When Men of God Fail

Good men and women fail. Even men and women of God, ministers of the gospel of Christ. We hear of it through the news, or from those who know or have heard about it. What happens when it’s someone you know? Has it ever happened to someone you personally know?

It hurts.

I recently attended a memorial service for someone I had worked under in ministry who had fallen. Because of my position at the time, I was involved in the process of confrontation and accountability. It was the second time I had been involved in such a process – a few years apart. It left me wounded and bleeding. These men had impacted my life. They had been a powerhouse for Christ. I considered it a privilege and blessing to work in ministry under their leadership.

They were good to me. As a boss.  As a friend.  As a mentor. I loved and admired them. I realize that ministers face the same struggles and temptations as anyone else. Perhaps more so because Satan has more to gain if men and women of God fall. Even non-believers take notice.

One man lost his family and ministry after he fell. The other lost his ministry.

Then it happened again. To a pastor we knew. Again, my husband and I were devastated. A trust had been broken this time. A wife was betrayed and abandoned, friends and family were wounded.

I could titillate you with details – and I have details – but I won’t. I respect the memory of the good these men did while in ministry.  Years later, when my thoughts go to any of these men, my heart floods with sadness.

Do I, or you, judge these men on their failure? Or on the totality of their ministry? Human nature is such that if you do ten wonderful, sacrificial things for someone and then do one horrid thing to them, it will likely be with that one horrid thing that dominates their memory of you. Sadly, in regards to these three men, their ministry legacy will reflect their failure more than their successes.

If you’re familiar with David in the Old Testament of the Bible, David had grievous sin and failure in his life. Adultery and murder to cover his crime were a few things in David’s life.  Yet, in 1 Samuel 13:14 and Acts 13:22, David is referred to as a man after God’s own heart.  How can that be?

The biblical record does not attempt to sugar-coat David’s blunders. It honestly shows his triumphs and his tragedies. Throughout, David had a soul that could be touched with truth. He was unafraid to admit his transgressions. He broke his own heart by his lapses of spirituality. 

David’s life, nor the lives of the three I mentioned, should be judged exclusively by their valleys of failure, but by the whole landscape of their ministry. They had/have families, friends, and followers who loved them. People were hurt, and some destroyed, by their failure. The greatest destruction, however, is what the repercussions of their actions did to them.

None of us know for sure what we are capable of doing if presented with certain circumstances. Remember that before you point a finger at others. 

And so, I write of these things in my books....men and women of God who fall or fail. But, always with redemption and restoration in the end. That is the God we serve -- a God full of mercy, grace, compassion, and kindness.  Alas, I have not seen restoration in the men I personally have known. It is no fault of God's, but of their own.

We Are Not The Devil

In keeping with my theme to write blog posts this year about life experiences that influence my writing, I want to share an adventure from my church heritage.

I come from a long line of Pentecostal believers. Although many will point out the errors and foolery involved in this type of religious experience (as it is with most religions), the good definitely outweighs the bad. At least for me. I would not change my Pentecostal heritage for anything. There are certainly things about it I miss. I thank God for my Pentecostal experiences, but I'll save that for another post.

I gave my heart to Jesus at Bethel Pentecostal Church of God when I was 14. The years I spent in the youth group there are some of my fondest memories. Over 50 years later, and I'm still friends with several from those days -- friends as in we see each other on occasion.

Most of the youth attended every event/service the church had. Besides regular service on Sunday and Wednesday, we had Friday night prayer meeting. One particular Friday, the youth decided to abandon the adults praying around the altar and go into the youth room off the sanctuary.

I was best friends with the pastor's daughter, Carolyn, at the time (typical teens, we all changed best friends frequently). When Carolyn and I got up to join the teens in the youth room, her mother motioned to us to stay where we were. "Everyone should be praying in here," she admonished us.

What teenager wants to be with adults instead of their peers? Especially since it sounded like the teens were praying heaven down. Or possibly fighting the devil. Loud and aggresive prayers could mean either. Carolyn and I felt left out and slightly miffed. "We're going to the bathroom," she whispered to her mother.

The church building had been added on through the years. The women's restroom was off the back sanctuary and had an old open room adjacent to it. The youth room, where the teens were praying, had once faced outside. It had a window facing the door to the restroom. The window had been painted black at one time for privacy, but that paint had flaked in spots.

Carolyn and I peered through the flaked window paint to see what the youth were up to. It sounded like all heaven was coming down. Or hell. Unbeknown to us, the youth felt like the devil's presence  was in the room and they were in the middle of marching around the room and rebuking the devil and his demons.

When they saw eyes peering at them through clear patches in the window, they all screamed and went tearing out of the room into the sanctuary, dropping to their knees by the adults. Hallelujah! Carolyn and I returned to the altar wondering what happened. So we whispered, asking the teens, "What happened in there?"

