In His Place: A Modern-Day Challenge for Readers of In His Steps

by Harry C. Griffith

  The tiny one-bedroom apartment was neat but sparsely furnished. An old brown sofa, leaking stuffing from the armrests, sat up against one wall of the living room. A recliner covered in a sickly shade of green vinyl occupied the opposite corner. That was where Mrs. Sherwood found Otis, according to the police.

  On the kitchen table lay an assortment of bills and envelopes, carefully organized. Beside them a yellow legal pad provided a checklist of paid bills and disconnected services. Another list gave bank account details and access information. A third page contained funeral arrangements.

  It was as if Otis had carefully considered each issue that someone would have to consider in dealing with his death. Otis had taken care of every detail—except one. He hadn’t left an explanation.

  I spent several hours going through the apartment, looking for some hint that would help me understand what happened. I found nothing. I was about to go home when I heard a knock at the front door. I opened it and found a thin African American woman standing there holding Skeeter in her arms. As soon as Skeeter saw me, he started wiggling and whining. The woman put the little dog down, and it ran into the living room and hopped into Otis’s green recliner.

  “Look at that,” she said. “Poor thing misses him so.”

  I held out my hand. “I’m Steve Long. Otis’s pastor.”

  She nodded and shook my hand. “I’m Lonetta Sherwood. Otis told me a lot about you.”

  “Mrs. Sherwood, I’m struggling to understand this. Did you notice anything unusual about Otis the last few days? Anything at all?”

  She shook her head and dabbed at her eyes with a lace handkerchief.

  “I saw him yesterday afternoon, and he seemed fine. He told me he was going on a trip.”

  “Trip?”

  She nodded. “And when I found the envelope on my door this morning, asking me to take care of his dog, I thought he’d just forgotten to mention it. Well, he didn’t say how much to feed Skeeter, and so that’s why I knocked on his door. He didn’t answer, so I tried the doorknob.” Her eyes filled with tears. “That’s when…” She brought the handkerchief to her mouth and choked back a sob.

  I shook my head. “I’m baffled and desperately want to understand exactly what happened. Did he really use the word trip?”

  “Not exactly,” she said. “He told me he was going to see his best friend.”

  As I left the apartment complex that day and headed back to the church, her words resonated through my mind.

  He told me he was going to see his best friend.

  Otis had revealed his planned death to her as casually as if he were announcing his vacation travel plans. An eerie feeling crawled down my spine that told me I would soon learn why Otis took his own life, and I wouldn’t like the answer. How could I prepare the congregation for the news?

  Chapter 2

  The letter arrived in the church mail, one day after Otis’s death. It swept over me with the force of a tsunami.

  Betty Ferguson, our church secretary, brought it to me with several other pieces of mail. The envelope was hand addressed in Otis’s unruly scrawl. I tore it open and pulled out a sheet of yellow legal paper, obviously taken from the same pad he’d used to make out his final to-do lists. On the paper, Otis wrote:

  Dear Pastor Steve,

  I want to thank you for all you’ve done for me.

  I’m sorry for doing this. I know I’m letting you down. I’ve tried to hold on, but I just can’t stand the loneliness anymore.

  I know Jesus will forgive me.

  I’m tired, and I want to go be with Him.

  Love,

  Otis

  Loneliness? The word jolted me. Otis was an active member of our church. He was there every time the doors were open. How could a dear guy like Otis have been lonely?

  A flood of guilt washed over me, followed by a host of what-ifs. What if I had spent more time with Otis? What if I had probed a little deeper the last time I saw him looking sad? What if I had visited with him the day he called me…the day before he killed himself? I ran a mental check of my last few interactions with him, but I couldn’t think of a single thing that might have tipped me off to his intentions.

  Nevertheless, the guilt remained. Why didn’t I make Otis a priority? Why wasn’t I more proactive with him? And how was it possible for someone to be a member of Incarnation Church and yet feel lonely and isolated? Most of all, where could I find answers to all of these questions?

