Tag: Pentecostal

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Bronco Country

Accounting. What am I doing in accounting?

 My course choice made no sense. Like a Wall Street trader striding up to mount an unhappy bull at our rodeo.

I had registered at Okmulgee Tech without the benefit of academic counselling – or common sense. I knew nothing of bookkeeping, had no aptitude for it. Better judgment won out before my second class ended. The vocational school – an arm of Oklahoma State University – did offer other tracks. I returned to the catalog.

The printed word interested me and teletype included the word ‘type’. Working for a newspaper means no shortage of words. Nor did the name of my new chosen direction, Teletypesetter Perforator Operator.

The high school from which I recently graduated lacked size and, therefore, course options. I very much wanted to gain two skills – Spanish and typing. But administration said I could only choose one. Learn a second language or learn to type – but not both. My plight was bothersome but promptly resolved. I never learned Spanish.

My instructor sat at the glorified typewriter and introduced its features. A machine that yielded a stream of punctured tape as the typist pecked the keys. Combinations of the circled holes translated into letters, words and symbols. The coded tape fed into a big linotype machine. Molten lead formed imprints, cooled, took on ink, released the creation to the press room. . . Steps in a process ensuring paper boys had a product to deliver – the daily or weekly newspaper.

OK Jerry, give it a try.

Adjusting my chair I rested eight fingertips in their sequence atop familiar symbols. A S D F . . J K L ;   (the right pinky paired itself up, as always, with the semi-colon).  A good feeling settled in. Eight drifters returning to their common home. In pecking order.

Jerry, would you consider taking a job far from here?

The question was my first introduction to the notion my typing fling may spirit me to sights and places beyond. Both geographical and figurative – to kindred-spirits. To surprises. One of them wrecking me – for life. in a very good kind of way.

My training supervisor studied my face for a response. Obviously knowing something I didn’t.

Yes, I’d be happy to consider it, sir.

Well, a weekly newspaper called the Cody Enterprise – it’s in Wyoming – contacted us. I’m prepared to recommend you for the Operator position if you’re interested.

I would be glad for the opportunity. Yes. Thank you.

So, twenty months removed from an earlier Oklahoma departure, I again boarded a Denver-bound bus. Though in a much healthier frame of mind.

A new passenger with a telling weakness for drink stepped aboard in Pueblo, Colorado and seated himself next to me.  Noting the Bible resting open on my lap he slurred an observation.

Oh! You’re readin’ the Bible. Good! His interest rose another level – as did his voice.

Are you a Christian?  More direct.

Yes, sir, I am. I was a kid – sure of my faith but not sure of myself.

Wonderful! I am too. Then he announced it. I’m Pentecostal!

Electing not to fuel the visit by confirming our common faith tradition I offered, That’s nice. He sank contented into his seat and slept. In a moment I glanced his way. I wonder what’s led him to seek comfort, or joy, or escape through a substance in a bottle? A nudge of compassion stirred. I silently prayed God’s care over the random stranger next to me – my fellow-pentecostal.

North of Denver I squinted through a bus window. A passing car sported a red Wyoming license plate. On it I glimpsed a compelling image. A bucking bronco giving his all to dislodge from the saddle an equally-determined cowboy.  Cheyenne boasted her Frontier Days. Laramie, her Jubilee Days – rodeos taking center stage at each.

Indeed, Wyomingites dubbed themselves the Cowboy State. Stretching myself out, I slid my feet beneath the seat ahead and let my chest pillow my chin. I was soon dreaming of my brother Tim and me. Of Bill, our horse clippity-clopping under us – to Okmulgee’s Rodeo Grounds. To the annual PowWow and Rodeo action.

By the time I stirred the bus had entered a land of breezy landscapes. The vehicle jostled under wind gusts as it navigated high desert near Casper. Wind River Canyon enthralled us – its rich blue waters snaking along canyon walls. Past Thermopolis the bus climbed to flatter plains, and finally our destination.

Soon we met with a sign along a city street. I chuckled to myself. Why should I be surprised?

Cody, Wyoming – Rodeo Capital of the World.

©2015 Jerry Lout

 

 

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Next stop. San Antonio

I nudged the clinic door. It opened and I inched toward a desk behind which sat a dark-haired middle-aged lady. The receptionist. A pain shot through my back at the waist line. My knees buckled but I caught myself, barely dodging a crash to the hardwood floor.

