When I was growing up, after church on Sundays we would eat dinner at my grandparents’ house. At precisely twelve-thirty the grandfather clock in the downstairs hallway would dong, which signaled that dinner was on the table. The children would come in from the front yard, the men would rise up from the rockers on the porch, and we would make our way in to the feast.
Except on the last Sunday of the month, which was when we had to stay after church for the monthly business meeting. On that day, we ate cold meat loaf sandwiches left over from my grandmother’s Saturday night meat loaf. The cold meat loaf sandwiches were the highlight of the day. I’d put ketchup on mine and squish the bread flat around the meat, then dip it in ketchup again to ease the dryness.
The business meetings were long and tedious, chock-full of detailed reports on trifling matters. The meeting would begin with a devotional thought from Bob Miles Sr., former editor of The Harmony Herald and teacher of the Live Free or Die Sunday school class. Bob Sr. would begin by recalling how much of the week he’d spent in earnest prayer, seeking God’s counsel on what message he might bring. But it was obvious to us that Bob had forgotten all about the devotional until that very moment and was merely biding his time until a thought worth sharing came to mind. The devotional took fifteen minutes and always ended with Bob cautioning against the United Nations.
After the devotional thought, the meeting clerk would call for the treasurer’s report. The head usher, Dale Hinshaw, would bring forward the Florsheim shoebox where he stored the month’s offering and would spread the money on a table and count it in front of everyone. Twice. Pastor Taylor often said that if we gave, a good measure would be given to us. Pressed down, shaken together, and running over. But in all the years I’ve been here, I’ve never seen Dale’s shoebox run over.
The best part of the monthly business meeting was when the elders gave their report. The elders were a fascination to me—upright saints of the church, meeting in the basement on the third Thursday of every month to shepherd us along. They would keep careful notes, which they shared with the rest of us, except when it concerned certain scandalous topics that could not be made public. Then they would just say, “We discussed several matters of a confidential nature.”
That always intrigued me. I would sit in the fifth pew and speculate about such things. My father was an elder, and I would try to pry information from him to no avail. He would look at me and say, “There’s some things you’re better off not knowing.”
I’d reply, “Why don’t you tell me what they are, and let me be the judge of that?” He would fix me with a long stare.
I always wanted to be an elder and learn the church’s secrets, so you can imagine my delight when I became the pastor and started attending the elders’ meetings down in the basement on the third Thursday of every month.
The delight was short-lived. At the June meeting, Dale Hinshaw asked for prayers for his nephew who, after siring five children in six years, had gotten a vasectomy and was in great pain. The doctor told him to keep ice on it, but his wife had forgotten to fill the ice trays so he used a bag of frozen peas instead. His children kept asking why their daddy was walking around with frozen peas in his underwear.
Dale said, “That’s not all of it. He doesn’t sleep well, on account of his thin eyelids and the streetlights keep him up. He doesn’t get near enough sleep. Three, maybe four hours a night. He’s having a time of it.”
We promised to pray for him, then quickly moved on to another subject, not wanting to dwell on Dale’s nephew with thin eyelids and peas in his pants. Miriam Hodge wrote in the notes, We discussed a matter of a confidential nature.
Then we discussed several other matters, none of which had any bearing on the kingdom of God. This is what happens when you have elders who fancy themselves great philosophers. They can wax eloquent about eternal truths as long as it doesn’t get personal. Everyone is an expert. Everyone has a firm opinion about what we ought to do and no one gives an inch. If we accidentally appoint a saint to the elder’s committee, by midyear we have broken them of all Christlike tendencies.
We nearly ruined Miriam Hodge. We appointed her to serve as the head elder after Dale Hinshaw nominated himself to the committee. We put her in charge to offset the “Dale Hinshaw Effect.” The Dale Hinshaw Effect is simply this: If there is a bad idea to be thought, Dale Hinshaw will think it.
Before Miriam took charge, a typical elders’ meeting would go like this: At ten after seven the elders drive up to the meetinghouse parking lot, ten minutes late. The first one to arrive makes the coffee. They stand in the kitchen until the coffee is brewed, then set up a table in the basement and talk about basketball and the state of our country, which according to them is bad and getting worse. This takes one hour. Then they discuss matters of a confidential nature, then go home flush with accomplishment. If someone thinks of it, they close with prayer.
Miriam Hodge arrived fifteen minutes early for our first meeting. She made the coffee. She stood at the door and greeted her fellow elders, and handed them an agenda. The others were mystified. An agenda? What was this? What’s going on here? First item: prayer. Miriam worked her way around the table, inviting each elder to identify a spiritual need in his life, then encouraging the rest of us to pray for that person.
