Category: Running Life’s Race With A Limp

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Defining moments

Non-sectarian.

I liked my childhood church, whose wooden benches supplied on their underside, a landing place for my thoroughly-spent chewing gum.

Before entering I studied the odd word on the church’s sign-board. I practiced sounded it out well before I knew its meaning – Non-sec-tar-i-an.

It was a bold word – a statement declaring our religious identity – holding a prominent spot on the sign. The word was printed large, straight beneath our other self-defining label – Non-denominational.

It seemed important to the leadership that visitors and passersby knew we were somehow different from most churches. Quite different. The sign provided me an early sampling of complicated words. Later, I was introduced to others, like ‘oxymoron’.

If I had been old enough to be perplexed I would have maybe wondered, Why would such a warm, loving community as ours feel a need to persuade folks that we were not divisive, that we were safe?

Over time I grappled with the fact that religion, like politics, finds dividing up an easy thing. We separate, form new and more distinctive camps. It happens perhaps in spite of ourselves – despite the fact common beliefs can be more common among us than we might think. Erecting walls demands less energy than building bridges. So it seems.

I feel personally a sting of shame. At my own offense. Of labeling inferior or less righteous that gathering of the faithful the other side of town, or that community down the street. My own private ‘non-sectarian’ sign, adorning a shadowy wall in a corridor of my inner self.

Ann and I found our on-ramp into the world of Christian service marked, on the other hand, by complementing, not competing camps. Baptists and Pentecostals – polar opposites in expression and style – rejoicing, celebrating, even generously giving. To a thing bigger, a lot bigger than any of us might experience if left to ourselves. Amazed. We were amazed.

A.W. Tozer* suggests we’re best off tuning our hearts to Jesus. “Has it ever occurred to you that one hundred pianos all tuned to the same fork are automatically tuned to each other? They are of one accord by being tuned, not to each other, but to another standard to which each one must individually bow. . .”

We began encountering a curious cross-breed along the way. The hand of a new acquaintance would extend, a twinkle of mischievous warmth lighting their eyes. Their name. The handshake. .

“I call myself a Bapticostal”.

©2017 Jerry Lout *The Pursuit Of God

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Insistent

The ambitious Brit puzzled his dilemma.

“If I’m to make my case that the book this naïve teacher calls holy is simply no more than a collection of fables chock-full of contradictions, I suppose I must fetch a copy for myself.” He mulled the idea. “By Jove, I shall”.

The San Antonio College I was drawn to came with a colorful history.

Young Leonard Coote had known where he was headed. Endowed with a keen mind and an appetite for adventure, Leonard set off from his English homeland for the islands of Japan. “Seize the moment”, he was urged. “Now is the time. Japanese business markets are ripe. Go. Venture out. Your fortune awaits.”

Lured by a Liverpool firm putting roots down in the Far East, he set sail. Other young Englishmen had blazed impressive trails, making it big, finding their fortunes. But a worry nagged at Leonard.

Those who hadn’t done well, however (their numbers were not few), had got distracted by party-going and the like. Many, it was rumored, wound up sidelined, addicted, chasing cheap wine to blunt the pain of their derailed dreams.

So, resourceful Leonard devised a strategy. “I’ll find living quarters somewhere safe”, he mused, “a place with better surroundings than those poor blokes managed.” This had led him to the man with the book.

“Yes”, the missionary offered, “we can make our spare room available”, adding, “and you’re welcome to join us for mealtimes.” They agreed to a suitable pay arrangement and a handshake settled the matter.

After a short while Leonard determined to challenge the Bible teacher on his faith – engage him in argument over the Scriptures, their validity. The missionary, smiling warmly, declined. “I’m happy sharing my story and what the Bible means to me. But debate it? Argue the matter? No, I am not your person for that.” This had brought Leanord to his dilemma, and his decision.

He arrived from work one evening with his new Bible – Old Testament, New Testament – King James Version. Having added a pen and a fresh clean ledger to his arsenal, Leonard smiled. “There now, all that remains is to read through it, registering its errors as I go. We will have that discussion”, he silently vowed, “and I shall be ready.”

