The Lord often sends his messengers through unlikely people. Calvin is one of them, at least he has been for me.
I want to be more like Calvin.
But at first I was leery of him. A friend warned me before the worship service one Sunday: “There’s a man, I’d guess to be in his late 60s, early 70s, who we picked up on the bus today—says he wants to ‘testify’ in the service. Just thought I’d warn you.”
“Thanks,” I muttered, thinking, “That’s all I need; dueling preachers.”
And sure enough, as I stepped up to preach, Calvin shouted from the third pew: “Brother, I’ve got something I want to say…”
“That’s fine,” I instantly responded, “but first I need you to help me preach this message. You pray, and I’ll preach.”
“That’s good with me,” Calvin grinned.
And just like that we were on good terms, like we understood each other, even though we are worlds apart in so many other ways.
After the service, I gave Calvin an unopened Coca-Cola bottle I had used during the children’s “sermon.” He’s kept it ever since as a reminder of the first Sunday he came to our church.
In time, Calvin did testify and still does, from time to time. Calvin will amble forward (he has a gimp leg) during the invitation, take my hand and whisper, “Dr. David, God’s touched my heart. I’ve got something I want to say.”
He then shares how God has touched him, and as he does, I watch the people smiling, loving him back.
Calvin tells how he “got saved,” on October 12, 1973, having lived “a sinner’s life” for 24 years.
“I love ya’ll so good it’s unbelievable,” he likes to tell his church family. “Your love for me has been mind boggling.”
This morning I spoke with Calvin before church. “Dr. David, I’ve got peace of mind. I’ve got no worries. I can think of nothing better than for the Lord to return while I’m praising Him right here in this church that I love so much. That’s my dream, for the Lord to come while I’m praising Him right here at Lebanon Baptist Church.”
One Sunday morning I thought the Lord had come for Calvin. He passed out during the worship service. As the paramedics were lifting him into the ambulance, having strapped him onto the stretcher, there was Calvin, immobilized but preaching to anyone who could hear: “I want you all to know I’m saved, and if you don’t have a church home, you can come right here to worship the Lord with me.”
Several months later, I went to visit Calvin in his new home. As I was surveying his simple surroundings, Calvin burst out in gratitude: “Would you look at this, Dr. David? The Lord has blessed me with this place. I have everything I need: my very own kitchen, bedroom, and den. It’s unbelievable.”
It doesn’t matter to Calvin what other people think about his proclamations of God’s workings in his life. One day I saw him walking down Main Street, so I pulled over to give him a ride. When he saw that it was me, he opened the passenger door, peered in, and totally oblivious to everyone around him, shouted a healthy: “Praise the Lord!” Then looking back at the people, he announced: “Look! God sent Dr. David!”
Calvin is unabashedly thankful for the Lord who saved him from what he believes was a wasted life. And he loves to tell the story of how the Lord pulled him out of what he calls “the pit.”
I know Calvin has reasons enough to complain; I’ve just never heard him slide down that slippery road of negativity.
When I think of the people I’ve known across the years who work the church like it’s a spiritual status club, or use it as a place to dump their latest gripes about everything they don’t like, or view it as a temporary relief center—good only until you can get back to “real” living—I think of Calvin.
And I think of my own self, too.
And I want to be more like Calvin.