"We were taking authority over the devil and his demons, and there they were staring at us through the window. Scary eyes and shadowy light behind their heads."

Hm. To this day, I don't remember if we told the youth it wasn't the devil, it was us. I do remember even the adults caught the fire of prayer passion from the teens that night. It was a lively meeting, for sure, regardless of the fact the devil was not watching the youth through the window.

I can't prove it, but I think God chuckled.

God, I thank you for my Pentecostal background. I thank you for pastors Chester and Velma Hamby who helped mold my early walk with Christ. I thank you for the wonderful friends I made in that youth group -- David, Ben, Carolyn, Rachel, Sande, Sally, Barbara L, Barbara D, Willie, Brinda, Tommy, Carol, Josie, Nancy, Gerald, and any I forgot to mention. 

Remembering Betty Owens

     Church. Some love it, some hate it, and some are indifferent.

     In 1974 I was a 26 year old mother of five, moving to a new neighborhood. I was broken, flawed, and so shy, I hardly spoke. I hadn’t always been so broken.

     I had been attending Bethel Pentecostal Church of God since I was 14, but that year I decided to attend Victory Assembly of God, a small church closer to home in my new neighborhood. Attending Bethel and Victory were decisions that would be pivotal in my life. At Bethel, I surrendered my life to Jesus Christ for the first time. At Victory, the course of my life was set.

     Betty Owens was the pastor’s wife at Victory. She would become my friend, mentor, and family. Looking back, Betty was flawed and broken too, but she hid it well, having overcome much because of her faith. She took me under her wing, encouraging me to get involved and develop in ministry within the church.

     The church grew and so did I. Betty believed in me and pushed me out of my comfort zone. Whenever I told her I couldn’t do something, she’d say, “Of course you can. I’ll show you and help you.”

     Over my thirty plus years in that church, many things happened. In 1974 my oldest child was 9 and my youngest was 1. My children grew up. I remember Betty during times when we didn’t have enough food, or I couldn’t provide Christmas, or pay for my kids to go to camp. Betty would rally the church to help. I was embarrassed sometimes, and Betty would tell me that’s what church people do.

     Betty was there for me during some of the most difficult times of my life – times when circumstances almost destroyed me. My struggles in a bad marriage. My divorce after 22 years. My 15-year-old daughter having a baby, making me a grandmother at 32. Another daughter giving a baby up for adoption. Another daughter rebelling and leaving home. Betty was my shoulder to cry on, my encourager, and she never failed to pray for me and my children. Or give us a lecture and a piece of her mind.

     Betty loved to laugh and have fun. She was often the instigator whenever our ladies group pulled pranks or got into shenanigans, and I have pictures to prove it. She coordinated all my daughters’ weddings, and Pastor Leroy performed the ceremony. They oversaw many of my grandchildren’s dedications.

     Because of Betty’s and Leroy’s example and support, I have children in ministry today.

     We got older – Betty and I. It happens. Even as her health deteriorated the last several years, she always managed to look beautiful. She was a classy lady. It grieved me to watch Parkinson’s destroy her body. In December of 2016, Betty went home to the Trinity (God, Jesus, Holy Spirit) she had dedicated her life to serve.

     That last week of her life while her children, Becky, Philip, Sheila and I were talking about Betty going to heaven and what would she be do there. I said she would help Jesus set up for the marriage Supper of the Lamb.

    Has your influence made someone a better person? Changed the course of their lives? Brought hope? 
    There will never be another Betty in my life. I can never repay her for all she was to me and my children. But, I, and every one of us, can be a Betty in someone’s life. 

Wing Your Words -- Someone's Destiny Awaits

I attended a statewide women’s conference this past weekend with the church denomination I belong to. One of the speakers made a profound statement that I wrote down, “Someone’s destiny may be attached to your purpose.”

WOW!  Think about your purpose. I don’t believe our purpose is limited to one huge, main thing. It could, and should, include being the best parent, neighbor, husband, wife, co-worker, friend, WRITER, and just an overall good person. People are affected and influenced by us every day, whether we realize it or not.

As a writer, you have many people under your sphere of influence. Do you write books, devotionals, blogs? Are you on Facebook, Twitter? Something as simple as what you post on Facebook or Twitter can impact someone’s destiny. Read the following.

Well today was my venture back to church! I went where I felt God leading me to City Life church and it was AMAZING! I felt the presence of God the moment I walked in the door. Having not gone to church in over 7 years I was skeptical and afraid of hurt again but, I was wrong! I felt love instantly from a few people I knew and a few new family members. (Name deleted) enjoyed class and LOVED Mrs. B and her other teacher (name unknown)! Praise and worship was real and annointed! I have recommited my life back to God and am ready to Dream Big! A few people have helped me with encouraging words (and may have never known) everyday on Facebook to make this decision a little easier to go back aside from my close circle friends I want to thank (names deleted) your posts have been examples of true Christianity and meant lots to me.