What he didn’t factor in was a bold, terse phrase lying within the ancient text. Weeks of methodical reading, of note-taking – launching in from Genesis 1 – eventually brought him to the phrase. It was a declaration.

Nothing could have prepared him for the moment.
©2017 Jerry Lout

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Undone

“Splendid dining”, Leonard smiled to the missionary wife. “I’m a lucky chap, finding this home for my lodging.” He nodded gratefully to the family. “I shall now get on with some things”, he offered, and stepped from the room.

Entering his own room he rolled his head slowly about and gave his body a long stretch. Moving the few steps to his simple desk, he took up the ledger that had come home with him weeks before. Squiggles on an open page revealed his latest entries – further markings attesting his focused quest. To prove the clergyman wrong, show the “holy book” up for what it was – a bundle of contradictory myths. Seated now, he reached for the Bible itself.

Fingering the book marker inside, he flipped to the last page he had visited. Over past weeks his practice had become ritual. . . Arrive home from a day’s work – down a cup of tea – tidy up a bit – join the family for dinner – retire to his room – and resume the task at hand. That is, expose the religious book for what it was. And reinforce his atheism all the further.

His daily regime with the Bible had taken Leonard through the ancient books of Law, the Histories of Old Testament Kings and the like. He had passed onward and through the Wisdom books – jotting notes the whole way. All the Prophet Isaiah’s sixty-six chapters were recently gone through, bringing the sum of his readings thus far to twenty-three entire books of the Bible. There seemed no reason to think today’s exercise would hold anything specially notable.

The book of Jeremiah the Prophet lay open before him at chapter seventeen. Leonard came to verse nine. He read slowly.

“The heart is deceitful above all things, and desperately wicked: who can know it?”

Leonard Coote – the keen-minded, self-assured man – took in the fourteen words. He read it once more. Then again.

And was undone.
©2017 Jerry Lout

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A Stilled Mind

The prophet’s words broke over him like a great wave deluging a child at play on a calm beach – sudden and unforeseen. Overwhelming. One moment all is serene. . . all is chaos the next.

Tears surfaced from a bottled place deep within Leonard, like a long-capped reservoir straining for release. The emotion driving the tears was anguish – an all-encompassing sorrow like he had never known. Soul anguish.

The fourteen words he just read had wrecked him. The first line looped repeatedly in his mind.

“The heart is deceitful above all things” The statement – bold as it came – stripped him entirely. Between sobs he wondered, How could the mere reading of words impact me so? The puzzlement came jumbled, not tidily delivered – more a crying than a question. He felt the worst kind of pain, the pain of detecting his own dreadfulness, the deception of his own heart. Shame.

Leonard realized that for too long he had been self-deceived. He took in the remaining words. . .

“. . and desperately wicked: who can know it?” The anguish remained, coming even stronger now and in waves.

“Deceitful and wicked.” His sense of guilt brought him to the floor. Sobbing, he lay face down, prostrate. A crushing sense of unworthiness drove him further. Moving the throw rug aside he stretched himself directly to the floor. The next day came and went. When not at work or trying to sleep nights he lay at his place on the floor. He knew his misery had a name. Sin.

Years later he recounted the scene in his memoir Impossibilities Become Challenges.

“I saw myself as I had never seen myself before. Lost, undone, wicked. .It seemed as if my very clothes smelt of the awfulness of sin.” In his drive to critically dismantle the book, the book was dismantling him. In a single verse the Bible exposed him, shining its light on his own pride.

Entering his third day of misery, Leonard thought to exit his room, find a place in the back yard and go prostrate there on the bare earth. It was then something happened.

“Something arrested and stilled my mind.”

Leonard found himself looking at a cross. “It possibly was a vision”.

Affixed to the cross by sharp iron nails was a heavily bleeding man.

“I seemed to understand this blood was for my sins.” He knew the man to be Jesus. “He was saying to me, ‘I died in this way for you. I shed my blood for your sins. Just accept my work of redemption.’”