  Every pastor needs a confidant, someone outside his church with whom he can share his deepest frustrations, hurts, and questions. Someone he can go to when the wheels are coming off and everything around him is falling apart. Someone he can trust not to give him the easy answer but to show tough love.

  There is a problem with confiding in other pastors. As strange and ungodly as it may seem, there is often competition between the clergy in any town. Any problem we have can seem like a weakness when we consider sharing it with another pastor. You would think that other pastors would be the logical ones with whom to share your concerns because they can be expected to understand your trials and tribulations, but I was reluctant to do it. Pride.

  Philip Treadway wasn’t a pastor. In fact, he wasn’t even a practicing Christian. He was a guy who had faced disappointment with God and wanted nothing to do with the church. Yet, strange as it may seem, I felt more comfortable talking to him than just about anyone other than my wife.

  When Jayne and I first came to Belvedere, Incarnation Church was not in good shape financially, and for a time I had to be a bivocational pastor. Philip Treadway was good friends with Incarnation’s board chairman, Clifton Stoner. Clifton knew that Philip needed someone to help at his lumberyard and set up a meeting between us.

  “Who knows? Maybe you’ll be able to get him to come to church,” Clifton said, winking. “He hasn’t been inside one for twenty years. Not since his boy was killed by a drunk driver.”

  I don’t know exactly what it was, but Philip and I hit it off from the moment we met. Maybe it was his sardonic, humorous outlook on the world. Or perhaps it was because he sharpened me by challenging my assumptions and beliefs. For whatever reason, it wasn’t long before Philip was more than my part-time boss; he was my best friend.

  Several years ago, the church raised my salary to the point where I didn’t need a second job. But even though I no longer worked at Philip’s place, that was where I went when I needed to process things.

  I knew two things about Philip. One, he would tell me the truth. And two, I could trust him.

  Philip Treadway smiled at me from behind the counter as I walked through his little store. I was constantly amazed at his ability to stay in business in this day of places like the mega home improvement chains that take up a city block. Yet despite these gargantuan competitors, his lumberyard plugged along and continued to turn a profit. The building was long and narrow, had no air-conditioning, and showed its age everywhere. There wasn’t much flash, and Philip catered primarily to contractors rather than do-it-yourselfers.

  Of course there was something else that Philip’s business offered that the big boys couldn’t quite match. There was a friendly, you might say homey, atmosphere at Treadway Building Supplies. When you went into Philip’s store, it was more like going to the local café. There were three stools in front of the counter at the back of the store, and usually one was occupied by a contractor, a salesman, or just somebody who stopped in to visit. And there was always coffee.

  Philip Treadway was a large man. I am fairly tall, but standing next to him, I looked short. With his muscular build, shaved head, and goatee, he also looked like he could be a bouncer. In spite of this, I had never met a gentler giant.

  Philip stood, and his massive hand swallowed mine when we shook hands.

  “Haven’t seen you in a while,” he said. “I thought maybe you’d forgotten about me. What brings you here today?”

  “First things first,” I said as I sat down on a stool. “Coffee.” />
  “It’s been busy. You get the dregs today.” He poured a cup of coal-black liquid from a nearly empty carafe and handed it to me.

  I took a sip and shuddered.

  “Powerful stuff, huh?” he said with a grin.

  “Much more of that and I won’t sleep for a week.”

  “So what’s up?”

  I looked down into my Styrofoam coffee cup and back at Philip. “One of our members committed suicide.”

  Philip winced and shook his head. “Who?”

  “Otis Huntington.”

  Philip knew many of the people at Incarnation Church. He knew Otis particularly well. Otis had worked for him for several years.

  “I’m sorry. Did he leave a note?”

  I handed Philip the letter. “This came in today’s mail.”

  Philip’s brow furrowed as he read the note. “Does the rest of the church know?”

