CHAPTER 21: “YOU AIN’T GETTIN’ ME, BOY!”

MA WALKED INTO THE SCHOOL OFFICE without checking in with the school secretary —who knew better than to try to stop her —and wrapped me in a big hug. There were tear streaks down her cheeks, and her eyes were red and puffy. We drove in silence to St. Anthony North Hospital, where the ambulance had taken Grandpa.

As Ma and I entered his room, I was taken aback by what I saw. My short, stocky grandpa who filled the bed with his girth lay there still and silent. Whenever his eyelids opened briefly, his eyes rolled up and down, then back and forth, in their sockets.

Grandma and Ma fell into each other’s arms and cried.

Over the next few hours, my uncles and aunts began to fill his room, shedding tears and sobbing intermittently in sudden bursts of loud Mathias grief. My family had big muscles and big emotions. They hit hard, laughed hard, and cried hard.

And they were hit hard by this. The strongest man we had ever known had been laid low by the death that was slowly encasing him like a shroud, waiting for his last breath to escape.

I still had not shed one tear, and I felt bad about it.

Why can’t I cry? I wondered. I love my grandpa, but for some reason, I just can’t cry.

Within a day or two, all the family was in town, including my uncle Richard.

He was the “rich uncle” in Phoenix who had left Denver many years earlier to make his fortune. And he had.

But he had missed the radical transformation my other uncles experienced. He had heard about the power of the gospel during countless calls from my other uncles and my ma, but he had adeptly changed the subject whenever they brought it up. He was the last Jesus holdout in my family.

Uncle Richard was the suave one, and he was, for the most part, happy with his life. He had a nice home, a beautiful wife, great kids, and a booming business. He didn’t need Jesus like his brothers and sister, most of whom had hit bottom in some way due to life and strife. God had gotten Jack’s attention during his multiple stints in jail. Bob had turned back to Jesus in desperation in the back seat of a squad car. Dave’s scars from the battlefields of Vietnam had left him ready and willing to embrace the message of the gospel. And Ma’s soul scars from a wild life were finally being salved by the forgiveness of God.

But Richard was doing just fine without Jesus in his life.

Still, the other uncles were determined to win the fight for his soul. As in the barroom brawls of old, they wouldn’t stop fighting until a clear victor was declared. They were determined to knock out his unbelief, leaving it crumpled and defeated in a pool of Christ’s blood.

Grandpa’s hospital room and the waiting room formed the ropes of the boxing ring in which my uncles would tag-team fighting for their unsaved brother’s soul. But Richard knew how to fight too. He was an expert at diverting conversations, batting away direct attacks, and locking the conversation down when necessary.

Jack took the first direct frontal approach while we were sitting in the stark, sterile, uncomfortable waiting room. “Hey, Richard,” Jack asked, “you want to go to heaven to see Dad someday, right?”

“Yup,” Richard said, abruptly standing to end the conversation. “Hey, I got to use the john. Where’s the bathroom in this place?” Without waiting for an answer, Richard hastily retreated from the room. “I’ll be back in a few,” he announced to no one in particular.

After a quick pit stop, Richard decided it was safer to wait in the hallway. But Bob intercepted him there and tried a new, less aggressive approach. “Richard, I want to talk to you about something when you get a few minutes.”

“Let’s do that, little brother!” Richard said. “But first, let me go see Dad.”

It went on that way for the next few days. Jack, Bob, and the other brothers repeatedly tried to land a gospel punch, but each time, Richard bobbed and weaved and played rope-a-dope to avoid getting knocked out by a Jesus jab.

All the while, I watched Grandpa struggling to breathe, his eyes still rolling back and twitching as my grief-stricken grandma sat by his bed day and night. It broke my heart to see my grandma so broken. But still, my eyes shed no tears.

What is wrong with me?

Every day after school Ma and I made our way over to St. Anthony’s North. I would sit in the waiting room doing homework, occasionally going into Grandpa’s room. I knew that Jesus could do miracles and that although the doctors said he was “brain dead,” God could raise him up in an instant.

Ten days into Grandpa’s hospital stay, while doing my math homework in the waiting room, I overheard four of my uncles conspiring.

