Amos

He was my pastor. From my growing-up years, he's the only pastor I really remember, since he was the pastor at Rossville UMC for twelve years. The previous pastor left when I was ten and the succeeding pastor was there when I was in seminary, away from the area. So he was my pastor. I didn't always agree with him, but he was always gracious, always kind, and always supportive. He told me he was proud of me, having been called into the ministry under his watch.

His deepest desire in life was to tell others about Jesus, even when those in the church didn't understand his methods, or why he did what he did. He loved teaching and discussing the Bible; some of my earliest memories are of being with the other kids in the parsonage basement playing while our parents were upstairs in Bible Study. (You would never get away with just letting kids play on their own today...but that was then...a different world.)

He wasn't the greatest preacher as far as "the rules of homiletics" go, but he was passionate about Jesus. You have to understand: our church sanctuary didn't have air conditioning. We had those funeral home fans tucked into the hymnal racks. Do you remember them?

If you got to church early, you might get a seat by the open window. If you didn't, the fans were there for you to use. Because no matter how hot it was, he was going to preach past 11:30. Or at least right up until 11:30. Worship was supposed to be out at 11:30, but it rarely was. And if it was hot in the sanctuary, he would just remove his suit coat and keep right on preaching. When that happened, we knew it was going to likely be a long one! If it was also communion Sunday, better assume the roast was going to burn!

He was the first one who let me try things in ministry. I don't know too many pastors who would trust a high schooler to direct the children's choir, but he let me do just that for several years. I would walk from the school (yes, there is only one school in Rossville) over to the church (two short blocks away) with the kids from the choir and practice with them every week. (Again, no one would do that now!) Every spring, we'd put on a musical. The props were bad, the music was cheesy, but he supported us wholeheartedly. He let me sing. He let me play the organ once a month. He even asked me to organize the annual church Christmas program (though that may have been because no one else would do it...). Much of what I learned (mainly from making mistakes) I owe to him, long before I ever went to seminary.

I don't know if he let me do those things because he knew one day I might answer a call to ministry. I don't know if he saw something in me that I had not yet seen in myself. I do know that, after my ordination and after his retirement, he gave me a set of commentaries that he had used in his ministry. Could I use them, perhaps? I still do. I use them nearly every week in my preaching and every once in a while, when I turn to a particular passage, I see his handwriting, his distinct handwriting, where he made a note of something that he wanted to preach about that week. When I see that, I smile, and I remember fondly all the sermons I heard him preach, all the lengthy prayers I heard him pray, and of the way I continue to stand on his shoulders.

He was much more than a preacher. If you want, you can read the details of his 96-year life here, but to me, he was pastor—the first pastor I called by a first name, by the way. He wasn't "Rev. McGinnis." Oh, I suppose he was to some, but to me, to our family, he was simply "Amos," a servant of Christ who lived the Gospel faithfully.

Amos died this week at, as I said, 96 years old. Up until 18 years ago, he was still preaching. But now his voice is being used to praise his Savior and Friend. A loss to us is a gain to the Kingdom. He was a good man, a faithful pastor, and a dear saint. Well done, good and faithful servant. Well done. I'll see you again one day.