Cybercolumn by Brett Younger: Rolling up our sleeves_51605

Posted: 5/20/05

CYBERCOLUMN:
Rolling up our sleeves

By Brett Younger

In the spring of 1987, I was the pastor of Central Baptist Church in Paoli, Ind,, a town of 3,000 with three Baptist churches—at least two more than was needed. The people at Central had gotten angry at the pastor of First Baptist and started their own church, even as the people at Eastview Baptist had gotten angry at the pastor of Central—not me, the one before me. I am quite proud to have no church splits on my resume and only one quick exit.

Central had bought the Methodist building when the wealthiest Christians in town decided to move a half-mile to the suburbs. The sanctuary they left behind was prettier than most Baptist churches, but the education building must have been constructed by Alph and Ralph, the Monroe Brothers. It had a mostly flat roof, which in Indiana shows remarkable shortsightedness. Each winter, the snow would pile up on the roof, freeze, crack and melt from five different directions to leak into the fellowship hall and two of the three children’s classes. Each year on some Saturday in May, a group of men would climb up on this 40- by 20-foot section of the roof to lay tar.

I was a seminary student commuting to Louisville Tuesday through Friday—back when Southern was Camelot. I spent every Saturday at the church frantically writing the Sunday morning sermon, and on a good Saturday getting a leg up on the Sunday night sermon (praise God for delivering me from that).

I didn’t know about the annual tarrin’ party until my first one. I got to church about 8:30 and heard Danny Hickman yell, “We’ve been waiting on you.” Danny, a fireman, Loy Doenges, a furniture factory worker, and Tony Martin, a horseshoer, were waving for me to climb up on the roof.

I had real work to do, but I didn’t want to give them the satisfaction of telling everyone that I was scared of heights or hard work or some such foolishness, so I climbed up for what I hoped would be a quick perusal of their work, a few heartfelt words of appreciation, and a speedy exit to my study to get after some important biblical text.

When I got to the top of the ladder they, had a three-bristle brush waiting for me. I thought about begging off, but I knew I would never hear the end of it, and I’d rather be tarred and feathered than put up with that. I had no choice but to roll up my sleeves and lay tar.

What became my annual trip to La Brea doesn’t sound like a big deal, but this is one of the clearest memories I have almost 20 years later. Three things about this experience made it memorable and miserable.

One is that the tar wars are dismal for more than just that day. You heat the tar with a torch before you dip and smear it onto the fiberglass that covers the cracks. The tar is hot, gooey and sticky. As anyone who’s read Uncle Remus would guess, at least as much tar sticks to your hands as makes it into the cracks. Somehow, the tar baby gets in your hair and takes your hair with it when it goes. Tar hands, tar hair, tar heels. And it was pretty high and there was nothing to keep you from falling to a horrible death.

Worse than the first problem was the second. Whenever anyone showed up to help, walked by on the street or drove through the drive-through at the bank next door, they would inevitably shout something clever like, “I never saw a preacher working on Saturday.” “How does it feel to do some real work?” “What in tarnation do you think you’re doing, actually earning your pay?”

While my loving congregation offered these feeble attempts at humor, I was thinking: “I have got to get off this roof and get to work on the sermon or I’ll be here all night long. How will my people survive if Sunday morning comes and I don’t have the inspiring thoughts they’ve come to expect?”

But the third problem is worse than the second. What I haven’t been able to shake is the fear that they were right: That, in some ways, church work is a way for me to avoid rolling up my sleeves and doing real work. Maybe that’s true for other ministers, too. Maybe it’s true for a lot of church people. Christians are always tempted to believe that our job is to describe the work that needs to be done, share this knowledge with one another and keep our sleeves buttoned.

Before the next pastor came to Central Baptist Church, they finally put a new roof on the education building. Maybe it was his good fortune that he never had to pick tar out of his fingernails. Or maybe all of us need to be reminded that we need to get to work building Christ’s church.

Brett Younger is pastor of Broadway Baptist Church in Fort Worth and the author of Who Moved My Pulpit? A Hilarious Look at Ministerial Life, available from Smyth & Helwys (800) 747-3016. 

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