“Richard said he has to head back to Phoenix for a few days to take care of his business,” Bob explained. “We still haven’t reached him with the gospel. We need to hatch a plan.”

“Dad ain’t got much more time,” Jack said. “I’ve seen death before, and he’s startin’ to rattle as he exhales. That’s a sign he ain’t got much time.”

“Agreed. He’s got the death rattle for sure,” Dave said, nodding. He’d seen death far too many times himself.

“What do we do about Richard?” Tommy asked, concerned about his brother’s soul.

“I have an idea,” Bob said conspiratorially before his voice trailed off into a whisper. I looked up from my algebra problem and leaned over, trying to hear what they were saying, but I couldn’t make out any of their words.

Grandma came into the waiting room from having been with Grandpa, and they waved her over into their whispering circle.

“I agree,” she said. The first glimmer of a smile I’d seen in more than a week played on her face. Then, almost in unison, they all looked my direction and started walking across the room toward me.

My heart beat faster and faster as they gathered in a semicircle in front of me, but I kept my head down and my pencil scribbling numbers. Finally, I couldn’t take the suspense anymore and looked up. “What’s going on?” I asked.

“Greg,” Jack said, “when Grandpa dies, we want you to give the message at the funeral.”

“What?” I asked. “What do you mean?”

Bob took over. “For Dad’s funeral,” Bob explained. “We’ll get some pastor to officiate, but for the actual sermon, we want you to give it.”

I was in shock. Why would they ask me to preach at Grandpa’s funeral service? I was a mere teenager. Sure, I had won a preaching contest or two at Arvada Christian School, but this was no preaching competition. This was a real funeral service, and it was for someone who was the closest person I had ever had to a dad, my grandpa. This was no job for some “preacher boy.” This was a job for a real preacher.

“Why me?” I asked, stunned by their request.

“Because you’ll give the gospel clearer than them other preachers,” Jack growled —not in anger; he just always growled.

“I heard that time Yankee let you preach in church, and you gave the gospel real clear,” Bob said.

“Clear gospel” was a term that Yankee had used again and again in his sermons. He talked about some gospel presentations being clear, some being unclear, and some being false. My uncles knew the value of giving the gospel clearly, because it was a clear gospel presentation of simple faith in Christ based on his finished work on the cross that had reached all of them. Anything that reeked of “turn or burn” turned them off and frustrated them to no end. The gospel that had saved them was one they had received by faith, not achieved by works.

“I agree,” Tommy added in his calm, affirming voice.

“Me too,” Dave said, giving me a nod and flashing me his big smile.

“What about Yankee?” I asked by way of encouraging them to get someone else. I wasn’t so sure this was a good idea.

“Yankee’s the best, but Grandpa never went to Yankee’s church,” Tommy said.

“What, are you chicken?” Dave asked, testing my manhood. Suddenly I felt six years old all over again, exposed for all to see my weakness and fears.

“No, I’m not chicken, I’ll do it,” I said, falling for the challenge almost instinctively. The last thing I wanted was for my uncles to think I was a coward when it came to one of the few things I was actually developing a talent for.

“Good!” Jack said, punching me hard in my arm —which was our family’s version of a hug, a playful but solid hit to the shoulder which frequently packed enough punch to leave a bruise.

It was hard for me to take in. These were some of the same tough guys who had laughed at me when I opened my traumatic doll Christmas present a decade earlier. Now they were asking me to preach at the funeral of their beloved father.

Something was happening that I couldn’t quite make sense of. For the first time in my entire life, my uncles were acknowledging something about me that I was especially good at. And that was churning some emotions inside me that I’d tried to keep tamped down for years.

I was in the process of unwrapping a new present, but this time it wasn’t a doll. It was something different, something better —a gift, not from my tough Uncle Dave, but from my loving Father God.

“And there’s another reason we want you to preach at Dad’s funeral service,” Bob said.

I braced myself.

“Richard will be there, and we all think he may be more open to hearing the gospel from a family member than some preacher he doesn’t know,” Bob explained. My uncles smiled at each other, knowing this was the best plan.

“What do you think, Grandma?” I asked.

“I wouldn’t want anyone else to preach at Grandpa’s funeral than you,” she said simply, tears brimming in her eyes.