“Óh, sir!” Her concern was genuine. She indicated a chair. “Here. Right here.” I eased into it, contorting my limbs and back in a few deft maneuvers.

“The doctor will see you in just a minute. Another slow turn and I was seated, a trace of perspiration beading my eyebrows. Thanking her with a silent nod, I began filling the first-visit patient form. After a couple entries, I had relaxed enough to reflect on the event sixteen hours that brought me now to this house-turned-clinic.

A wry smile momentarily hijacked my features. If Francis could see me now.

Shortly before our San Antonio move, my co-worker at Tulsa’s North American Aviation had asked what job awaited me in the Alamo City. Now, between winces, I imagined his I-told-you-so if he could meet up with me today in this bone-cruncher establishment (the average chiropractor of the era hoped to see his specialty one day rise above the “snake-oil peddler” status it was often relegated to).

Well, Francis, it’s like this. Down at the corner of Caldera and Bandera there’s this Phillips 66 station. . .

Midafternoon yesterday I had grabbed two car tires, each of them encircling its own heavy rim. Lifting a heavy load while swiveling to another direction defied sound judgment. This insight was shouted to me from that waist line point along my spinal column.

But fifty minutes from entering Dr. Brown’s clinic I left convinced a miracle-worker had signaled magic to my miserable frame. Unlike at my entry, I exited the premises without a whimper. The bone-cruncher enterprise had won my vote.

This early encounter into our South Texas move served as a kind of preview for my wife Ann and me. Twists and turns of our movements ahead would usher in adventure, discovery. Pain would play its role.

How do you turn a Pentecostal into a Baptist, then to something other, and still retain qualities of each.

A fellow with the middle name of Worthy crossed my path. I was never the same.
©2017 Jerry Lout

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A Call Confirmed

Truth is stranger than fiction.

The adage proved itself one October night in a small-town church. When an uncommon word astonished a gathering and helped frame a destiny.
Rising from my seat next to friend and mentor, David Mulford, my response felt surreal.

Like an out-of-body Sci-Fi character I advanced toward the sanctuary altar. Each step added to the emotion. An odd blend – somber excitement – stirred inside me. Meanwhile, the giant clergyman with a Deep South drawl found his own stride and spanned the half-church distance between us in far fewer steps. Rev. G.C.’s great open hand stretched forward in pursuit of my skull-top. An old-fashioned word of prophecy seemed imminent. No one assuming this was let down.

Something common to “directive prophecies” of the times involved the spokesperson employing first person singular language. As though God himself were voicing his will directly through the prophet. Indeed, such was typically assumed in Pentecostal gatherings. Caution was prescribed, however. Such a message must “line up with God’s Word, the holy scripture. Furthermore, prophetic words must not violate a person’s free will. No contriving, no manipulating allowed.”

“My son,” the Reverend solemnly announced, “I have called you to be my servant. . .”

The weight of the words settled over me like a commissioning charge at a swearing-in ceremony. But even with heavier gravity. Then it came. That other portion of my past-days musings. . “to instruct leaders to know and walk in my Word. So they may teach others as well!”

The prophetic statement settled in deeply, to a place at my inner core. Nothing, it seemed, could ever dissuade me. If anything had ever felt a sure thing, I knew this was one of those things. I (we. . . Ann and me) – we were called, commissioned. To a place and a people neither of us knew anything about. At least now. Only that it was Africa. Swahili was their language. The truth of the Lord their need.

Awash in tears reminiscent of a weeping scene at the same location years before during a V.B.S. assembly, I found my way back to my seat. The weeping kept on, leaving me only vaguely aware of the church service and its sudden new direction.

An impromptu offering was being taken.

For air fares. To East Africa.
©2017 Jerry Lout

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Unexplainable

I’m dreaming, right? Hallucinating?

By the time I again took a seat the Preacher-man had shifted from prophesying mode to Holy Ghost fund-raising. I sat quiet, weeping, marinating in a fog of wonder.

Rev. G.C. had drawn a bill from his wallet. Waving it to the gathering, he sounded a challenge.

“Who’ll join me tonight in getting this young man and his wife over to Africa. . . so they can start doing God’s work?”

An offering basket had found its way to the preacher’s side. In minutes it overflowed. Although the week of meetings had not been billed as a Missions conference, everyone present was now taken by a get-the-gospel-to-the-world passion. Spontaneous generosity flowed, with cash gifts and pledged offerings fully meeting Ann and my travel costs. Africa, here we come. Wow.

