Life Works 024 - Story: The Closed Door
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The Closed Door
The man seated across from Dan Phillips dusted the sleeves of his jacket in a gesture that only subtly suggested impatience. The atmosphere of a successful banking career was palpable. It wafted toward Dan and made him feel he was drowning in memories of his own frequent failures.
Of course Lillian would deny they had been failures; only the herd reaction of insensitive hearts unwilling to heed the message of the Lord. Dan was too honest to allow the biased opinion of a devoted wife to delude him. If three failed pastorates and an impending fourth were not evidence of ministerial incompetence, he didn't know what was. Even the half-read letter in his hand brought back a flood of memories that made him wince.
The letter in question was bittersweet; it reminded him at once of his first failure in ministry, and his only victory in the midst of that failure. Richard Mason, fondly known as Dick to Dan and Lillian, had found Christ under Dan's earnest preaching. He forced his mind back to the present.
It was difficult to decide whether Eldon Winterton's tone was kind or condescending. He had a voice and persuasive manner that was no doubt an asset in the inner sanctum of banker's board meetings. That, no doubt, was why the board of deacons had sent him to speak to what they considered their "misguided pastor."
"I am sure you understand," Eldon Winterton was saying, "that we are not harshly criticizing your ministry. It is just that . . . well, you come over rather strong. I mean, this insistence on a standard of holiness clearly beyond the capacity of . . . er . . . mere mortals . . ."
Dan had heard it all before: the platitudes, the evasions, the justifications for not taking God's Word seriously. And yet, could he be at fault? Was his preaching filled with criticism and condemnation? Was there not room, however passionately he felt about preaching the unadulterated truth of God's Word, for more compassion; for more of a pleading, winsome manner? Somewhere deep inside him Dan Phillips knew the answer to that one.
Dan stood up, somehow drawing strength from the scent of fresh roses on his desk, placed there for his pleasure by Lillian. She was so loyal, so certain of the rightness of his stance on Biblical truth. He wished he could be as sure as she was.
"Thank you Eldon," Dan said, forcing himself to continue on first name terms, "I appreciate you coming to me, and for being so frank." He fought to keep the strain from his voice, and the sinking feeling from overwhelming him. "I can only tell you I will give the matter a great deal of prayer. One way or another you will notice a difference in next Sunday's sermon."
Eldon Winterton had risen, fingering his hat in anticipation of departure. His expression was complacent, triumphant. He said, "I knew it! I told the others you would see reason. There is no call for any . . . er . . . unpleasantness." He rammed the hat on his balding head and turned briskly to the door. "I look forward to next Sunday's sermon." Then he was gone, a ripple of self-assurance wafting toward Dan in his wake -- drowning him.
Dan Phillips arrived at the door of his apartment in some trepidation. He was still fingering the long, white envelope he had thrust into his overcoat pocket. At least he had some good news for Lillian.
His hand was still on the door-knob when it opened and he was drawn in by that vibrant, diminutive fireball that was his wife. The door closed and she clung to him possessively, protectively -- which was odd for one so lacking in bulk. He looked down at her dark tresses.
"You know?" he asked gently.
She looked up, her eyes doe-like with a softness that never failed to make his heart swell, "Of course! Do you think I don't know my husband after seven years of marriage?"
"And three failed pastorates."
"Now stop that! You don't have the right to run yourself down for simply sticking to your convictions." She helped him with his coat and led him to the living room where she established him on a sofa. Then she sat on the rug at his feet, hugging her knees.
"I have the right," Don answered, adjusting his glasses, "to be honest with myself."
"I know all about your honesty," Lillian shot back. It's a one-sided examination of all the mistakes you've ever made, together with a list of your weaknesses. Has it ever occurred to you that with whatever mistakes you've made, you've also been faithful to your calling?" She let out a long sigh, "But leave that for the moment. Tell me what happened today?"
"You know Eldon Winterton came to see me?"
"You didn't choose to impart that morsel of information, but I guessed something like that was planned. When you're pre-occupied at the breakfast table, I know something is up. What did he have to say?"
Dan sighed, "Oh, the usual. Just a replay of the three previous church board ultimatums in our other pastorates. Veiled, of course. Couched in kind words and apologetic nuances, but the bottom line was plain: either change, or suffer the indignity of dismissal." His shoulders dropped in an unconscious expression of discouragement. "The thing is, if I fail to get the board behind me this time, my ministry is finished."
"Are you sure?"
"Isn't it obvious? What church in the denomination is going to call a man known to engender conflict."
"You didn't engender conflict! The conflict resulted from the board's unwillingness to receive sound doctrine!" Lillian hugged her knees so tightly, her laced fingers showed white.
"It could also have been a lack of wisdom on my part," said Dan. He ignored her contemptuous snort at this remark, and continued, "Whatever. It doesn't really matter who caused the conflict. What sticks in the mind of a board member, is that there was conflict."
"But you've tried to resolve it. Two weeks ago you visited every board member privately. You reasoned with them, even pled with them."
Dan spread his hands in a gesture of helplessness, "If Eldon Winterton's visit to my study means anything, that didn't help in the least."
The expression of stubborn defensiveness melted from Lillian's face; the firm line of her jaw relaxed. Dan saw the signs of unshed tears in her eyes before she leaped up and clung to him, trembling. "Oh Dan, what will become of us?" Her voice was smothered as he held her close, "It isn't as if you haven't had some success. There are several whose lives have been changed under your ministry."
Dan took her by the shoulders, holding her away from him, gazing at her fondly. "If you have a fault," he said gently, it's your blindness to my faults. God grant that I never let you down. But you've reminded me of something."
He rose, went quickly to the entrance hall and returned with the envelope he had retrieved from his coat pocket. "There's a letter from Dick. He says he's coming our way. He'll be in the service on Sunday morning."