Grandma’s belief in me was all I needed to hear.

Less than a week later, Grandpa died. A few days after that, Uncle Richard was back in town with his wife and kids.

The entire family —uncles, aunts, and cousins —was gathered at the funeral home where the memorial service was taking place. I was nervously pacing in a side room with the “real pastor” who would handle all the details of the service, leaving the sermon alone to me. Hundreds of people filed in quietly to pay tribute to my grandfather.

As I peered outside the curtain that separated the clergy from the crowd, I was surprised and more than a little intimidated by how many people were in the auditorium. “I can’t believe how many people knew my grandpa,” I said to the officiating pastor.

“Your grandpa was a well-respected man,” the pastor assured me.

I was nervous. Not only were there several hundred people filling up the pews, but my entire family was there. Plus, I wanted to do a good job for my grandpa. I wanted to honor his memory with a sermon worth hearing.

My uncles, aunts, cousins, grandma, ma, and brother lined the first several pews. Many of them were already crying even before the funeral service had officially begun. Every time one of them glanced up toward the large open casket holding my grandfather’s body, a loud burst of wailing would shoot up like a blasting rocket from the Mathias-filled pews.

Uncle Richard was crying too. He, his wife, and his kids filled most of the second pew on the left. He was strategically positioned in the seat closest to the aisle —ready for a quick escape if he felt cornered.

Out of all the people in the auditorium that day, Richard was the one I was most passionate about reaching with the gospel. My other four uncles had full faith that I could reach him, and I didn’t want to let them down.

“It’s time,” the pastor said. “Let’s make our way to the stage.” The pastor held back the curtain for me. I could feel every eye on me as I walked up to the stage wearing a suit that was a size too big for me —the closest size on sale in Montgomery Ward’s bargain basement. It was all that my ma could afford.

The pastor walked forward and welcomed everyone and gave a quick eulogy of his own that included his fond memories of Tom Mathias Sr. A soloist sang my grandpa’s favorite hymn, “In the Garden.” It stirred my emotions a bit, bringing back memories of Grandpa singing it in his beautiful tenor voice at little Bethany Baptist Church. But it was not enough to make me cry.

Then it was my turn to preach. I approached the pulpit and looked out at the crowd. In front of me, there were no longer three judges, as in a preaching competition. Instead there were five hundred judges crammed together, waiting to critique my talk. But I was preaching to reach one in particular —my uncle Richard. His response was more important to me than anyone else’s in that entire crowd.

My hands grasped the sides of the pulpit and trembled. Taking a moment to scan the crowd, I silently prayed, God, give me power to preach.

Then I launched in. I told stories about my grandpa. I shared verses to comfort the crowd in their grief.

There was a certain authority that came from preaching God’s Word. There was a certain rush that came from moving people emotionally and spiritually that I had never experienced to this degree.

This was no practice session. This was no competition. This was no showcase of a young preaching prodigy. This was me standing in God’s place, preaching God’s message. This was me using my best illustrations and unpacking Scripture the best I knew how in a way that the people would comprehend. This was me fighting Satan for the souls of lost men and women, and especially for the soul of my uncle Richard.

But it wasn’t just me. It was God’s Spirit surging through my spiritual veins, like lifeblood, giving me power to preach. I could feel his power. It both scared me and excited me. Because, even in that moment, I could tell that this kind of powerful preaching, and the biblical authority that came with it, could be easily abused. It could become the adrenaline rush that my uncles had craved right before a fight, back before Jesus changed them. It could become my idol. Instead of idolizing the adulation from having big biceps, I could easily fall into the trap of idolizing the adulation and the power that came from preaching.

God, help me, I whispered in the silent sanctuary of my soul as I continued to preach, not wanting to lose the presence of God’s power due to the pride of making people cry.

Then I gave the gospel and an invitation to respond. My four years of training under Yankee served me well. Every Sunday morning, Sunday night, and Thursday night at Youth Ranch, I had heard Yankee give the gospel and give the invitation, so I gave the gospel and the invitation exactly as I’d heard it at least five hundred times before.

“Can I have everyone bow their heads and close their eyes?” I asked the crowd, many of whom were moved to tears by the message I had given.

They did.