“I did so crying out, ‘I believe, I believe.’”
©2017 Jerry Lout

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Shiftings

Shifting direction requires more time and space for some. The Willis Brothers made popular a truck-driver song, Give me Forty Acres and I’ll turn this Rig Around. For others, like Leonard Coote, redirection happens in an instant – a one-eighty. Tweakings, adjustments come as life moves forward. Still, the word radical characterizes Leonard’s shift. Peace displaced the turmoil of past days.

He felt genuinely reborn. “Joy flooded my being as I realized I was now a child of God. Everything was different. The very leaves on the trees the next morning had a different tint. . .”

Impassioned by the love ignited within him he wasted no time sharing with others. Sending away for, then hand-delivering, thousands of Japanese-language tracts in the market-place grew to a passion. Prayer, Scripture, Community, Worship – each of these anchored him. Fulfilling his five-year commitment to the company that had brought him to the Far East, he resolved to remain. Now as a missionary.

My Bible College years informed, stirred and strengthened my conviction to work overseas. The school library, its biographies of men and women yielding themselves in service, added to my stirrings. Accounts of America’s first missionary, Adoniram Judson, who with his wife, ventured off to Burma. Stories of five young missionaries speared to death by members of an Ecuadorian people group, a remote tribe the young men and their wives had sought to reach with words of life and hope. Other inspiring biographies.

And there was Leonard Coote. Upstart businessman-turned-missionary. I met him just once, shortly before his death. By then Leonard had served more than fifty years in the Far East and a good number elsewhere.

Among Leonard’s passions was training. He launched the founding of three Bible colleges. One in Japan, the second in Korea. Leonard opened his third training center in 1942 in San Antonio, Texas. International Bible College, my alma mater.
©2017 Jerry Lout

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Coincidence

“Yes, this is Art Dodzweit, can I help you?” Thus began for Ann and me our decades-long adventure among an intriguing breed of people called missionaries.

But it really started in a Church History class.

“Students”, Reverend Jensen, portly and congenial, rolled out our assignment in steady, methodical tones. “On each of your desks you see a list of names – church denominations, Missions agencies, Bible schools. You are to select one. Write a short letter to their office, requesting a copy of their by-laws. Then, do up a brief, type-written report.” His steady monotone went on. . . “who they are, when they incorporated, something of their vision. Turn it in by end of month, please.”

Taking in the long list of names – nearly all of them new to me – I planted my forefinger on an entry mid-way down. My mini research-project was underway.

David spotted me soon after and launched into a chat about our overseas plans. The conversation shifted to missionary-sending organizations.

“You know, Brother Jerry, it was a long time ago but my father used to teach at a place called Elim Bible Institute. It’s linked to a missions agency – Elim Missionary Assemblies. I think they do a lot of work in Africa. You might like to contact them.”

“Hmm, where’s that agency located?”, I asked.

“Well, Elim is up in New York.”

“Lima, New York?”

“That’s right”. He shot a questioning look my way.

“Well, I just sent a letter to those folks asking for a copy of their by-laws.” David and I could only laugh.

Soon a New York postmarked info packet made its way to our our Texas mailbox. I turned in my assignment. Ann and I kept wondering about the short interchange with David Mulford. I turned to my wife.

“Shall we call Elim?”

“Sure, let’s call Elim.”

My first-ever phone call to upstate New York led to a suggestion from Elim’s main office. I should connect with the agency’s pioneer missionary to East Africa. He happened to be in the U.S. just now, visiting California.

When Missionary Dodzweit answered, we chatted briefly. He urged that I speak directly with Elim Missionary Assembly’s president. My second call to New York set in motion a journey we would not forget. I was put through to the president, son of Elim’s founder, Ivan Spencer.

“Yes, this is Carlton Spencer.”

“Sir, I’m calling from San Antonio, Texas. My wife and I hope to serve in Africa.”

“How interesting”.

Why interesting?, I wondered – not mindful another coincidence might be brewing.

