​The Pregnant Pulpit

Filipino Church 1993

I suppose my streak had to end sometime. I had managed to avoid preaching on my first two mission trips to the Philippines back in the 80s and early 90s. I wasn’t a preacher back then. I was a homebuilder and a cabinet maker, and I didn’t preach, period. Shoot you’d be hard-pressed to hear me sneeze in front of a congregation, and if I did, I’d turn bright red out of embarrassment. I was what you would call terminally shy. If I had to stand up in front of a crowd and talk, I just knew I was going to die. So for the first two mission trips to the Philippines, I had managed to find a guitar, or a reasonable facsimile thereof, and hide behind it and sing my way through whatever church service had been thrust upon me and to whomever I had been thrust upon; but not this time. This time God ambushed me. This time nobody was supposed to preach but the preacher, so in my ignorance, I was relaxed and comfortable.

Once again I was in the Philippines, on my third of four trips there. It was a Sunday, and it was sweltering, as tends to be the case in the Philippines on Sunday mornings. For the life of me, I cannot recall the town. It was a little barrio to the north of Tagaytay city where we were working, that much I know. I can see it just like it was yesterday.

It was a little church, open-air of course, no need for windows in that part of the world unless you just want to be fancy. It had old terra-cotta tiles on the floor; you know the reddish-brown ones that you used to see all over the place. They weren’t broken tiles like some folks like to do. They were whole tiles, and the builder in me couldn’t help but notice that the tile man was good. There was nothing too far out of order. There were a bunch of plastic lawn chairs lined up in rows like you tend to find in churches worldwide. They were white, so they contrasted well with the floor. The walls were stuccoed with a greenish, mustard colored mud. Separately it sounds kinda awful; but when you put it all together it was an attractive little church; and this Sunday morning it was filled to the gills with church folks who wanted to see the American who had come to visit.

Whereas I may well have been a disappointment to them, they weren’t to me. They were some of the most authentic and gracious people I have ever come across. They folded me into that congregation like I had been a member all my life.

About the time I got settled in, a man came over and said he wanted to talk to me. He was a deacon or something of the sort according to his dress and demeanor. He looked at me with concerned anticipation and told me that the preacher had come up ill and wasn’t going to be able to speak that morning. He said the preacher asked him to ask me if I might be willing to say a word or two about the work my teams have been doing over the past few years down in Tagaytay.

I remember the old idiom of people having butterflies in their stomach when nervous. Not me. I had a flock of starlings swirling around down there; but what was I supposed to do? My mind said, “Bolt, and be quick about it,” but my mouth, much to my astonishment, said, “Sure” with a little lilt in my voice and a smile on my face. If there was a missionary category at the Oscars, I would’ve been a shoo-in in 1993; but the Lord wasn’t done with me, yet.

After some singing, reading and praying, the time came for my trembling knees to drag me up to the pulpit. It was about this time that things got kinda interesting.

As I rose to my feet and began to make my way towards the pulpit, a low growl could be heard. The closer I got to that pulpit, the louder and more menacing that low growl became. By the time I had worked my way up beside the pulpit, the growl had intensified to such an extent that the whole room was filled with an ominous quavering. The atmosphere was electric. The congregation was on the edge of their seats, wondering with great anticipation just what might be coming next. As I stepped around and behind the pulpit, their anticipation did not go wanting.

There are two things in this world that I have never claimed to be. I’ve never claimed to be a dancer, nor have I ever claimed to be Pentecostal. I am a mild mannered man with two left feet; but as I stepped around that pulpit and the growl became a snarl and that mama dog came barreling out from underneath that pulpit towards me with slathered lips, gapping mouth and eyes filled with murderous rage, I became a world class dancer and a hellfire and brimstone, shouting shoes, jump the altar Pentecostal. My performance must’ve been pretty impressive too, because when I finally came to rest atop that pulpit, I was showered with a combination of heartfelt applause and laughter like never before or since. That whole congregation, save the deacon, appeared to be filled with delight at my physical prowess and comedic timing. As a matter of fact, so was I.

So there I was, perched atop that pulpit suspended between a maniacal mama dog and the congregation. At that moment I figured speaking was less dangerous than getting down, so speak I did. By the time I finished speaking, I had effectively anesthetized the dog, so I was able to live to fight another day.

Since that time I have improved a bit, I suppose.  My starlings have become butterflies, and my fear has become a mild anxiety; but I do know this: When the Lord wants you to do something, He will make it happen. So why resist?

I don’t have any idea what the Lord has in mind for you. I do know this, though. The Lord has something in mind for your individual life. As has been true with me and many other people however, all too often we resist. We fight the Lord, and in so doing we miss out on so many blessings and so much joy.

Your destiny might be to sweep the floors or to raise the roof. It matters not.  The Lord has called you to do great things for the kingdom. Don’t make Him chase you to the top of a pulpit before you say yes.

Love, Pastor Tony

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