The above was a recent post on FB. I deleted the six names she mentioned, but mine was one of them. I was shocked because I don’t know this person, although we have numerous mutual friends, and I’ve have never met her. When I commented that I was touched and this made me cry, she commented:  Leola McCurdy Ogle you are such an awesome example to me and I have never met  u.

I’m not awesome. I’m quite ordinary – filled with faults and shortcomings, and yes, kindness and goodness. Yet, words that I caused to appear in posts on FB, usually without much thought at all, has influenced someone’s destiny.  

What is your purpose as a writer? Could you possibly be the key to someone’s destiny by the things you write? How often have any of us been encouraged or inspired by a Facebook or blog post? How often has someone else’s words been instrumental in speaking to our heart or spirit? Most of those writers will never know.

Wing your words for the world to see. Someone’s destiny awaits. 

Half Eaten Drumstick

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Five-year-old Hannah’s eyes widened at the tables spread with a feast. Glancing around, she saw that her mom was talking to the group of ladies in the church vestibule. Confident that no one was paying attention to her, she made her way to one of the tables.

Her stomach rumbled, and it seemed her hand had a mind of its own. It darted out and grabbed a chicken drumstick. Hannah stared at her grubby hands. She hadn’t bathed in three days. 

She had eaten half the drumstick when she saw the centerpiece that said, “Happy Birthday Pastor Harold.” Hannah stopped chewing. She knew the words Happy Birthday but wasn’t sure about the other words. She understood this feast was for someone’s birthday. 

Sighing, she placed the drumstick back on the pile of chicken. Although there was so much food she was sure one drumstick wouldn’t be missed, she knew Mommy would count this as stealing. Wiping the back of her hand across her greasy mouth, then both hands on her shirt, she walked to the door of the fellowship hall. 

Mommy was explaining their plight, plight being the word Mommy used, to the group of ladies. “He just left us. I don’t know where he is. Then we got evicted from our apartment. Been sleeping in the car since. I just need gas money to get to my parents in Dallas,” Mommy said with a quiver in her voice. 

From the looks of that group of ladies, Mommy wasn’t getting money or anything else. “This isn’t a good time,” one said. “We’re having a potluck today to celebrate our pastor’s birthday.”

“Usually you wouldn’t even catch us in here, we’d all be in the service,” another said as her eyes raked over her mommy.

Mommy kept talking, so Hannah stepped backwards. Turning, her eyes fell on the dessert table. Her mouth involuntarily shaped into an O. Sidling up to it, she folded her hands on the table, resting her chin there. Pies, cakes, cookies, brownies….oh, my! 

“What’re you doing?” 

Startled, Hannah jumped, pulling back her hand that had been reaching for a brownie. She stared into the stern face of the lady. “Nothing,” Hannah mumbled. 

“Look what you’ve done,” the lady said, pointing at the spot where Hannah’s hands had made a greasy stain on the tablecloth. 

“I’m sorry.” Hannah’s voice trembled.

“Oh, no!” the lady shrieked when she saw the half eaten drumstick on the platter of chicken. The other ladies came rushing into the fellowship hall. They seemed to forget that Hannah and her mom were there as they discussed whether they should throw away the whole platter of chicken. 

“That’s just dandy. The potluck’s ruined,” the stern lady said.

“Come on, honey bug,” Mommy said softly, putting her arms around Hannah, and tugging her towards the door. 

“Wait!” One lady came walking over, motioning for Mommy to follow her. She went into the kitchen and pulled ten dollars from her purse and handed it to Mommy. “We’ll fix you both a plate of food you can take with you,” she said. 

A couple of the ladies helped fill plates while the stern lady glared at Hannah and her mom. They had just started out the door with their foil covered plates when people began pouring in, lead by an elderly, silver-haired man. 

“What have we here?” Pastor Harold remarked, smiling compassionately at Hannah and her mom. 

“Sorry ‘bout that, Pastor Harold,” the stern lady said. “They’re leaving. Come on, we’re ready to pray before the food gets cold.” 

“Tell them to pray then, Martha. I want to talk to these lovely ladies,” Pastor Harold said, dropping to eye level with Hannah. “What brings you here for my birthday potluck?” His eyes were kind and his voice gentle.

Despite Mommy’s protests that they were leaving, Pastor Harold brought them into the fellowship hall and sat them at his table, Martha glaring the whole time. 

It was a story that Hannah would tell her children, the potluck that changed their lives, reuniting them with her grandparents in Dallas. Not only did they sit at the table with Pastor Harold and his wife, but he filled up their gas tank, set them up in a hotel that night, and gave them enough money for food and gas for their trip. 

“He treated us like honored guests, like family. And when Martha warned Pastor Harold not to take any chicken from that platter, he winked at me and took two pieces.”