Elim’s leader went on.

“I’ll be in your city in a few days. . . In fact, I’m set to speak at your school.”

Yes, I thought. How interesting.
©2017 Jerry Lout

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Black Heart

“SO, this is the man with the black heart!”

It was my first time receiving such a greeting – from anyone – much less a distinguished organizational head.
Wednesday chapel ended, the guest speaker had found his way from the platform to the early row of students gathering up their textbooks.

Stepping before me he had seized my shoulders and studied my face for every bit of two seconds. Before I could respond to his “black heart” salutation Carlton Spencer took me in a bear hug. He thumped my back as though he’d run into an old friend from the past. A rich shock of silver-white hair complimented his mouthful of gleaming teeth. Carlton Spencer. Instantly I liked him, this Elim Missionary Assemblies president.

Black heart. . .

Ann and I had already agreed to seek out an Africa-focused agency. While IBC did champion missions, its out-of-country vision centered on Far East lands and on Mexico – an obvious short hop from this Alamo City. Indeed, a long weekend in our third year of college had found us and fellow students dust-laden and mesmerized – immersed in Spanish-language culture – the school’s traditional Easter outreach south of the border.

We had also found the Lord refining our focus within the African continent – stirring us much toward her eastern regions – Uganda and Kenya. Elim Missionary Assemblies had pioneered there, starting in the 1930s.

Welcomed by Rev. Spencer to visit Lima, New York as missionary candidates, we detected our stride toward Africa picking up pace. My Bible College commencement had come and gone and Ann was now a certified LPN.

With a letter from David Coote recommending us to a few pastors we hoped could get behind our vision, we set out. Painfully conscious of my inexperience in fund-raising, I was both sobered and assured. Our dependency must be in one supremely wiser than ourselves.

Seated in our freshly-loaded Pontiac, Ann and I faced each other. Excited. Nervous. Joining our hands we prayed. I slid the key into the ignition.

“Lord, here we go.”
©2017 Jerry Lout

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Remember The Alamo (City)

A springtime San Antonio breeze caressed IBC’s Hallelujah Hill as I strolled about her dome. I would savor some memories these parting moments, taking in a view of which I never tired. A myriad twinkling city lights stretched to the southeast below. My reflective mood wakened images – faces, scenes – of our recent years, Ann’s and mine. We would soon move from this place. Distant Africa felt suddenly less distant.

What have I specially treasured along the way, about and atop this hill? Two highlights, among others, surfaced.

The Means to make it through. Yes, for sure, God’s provision, the means. . . Pumping gas at Bandera Road’s Philips station. . . Hauling Middle-schoolers by yellow bus to and from their own academic haunts. . . A long-retired, overly-generous Kentucky teacher. . . My bread-and-butter news-print employer, the San Antonio Express – towering opposite the Alamo. And praying friends believing in young people’s dreams.

I also prized the Instructors pointing the way. I smiled at the medley of talent and personalities.

• Mr. Irwin. Health-food-eccentric whose relentless compassion often drew him off campus, serving up coffee and (ironically) donuts to homesick entry-level soldiers and airmen from the numerous bases encircling the city. Men in uniform needed friends and Mr. Irwin readily introduced them to One ‘sticking closer than a brother.’
• Bob Lauver. The faculty’s youngest, our class sponsor.
• Ray Troyer. Wisdom of a sage whose penetrating eyes seemed to mine your soul.
• Bill Hamon. Energetic, high-volume Pentateuch instructor whose prophetic bent propelled him later to a bigger platform.
• David Coote, Japan-raised college president. His Life of Christ dramatizations coming with such grasp of material and energetic flair that student’s regularly laid aside their note-taking ball points to relish the scenes.
• Ruth Bell. Sister to David, who as a little girl entered Japan’s outdoor icy waters to get baptized. A children’s ministry power pack championing time and again a spiritual vision for the young.
• John Hagee, master orator. When preaching a chapel service his keenly-honed sermons and powerful deliveries seized heart and mind of every preacher-wannabe in earshot.