“With your heads bowed and eyes closed, I want to ask you a question. Do you know for sure that you will go to heaven when you die, like my grandpa did?”

I could hear the sniffles and sense the conviction sweep over the crowd like a brisk breeze.

“If not, then I beg you to put your faith in Jesus right now.”

Looking to my left, I was surprised to see that my uncle Richard had not bowed his head or closed his eyes. He sat there with his arms crossed and a look on his face that simply said, You ain’t gettin’ me, boy!

Looking away from Uncle Richard so he wouldn’t feel like I was singling him out, I repeated my instructions. “Again, with heads bowed and eyes closed, if you’ve never put your faith in Jesus to save you, today is the day of salvation.”

Glancing back, I could see that he still had his arms folded and was almost imperceptibly shaking his head no, his eyes wide open, glaring at me.

My uncles and aunts had their heads bowed and their hands over their faces, but they were all peeking between their fingers in a not-so-discreet way, craning to see if Richard would raise his hand and trust in Jesus when I gave the cue.

“If you’re ready to put your faith in Jesus, then say this silent prayer to God in your heart right now,” I continued. “‘Dear God, right now I believe that Jesus died for my sins and rose from the dead. I trust in Jesus alone to forgive me for all my sins. I receive your gift of eternal life right now. In Jesus’ name, amen.’”

Here was the moment we’d all been waiting for, the reason why my uncles had asked me to give the sermon. “With heads bowed and eyes closed,” I repeated as a subtle reminder to the audience that the invitation was not yet done, “if that message made sense to you and you are trusting in Jesus today, for the first time, and are receiving the gift of eternal life, would you raise your hand right now?”

The invitation to respond was the test of true power in preaching —in the evangelist’s textbook, anyway. Would I be able to draw in the net, to reap a harvest of souls, to see the lost converted?

Hands went up all over the place. Heads were bowed, eyes were closed, tears were shed, souls were saved.

This was gospel preaching. This was what it was all about. The thrill that ran through me at seeing so many respond to the gospel shook me to the core. The gift my heavenly Father had given me had come into full view. The last piece of wrapping paper had been removed. That Christmas gift Uncle Dave had given me all those years ago could have sent me into a tailspin of sin and rebellion. Instead, it sent me on a ten-year search for my true identity and significance and purpose, which had eventually brought me to this pulpit.

This was the gift that God had given me to give to the world. I had found my sense of security in my Father —my heavenly one. I had found my purpose behind a pulpit. God was calling me to preach the clear gospel of grace to as many as I could and to call as many Christians as I could to do the same.

But as I turned toward Uncle Richard, his eyes were still open and glaring as he shook his head no. My heart sank. But when I glanced down the row at my other uncles, I knew none of us were going to give up on reaching Uncle Richard. If today wasn’t his day of salvation, we would just keep praying and sharing until that day came.

As I took my seat after the invitation and let the officiating pastor close out the memorial service, God was still doing a work in my soul. Looking at my grandpa’s open casket, I couldn’t help but think of how a coffin had been open and waiting for me so many times in my young life. The grim reaper had sought to take me again and again. From almost being aborted, to being close to bleeding out, to a burst appendix, through a double-whammy dog attack, to a most embarrassing near-death by butterscotch candy, I’d survived against the odds.

But God had protected me for a purpose. He’d sent rescuers (like my uncle Tommy and aunt Carol), doctors, a thought (“stand on your head”), and maybe even an angel. I was born for a purpose. I was rescued again and again for a purpose. And this was the purpose: to advance the good news of Jesus to as many as possible.

As I scanned to my left and looked at my uncles, all but one smiling and nodding at me, something hit me.

Like the rest of my rough, tough family, I was a fighter too —a different kind of fighter, an unlikely fighter, but a fighter nonetheless. My power was not in my biceps but in my Bible. It wasn’t in my fists but in my faith. I didn’t wield a gun, but I did wield the gospel.

Two weeks after the funeral, I headed toward the living room where Grandpa always sat watching television. I needed to ask him a question. It hadn’t really sunk in yet that he had passed and gone to heaven.

When I turned the corner into the room and saw his empty chair, the realization hit me like a rogue wave of grief. I fell to my knees and wept for the first time since my grandfather passed.