All the other elders are men. Men not accustomed to spiritual introspection. There was lots of “Umm, I’ll have to give that some thought. I was thinking we were going to talk about painting the meetinghouse.”
Paint they can talk about. It’s personal confession that throws them for a loop.
That was when Dale Hinshaw, in a valiant effort to keep the focus off his own spirituality, began talking about his nephew’s vasectomy and thin eyelids.
But Miriam held to the agenda and moved to the next item, my vacation. Dale Hinshaw began recalling vacations he’d taken. He told about when he was little and his father would drive them to the lake. He recalled reading the old Burma-Shave shaving cream signs posted along the road. There, that was something they could talk about—Burma-Shave signs. That was safe ground. Asa Peacock and Dale began recalling their favorites:
The whale put Jonah down the hatch
but coughed him up because he scratched.
Burma-Shave
The monkey took one look at Jim
and threw the peanuts back at him.
Burma-Shave
It would be more fun to go by air
but we can’t put these signs up there.
Burma-Shave
Dale Hinshaw especially liked this one:
In this world of toil and sin
your head goes bald but not your chin.
Burma-Shave
It took thirty minutes for Miriam to get them back to the next agenda item, church growth. Our numbers were down, and had been for thirty years. Miriam had drawn up a graph tracing our attendance. If it had been snow, we could have sledded down it.
Dale Hinshaw thought maybe it was time to hold another revival. Maybe have two revivals a year. He talked about a church in Florida that had a revival every week. Maybe we could do that. Harvey Muldock suggested putting a lottery ticket in each bulletin. Miriam suggested we become sensitive to the Spirit’s leading and begin inviting people to worship with us. They decided to go with the lottery idea.
Next Monday, the phone rang. It was Miriam.
“We’ve got problems,” she said. “I’ll be by to pick you up.” I sat on the porch, waiting and worried. Five minutes later, Miriam pulled her truck to the curb in front of my house. We drove west of town, then turned around and headed back toward Harmony.
There they were. Signs. Just like Burma-Shave used to use. The first one was on the edge of town, just before the Welcome to Harmony sign:
If you cheat and drink and lie
turn to God before you die.
Harmony Friends Meeting
Miriam asked if I knew who put the signs up. I had my suspicions.
We drove east of town. Turned back. More signs.
The gate is narrow, the path is straight.
Follow Jesus. Don’t be late.
Harmony Friends Meeting
“Dale Hinshaw,” I told Miriam. “This has Dale Hinshaw written all over it.”
We drove toward the meetinghouse. More signs. This time in front of Harvey Muldock’s car dealership.
Go to church and learn to pray
or when you die there’s Hell to pay.
Harmony Friends Meeting
Dale Hinshaw was pounding in the last sign as we pulled up to the meetinghouse curb. It read, Tired of sin? Come on in! Dale smiled and said, “Catchy, isn’t it? I think it’ll take care of our church growth problem.”
He told how the Lord had spoken to him in a dream. He dreamt he was a boy again, riding in the backseat toward the lake and reading the Burma-Shave signs. Then he woke up and went to his kitchen table and the Lord gave him those gospel messages. Just like that.
He turned to Miriam. “I have you to thank. If you hadn’t encouraged us to follow the Spirit’s leading, this never would have happened.”
Miriam paled. This wasn’t what she’d had in mind.
All week long, people called, wanting me to take down the signs. I told them to talk with Dale.
On Thursday morning I walked to the meetinghouse, past the Tired of sin? Come on in! sign. Someone had written underneath it, If not, call 555-9658. That was my phone number. All week long my phone rang. Apparently, people in this town weren’t tired of sin.
Then Sunday came, and the meetinghouse was packed. People who hadn’t come for years were washed and starched and sitting with their hands folded in prayer.
They were there for the lottery tickets, but Dale didn’t know that. He thought it was the signs. He was deeply pleased. He talked about making more signs, of putting them up all over town. Maybe even go statewide. “We could do our own TV show,” he went on, “just like that Robert Schula fella with that church you can see through.”
There would be no stopping him now.
It’s a dangerous thing to ask the Spirit to lead you. You never know what might happen. But it doesn’t mean we should stop asking. Even though we get our wires crossed, we need to keep at it. Because someday someone might grow tired of sin and walk right in. And when they do, we need to be here for them.
Turn toward home. We’ll be here.
God is gracious. Don’t you fear.