• And J. Andrew Freeborn. Calling his work ‘memorable’, comes close. But only close.
©2017 Jerry Lout

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Recall

Of things I prized in my Bible college years, nothing matched the volume of raw text Mr. J. Andrew Freeborn had us ingest. Coaxing everyone to scripture memorization. Unforgettable.

The Romans course found every student rehearsing countless times Chapters Eight and Twelve. Their combined verses came to sixty. While for some sixty verses could seem a modest number, for youth whose minds ‘til now had snared only a handful of memorized passages, the challenge was daunting.

And when it came to the Ephesians course. It was another thing yet.

“Alright ladies and gentlemen”, Mr. Freeborn had raised his voice against the stirring of papers and shuffling of classroom furniture as we took our seats.

“Today we move into Ephesians, a letter Paul wrote from captivity, within a prison cell. It’s broken into six full chapters. I am here to make a pledge today, a promise to each and any of you taking this course.” Pausing, he scanned the room, waiting until all eyes turned his way.

“Memorize the book and here is my pledge. Commit to memory its body of text and you will be graded an ‘A’ for the entire course. You’ll gain your ‘A’”, he emphasized, “regardless how you perform on exams or how your assignments turn out.

“So I challenge you, I welcome you. Commit to memory all this book, reciting it to me at the end of this semester. You will have your perfect mark for the course.” He paused. “Agreed?”

Heads nodded.

Several students gave the challenge their best, myself among them. A hundred fifty-five verses numbering three thousand twenty-two words. Although a few came close, none of us hit our instructor’s mark. But the exercise carried its own reward. Mr. Freeborn knew it would – rich beyond our imaginations. Ephesians captivated us – endeared itself to us.

In the end several of us actually did earn an ‘A’. . . devoting to the enterprise many late nights. . . and gallons of black coffee.
©2017 Jerry Lout

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Yankee-land

My eyebrows furrowed as we entered Pennsylvania and took in the expanse of her rolling hills, farmlands and forests. Puzzled, I wondered, Where are the sky-scrapers? Upstate New York was more bewildering.

Any Oklahoman knew that most Yankee states were blanketed throughout by asphalt and concrete. Our ever-expanding world as we motored northward from South Texas, alerted me repeatedly to my wonderful ignorance about the lay of the land. An ignorance of the kind New Yorkers employ when doubting whether Okies own automobiles.

I eased our car to a halt before an aged, multi-story brick structure perched atop a hill. The month was January and a frigid drizzle had begun descending in slow motion. Although it wasn’t yet 10 p.m. darkness had fallen several hours earlier. No one was in sight. I turned to my wife, now in the early months of her first pregnancy.
“Seems we’re here, darlin’. . . the sign out front says, Elim.”

Genesee Wesleyan Seminary, one of the first coed schools in the U.S., had opened its’ doors on this hill in 1831 and Elim’s training center now occupied some of those ornate structures from the past.

Our cold, dreary reception, climate-wise, was countered by friendly greetings of mission-agency staff next morning.
“Oklahoma? . . that’s where you’re from?” The office manager’s eyes brightened. “Then you’ll have to meet Ron and Jerry.” Noting our quizzical response, he went on. “Ron Childs is from Philly. He and his wife, Jerry are also here as missionary candidates. Jerry comes from down your way. Oklahoma.”

Another day passed before we formally met the couple who, as ourselves, felt destined for Africa. The first phrase passing through Jerry Childs’s lips betrayed her origins. This is no New Yorker, I thought to myself with a grin, registering the familiar drawl of my home state.

“Happy to meet you,” replied my wife. Then, drawn to the small bundle her new friend cradled in her arms, “What a sweet little one you have there. . . a girl?”

Jerry Childs smiled and nodded. “Thank you. Yes, a girl. Like to hold her?”

My wife drew near, her own mother-instincts already much alive.

She took up little Sarah and brought her close, little dreaming what lay ahead between the two in another time and place.
©2017 Jerry Lout