The road trip with its surprise happenings drew to a close. My good mentor-friend and I headed back to San Antonio. “Brother Jerry,” David’s his easy drawl interrupted the silence as the car hummed southward. “Isn’t this something? Hasn’t this trip been just something? Imagine what Ann’s going to say.”

Whatever my wife might voice, the thing I was surely not ready for was what David himself – my fellow student and ministry friend – would be saying.

Next Lord’s Day arrived for Eastwood Baptist. Our worship service was underway. A couple of late arrivals settled into their pews and Pastor David was at the podium.

“You know, folks, our Lord is an amazing God.” David eased into the topic of the Oklahoma visit just past. Stationed at my usual spot at the platform, mentally reviewing a hymn I would soon guide the worshipers in, I heard David mention my name.

Oh my goodness, I thought. Is he going to have me tell these very baptisty Baptists about the Big Georgia preacher-man? About the prophecy things in Okmulgee? Oh my.

In a matter-of-fact gesture, David turned my way.

“. . so I’d like Brother Jerry to come and share something of what God did there.”

Stepping forward I surveyed the gathering. Dear folks Ann and I had grown fond of – devoted fellow-travelers on a heaven-bound road, sat quietly. I realized how close we had become. The anxiety dialed down.

In a few words, void of terms and clichés common to my Pentecostal upbringing, I shared with our faith community. The words came easily. No persuasive tone was needed. I sensed that they readily understood, that they welcomed, even celebrated the news. Of added confirmation to our call. In their attentive, Baptist kind of way.

God was setting things in motion. Ann’s precocious childhood forecast, “When I grow up I’m going to be a missionary in Africa”, was nearing fulfillment. We would go together.

The microphone passed back to David. Another surprise awaited.
©2017 Jerry Lout

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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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Baptized

And now we welcome two brothers – the Lout boys – to the waters of baptism. Our lady minister, dressed in white and smiling, beckoned my older brother and me. Sister A was standing in a cattle pond fifteen feet from shore.

The foreman of the ranch attended our church. In summer months he supplied this venue for those ready to be baptized.

Sister A adjusted her position, steadying her bare feet on the pond’s floor. She stood waist deep, was poised, looking elegant. She noted our approach while pondering the dignity of her office. Considering her bearing Sister A might just as well be performing the sacrament in a cathedral.

Writing. Baptism

Tim and I waded forward. Our understanding of baptism’s actual significance – at least my understanding – was limited, shallow as the waters hugging the pond bank.  Our church didn’t always articulate clear reasons for certain practices. To comply. This was seen as the purpose of doctrine. Love God and do what he says:

Jesus was baptized by John.

Followers of Jesus get baptized.

You go under water and come up again. Like Jesus in the Jordan River.

This, for the most part, summed up our tutoring. And, given we were Pentecostal, I vaguely caught that some people experience the Holy Ghost at the moment of water baptism. Without irreverence I wondered. Will I to talk in tongues when I come up?

Nearby, a mama cow bawled.

OK, Tim. Now squeeze your nose shut. Tim complied. Facing him, Sister A placed her palm at his back, the other on his chest. She shut her eyes.

Now, in the name of the Father and the Son and the Holy Ghost, I baptize you. She invoked the divine titles while lowering Tim beneath the water and returning him upward. The small gathering of witnesses, our parents included, smiled their approval. The minister caught my eye and nodded. I stepped forward. The ritual was repeated.

I remember thinking this was a good thing that had been done to us. I also remember wishing we could remain longer – make further good use of the pond, swim around awhile.

Being baptized under the open sky in a setting familiar to a farm boy left me with a pleasant memory. My joy over the occasion, however, came years later. Wise and caring believers opened Scriptures to me on the rich theme of water baptism. The beauty of identifying with Jesus. It was belated joy but still joy.

Tim and I brought our dripping bodies to shore. Our parents received us. Mother extended a towel. We got into dad’s ‘51 Ford.

Our thoughts shifted from pasture and pond to mother’s kitchen. The roast in her oven would be ready now.

 

         We were therefore buried with him through baptism. . in order that,

                                                       just as Christ was raised from the dead. . we too may live a new life

– Romans 6. Bible

©2015 Jerry Lout