Originally posted on July 25, 2014.
When I sat down on the front porch to talk with Chuck Tannery, neither of us could have anticipated the transformation God intended for our hour together. It was the first time we had any extended conversation. Since I lived down the street, our most frequent interaction was an exhausted wave as I jogged by with our toddlers in the running stroller. This was supposed to be an equally brief wave, a quick stop on the way somewhere else, but God had a different itinerary for my day.
These were the emotionally and spiritually turbulent days leading up to the time when Rachael and I, in November of 2011, stood before our church family and repented of not loving them with a whole heart, of not being fully committed to carrying their pain and sharing their joy. That public confession was the tip of an iceberg that involved the biggest questions possible: am I supposed to be a pastor? Are we the right people to serve Whitton Avenue? Everything felt up for grabs, though we kept the struggle on the interior. As I settled into the rocking chair on the front porch, Chuck probably thought he was talking to a professional clergyman who had his life together. In actuality he was talking to a confused kid on his way to climb Piestewa Peak to wait for some answers.
Chuck talked to me about growing up in the South, the preachers in his family, his time in the military, his long-time friendship with Helen Germroth’s brother Jim, the ways he had been hurt by the church, and the recent physical blow that had emaciated him and, for the first time in his life, left him unable to work. His desperate physical situation mirrored well the condition of my heart–confusion, identity issues related to vocation, and uncertainty about the future. The longer he talked about his severely restricted physical capacity, the more a single talking point became clear in my mind. Despite the fact that Chuck had seldom darkened the door of a church in decades, I knew the only thing worth talking about was the resurrection of Jesus and his promise of resurrection life to all who trust in him.
I had no idea whether our conversation meant anything to Chuck, but as obvious as daylight was what the conversation meant to me. “I don’t need to climb any mountain” I cried out, half to God, half to myself, “This is what I want to do with my life. I want to speak this gospel to these people. I want to help them live well and die well.” God’s calling that had become muffled and indistinct now rang with clarity and force. I am a pastor.
As it turns out, God had something for both of us that day. The following Sunday, for the first time, I saw Chuck not on a front porch or holding up the counter at Jerry’s Diner but sitting in a pew at Whitton Avenue Bible Church. And though his health never recovered, there he sat week after week, always wondering if that would be his last. God had broken through his bitterness toward the church and Chuck had both a renewed trust in Jesus and a softened heart toward others. “I’m not sure how much longer I have, Pastor,” he told me most weeks, “but I know I’m ready.”
On Sunday Chuck could hardly breathe, but there he was, sitting with his oxygen tank and wheezing away because, as he put it, “I needed to be here.” He heard about Abraham, the man of faith, who “was looking forward to the city that has foundations, whose designer and builder is God” (Hebrews 11:10). He was ready. And last night, after succumbing to a spreading cancer, his Jesus brought Chuck out of this dimming earthly existence into his brilliant eternal destiny.
I would like to think that there are porches and rocking chairs in the new heavens and new earth. I would like to think that God will let redeemed Southern boys like Chuck and me eat cornbread, black-eyed peas, and collard greens. But regardless of the context, I anticipate with as much assurance as I draw my next breath that I will sit down with my friend, recall our conversation, and with strong resurrected arms and lungs and voices lift praise to our God who met us both when we needed it most.
Leave a Reply