Of course I had to post this rare find on Facebook, right? Quickly someone responded “just think, that guy is
now with Jesus now...”- I hope so. In 117 years this pulpit has had many men grip its wood work and pound its top. I
am sure that most have now gone on to glory.
I thought about every pastor who truly preached the glorious gospel of Jesus Christ our
messiah. How upon breathing his last breath stood face to face with our Savior and heard - “well done…well
done! Welcome home.” I thought about these brothers in
Christ now “seeing face to face…” the glorious King of kings and being comforted for all those moments when in this life, comfort fled from their grasp. They now know what their song leader sang - "what a day that will be, when my Jesus I shall see. When I see him face to face, the one who saved me by His grace. Then he took my by the hand and lead me to the promise land, what a day, glorious day that will be."
Now, I am starting to feel a little bit more impressed with
this old pulpit.
5 – Then I had a somber thought. It's only 117 years old! I have lived just 3 blocks from the building
where we rummaged through the trash and rescued the old pulpit. For the last 3 years the building was empty –
EMPTY!
Somewhere along the line of time, a preacher decided to stand behind this pulpit and preach something other than the gospel of Jesus Christ. The gospel of self or maybe the gospel of prosperity – either way, the Word no longer went out like a light - piercing the darkness of evil; or like salt seasoning and preserving. It slowly dimmed. Now the glory has departed. "Ichabod" had been written on the pulpit and on the church.
Somewhere along the line of time, a preacher decided to stand behind this pulpit and preach something other than the gospel of Jesus Christ. The gospel of self or maybe the gospel of prosperity – either way, the Word no longer went out like a light - piercing the darkness of evil; or like salt seasoning and preserving. It slowly dimmed. Now the glory has departed. "Ichabod" had been written on the pulpit and on the church.
In my soul I stopped and prayed, "Lord in my lifetime, should the you
tarry, I want to see Your glory return as I preach from this pulpit."
My iphone was ringing out my prayer – “Show us, show us your glory, show us, show us your power, show us your
glory Lord…we want to see you…” (Track 13, The Vertical Church Band).
I am pretty sure that when I finish this little project and I use this old piece of wood, I'm pretty sure when I open the Word of God for the first time, I will be overcome with emotion. I thank God for men who have come before me with such a burden to follow the Lord. Men with a passion for the lost. There is nothing sacred about this pulpit. It's wood and nails and that's about it. The power is in the Word that is proclaimed from the man of God who is using the pulpit.
This old thing is a lot like you and me – once tossed aside but now being restored to what it was created for –Did I mention, this project is going to be fun!
I am pretty sure that when I finish this little project and I use this old piece of wood, I'm pretty sure when I open the Word of God for the first time, I will be overcome with emotion. I thank God for men who have come before me with such a burden to follow the Lord. Men with a passion for the lost. There is nothing sacred about this pulpit. It's wood and nails and that's about it. The power is in the Word that is proclaimed from the man of God who is using the pulpit.
This old thing is a lot like you and me – once tossed aside but now being restored to what it was created for –Did I mention, this project is going to be fun!