Lillian's face brightened. "At least you'll have one friendly face staring back at you from the pews," she said.
In reality, there were two friendly and one neutral face in the sea of hostility that confronted Dan on Sunday morning. Predictably, the encouraging smiles came from Lillian and Dick. Even the hostility was not uniform; more intense from the benches occupied by the deacon's and their wives.
The neutral expression belonged to the face of a stranger who had entered the church in company with Dick Mason, and now sat stolidly beside him. He was a middle aged man with thinning hair and heavy features. His arms were folded as he leaned back against the hard back of the pew, taking no interest in his surroundings. All his attention was centered on Dick, who felt cold sweat on his brow and fought a sinking feeling in the pit of his stomach.
No one but Lillian could even guess at the hours he had spent wrestling in prayer. Over and over he had reviewed his past teaching, checking and re-checking its conformity to Scripture. He ruthlessly bludgeoned himself with questions: "Did I always have the right attitude? Were my words unnecessarily sharp at times? Was I ever self-righteous in my presentation? Did kindness and consideration underlie all my actions; run through all my dealings with those under my care?
Measuring himself by such a straight rule, he did not come through such heart-searching unscathed. The arrows of conviction struck often, and drew tears of repentance from his eyes. However, by the end of the week he was convinced none of his offenses were the cause of his present predicament. His preaching had been true, and, in general, he had conducted himself with integrity.
Was not the Word of God like a two-edged sword? Did it not search the heart and the mind, as well as the thoughts and the intents of the heart? Did not even the preaching of Christ draw negative response from those who were unwilling to be exposed to the truth? Was Peter not cast into prison for preaching doctrines that offended the religious leaders? John was exiled and St. Paul suffered many things for the sake of the Gospel. Could he expect anything less?
He became aware of the heavy silence that had settled on the congregation; tense and expectant. The hymns had been sung. Eldon Winterton had read the announcements in measured tones. They somehow came across with an ominous ring, like the slow-measured beat of a funeral march. It was time for him preach. It was time to tie his future to the altar and wait for the knife to strike; to sever his hopes and cut off his dreams. He had no choice. He had bound himself to the Truth with the cords of love, and he suddenly knew what Queen Esther had felt when she had declared, "If I perish, I perish."
Daniel announced his text: ". . .holiness, without which no one will see the Lord." He felt the strained atmosphere fall from him. The sea of faces fled away like clouds before a mighty wind. In his mind he had only One to hear him preach; One to pass judgment; One to please. His voice rose on the wings of inspiration, and his lips uttered things that seemed touched with the dew of heaven. He had never preached with more power, or tenderness. At times his words seemed to strike like arrows into the hearts of his hearers; at others, like ointment that brought healing and strength.
At last he stepped down from the pulpit and went through the door to the vestry. Many of his hearers were moved as never before. The stony expressions on many faces had melted so that their eyes reflected a hunger for God. Masks of hypocrisy had fallen away, and those who had worn them cried out for forgiveness and blessing. He was overwhelmed with the gracious moving of God and hope rose in his heart. Perhaps the door was not closing on his ministry in this place. Perhaps the wind of change was blowing and . . .
The train of thought died. Five angry men faced him as he came through the door, all deacons. Eldon Winterton was foremost among them, advancing with cold rage etched into every line of his features.
"I really thought, pastor Phillips, that our little talk had brought you to your senses. Evidently I was mistaken. The kind of nonsense you were spewing out just now, was precisely the reason the church board has been dissatisfied with your ministry." His nostrils flared as he spoke, the only outward indication of rage, held in check by impeccable manners.
Dan stared blankly at the five men. He was speechless. The powerful sense of God's presence in the service had left them completely unmoved. If anything, they were incensed by it. At last he found himself able to speak:
"I am sorry you feel that way, gentleman. However, I must tell you that if you are asking me to stop preaching the way I have this morning, you are wasting your time. In the words of the reformer, 'Here I stand, I can do no other.' "
"In that case," said Eldon Winterton, extracting a slim envelope from his breast pocket, "I have no alternative but to give you this. It is written notice of your dismissal as pastor of this church." He thrust it at Dan, then turned and left the room through the door into the foyer, followed by the four other deacons.
As bold as he had been before them, Dan was devastated. True, he had held to his convictions, but his ministry was finished. However was he going to break the news to Lillian?
"Don't look so glum," said a bright voice from the doorway, "it's not the end of the world." Lillian, aglow with happiness, came to him. Her body was vibrant, excitement flowing from her like an electric current. Clearly, she had not seen the deacon's leave. She could not be aware of the meaning of the envelope he held in his hand.
"Lillian," he said seriously, gripping her shoulders and holding her away from him so he could look into her eyes, "I've been fired! Sacked! Dismissed!"
Her expression did not change. Her eyes twinkled. She said, "Oh, don't worry about that silly old envelope. I knew they'd get rid of you anyway." He had expected her to be brave, understanding, supportive. He had not expected this scintillating bundle of joy at this, the lowest point in his life and ministry. She kissed him on the cheek.
"What would you say if I told you, Dan Phillips, that the friend Dick brought with him has an envelope almost exactly like the one those stuffy old deacons gave you. And inside, he told me, is an offer from the board of the church in Haslington. It's a church filled with people hungry for just the kind of preaching you can deliver. And they want you to be their pastor."
Credits
- The door photograph (used under Creative Commons Attribution-NonCommercial-NoDerivs License) is by /elkabong, found on Flickr.
- The intro voice belongs to Steve "Snowball" Saylor.
- The theme music is Wagner's The Flying Dutchman (Overture), courtesy of the Rumblefish Music Licensing Store.
- This podcast is produced by Shane Shennan.