  I nodded. I had called Clifton Stoner, the board chairman, the night before and asked him to pass on the news.

  “How are you handling it?” he asked.

  “Not very well.”

  Philip shook his head. “That’s not what I mean. How are you going to handle it with the congregation? How are you going to explain it to the church at the service tomorrow?”

  “Explain it?”

  “Look, I’m not trying to be sarcastic, but isn’t suicide a major no-no for you guys? Do you really think that people aren’t going to put a negative spin on this? Look at it as a failure on Otis’s part?”

  “Why would they blame Otis?”

  “So they don’t have to blame themselves.”

  Philip was my friend, but he had touched a raw nerve. I raised my hands. “Look, man, I didn’t come in here to start an argument. I’m still processing this myself.”

  “I know that,” he said, not letting my response ruffle him. “But this is something you need to think about. You’re the pastor. The buck stops with you. When you stand behind your pulpit tomorrow, your congregation is going to want answers. They’re going to want you to tell them that Otis’s suicide is not their fault.”

  I raised my voice. “It isn’t their fault.” Why do I feel so defensive?

  “Are you sure of that?” Philip shot back. “Are you certain that the church did everything it could to prevent this?”

  I felt my face flush. “How could we prevent something we didn’t even know about? Otis never told me or anybody else that he planned to kill himself.”

  Philip paused and pierced me with his gaze. “Didn’t tell you? Or couldn’t?”

  “What do you mean?”

  He leaned across the counter. “All I’m asking is this: How can a man like Otis be a part of your church yet die of loneliness?”

  Chapter 3

  I didn’t want to admit it, but Philip was right.

  I drove back to downtown Belvedere and pulled into Incarnation Church’s parking lot. I sat in my truck for a few minutes, mulling over what Philip had said. How was it possible for someone to be an active member of our church yet die of loneliness?

  Incarnation Church, with its tall spire and stained glass windows, overlooked downtown like a silent sentinel. The church had a rich history. Our building was a registered historic landmark and had stood in downtown Belvedere for over one hundred years.

  But had it become nothing more than a shell? Had it ceased to be a place of healing? A place where people could come to connect with God? A place where they could worship and find community? More importantly, a place of changed lives, of people radically committed to Jesus Christ as Lord and Savior? A body of disciples?

  I walked into the sanctuary and sat down on the burgundy-colored, carpeted steps that led up to the platform. I deliberately left the house lights off, allowing only light from the stained glass windows to illuminate the room. A colorful mosaic of red, yellow, green, blue, and violet sunbeams splashed along the pews and the carpeting.

  I’ve always been a bit of a traditionalist, so I loved Incarnation’s handcrafted windows. They were not original to the building. The church imported them from England in the 1940s. Beginning with the annunciation to the shepherds and concluding with the ascension of Christ, they told the Savior’s story through stunningly beautiful artwork.

  Over the years I had served as pastor of Incarnation, this is where I came when I needed to talk things over with God. The mute splendor of the stained glass quieted my spirit so I could listen to His Spirit.

  I got up and walked down the left side of the sanctuary, pausing at each window, contemplating the story each told. One of my favorites was Jesus healing the leper. The man knelt before the Savior, a pleading expression on his face. His words echoed in my mind.

  “If You are willing, You can make me clean.”

  Jesus’ arm was outstretched, His hand touching the man’s head.

  “I am willing; be cleansed.”

  To reach out and touch an untouchable was unthinkable. But Jesus did it.

  I moved on to the feeding of the five thousand. The window depicted Jesus standing, surrounded by a multitude. He held a piece of bread in one hand, a fish in the other.

  “I have compassion on the multitude.”

  In the next window, a woman washed Jesus’ feet with her tears and dried them with her hair. How scandalous that would have been.

  I went from window to window, walking through the life of Christ and thinking about each incident depicted, until I came to the final—and most majestic—window. This window, which loomed behind the platform twice the size of any others, was the only one that held a caption.

  As Jesus ascended into heaven, the disciples stood on the Mount of Olives, gazing up at Him. The expressions on their faces were a mixture of wonder and fear. The caption read: As THE FATHER HAS SENT ME, I ALSO SEND YOU.

  I read the caption several times, tossing it around in my mind.

  “I also send you.”

  Those words attached themselves to my mind and wouldn’t let go. Why did they have such a hold on me? What did it mean?

  Chapter 4

  As the Father has sent Me, I also send you.”

  Even though it was a Saturday and I had already prepared a sermon, I knew I had to throw it out and start from scratch. That meant I wouldn’t be home on Saturday afternoon as usual. I pulled out my cell phone and called Jayne.

  “Hello?”

  “Hi, sweetheart. Just wanted to check in and let you know I’m at the church.”

  “Aren’t you coming home for lunch?” she asked.

  “I’ll grab something down here. I’ve got to work on my message for tomorrow.”

  Silence filled the other end of the line. This was out of character for me, and she knew it. More silence on her end. After an uncomfortable pause, I heard her take a deep breath. “What’s up? You okay? You always complete your sermon on Friday so you can take Saturday off.” I could sense concern in her voice.

  “I need to rework it. Otis’s death has changed things.”

  A hint of concern colored her reply. “Are you sure you’re all right?”

  “I’m fine.” I hoped my tone shielded the doubts in my mind.

  Tomorrow’s sermon would be very different from the norm. I decided that Incarnation Church’s Sunday morning service would double as Otis Huntington’s memorial service. He had no family other than the church, and he’d left all the details for the service in my hands.

  I hoped and prayed this service would be a life changer for me and for my congregation. In any case, I knew I owed it to Otis—and God—to get it right. I had to say what needed to be said without playing on people’s emotions. The congregation’s grief was genuine, and a reflection of my own. But I wanted my message to be uplifting rather than depressing. Striking the right balance remained the challenge.

  I had no idea what the results would be. Even though Incarnation had endured some financial struggles over the years, it nonetheless continued to be an affluent church. Our members were the doctors, law
yers, and business executives of the area. Would they receive what I had to say? I knew I was about to have a test case when Clifton Stoner, our board chair, dropped in.

  Stoner was not a big man. He stood about five foot four and probably weighed 130 pounds. But his thick mane of white hair and piercing blue eyes gave him a stern, austere appearance. Even though he was a banker, he reminded me of a judge.

  I learned early on in my tenure that Clifton was Incarnation’s “church boss.” If he didn’t sign off on something, it didn’t happen. The rest of the board, as well as the congregation, would go whichever way the wind blew. And Clifton Stoner was the wind.

  Stoner opened the door—he never knocked—entered my office, and sat down in one of the two plush leather chairs that sat in front of my desk.

  I leaned over the desk and shook his hand.

  “Terrible thing about Otis.” He shook his head.

  I nodded.

  “When’s his memorial service going to be?”

  “Tomorrow morning.” I tented my fingers.

  Clifton’s brow furrowed, and he sat up straight. “During church?”

  I nodded again.

  Stoner looked down at the floor and shook his head. “I don’t think that’s a good idea.”

  “Why not?”

  “People come to church on Sunday to worship and be encouraged. It’s not the time for a funeral.”

  “On the contrary.” I opened my hands. “I can’t think of a better time. This church was the only family that Otis had. And I think we let him down.”

  Clifton gave me a sharp look. “What are you talking about?”

  Otis’s note lay on my desk. I pushed it over toward him. “Read this and see what you think.”

  The yellow legal paper shook in Stoner’s hand as he read it. He folded his arms across his chest after he put the paper back on my desk.

  “And this means what?”

  “Our mutual friend Philip Treadway put it to me this way.” I cleared my throat. “How could Otis be an active member of your church and yet die of loneliness?”