Old Tarpaper Prayer
Epiphany
Dr. Gary Straub
Sinking Fork Christian Church
January – 1973
While finishing my doctorate work at Vanderbilt, I served as the 1st ever ‘settled pastor’ of Sinking Fork Christian Church, on the Princeton Road in rural Cerulean, KY. We lived in a brick bungalow owned by Penny, whose parents were killed in a tragic crash right in front of this very house. Penny and her baby brother were being raised in the country by grandparents.
Sunday afternoon, I got a call from the church patriarch, whose family “owned/ran” the church for generations. VR Moseley just retired as County Ag Agent; well known for always joking and joshing—full of folksy fun. VR deaconed at the main door, giving a stick of gum to every kid, every Sunday—over parental objection and the aggravation of church ladies who scraped gum off pews every Saturday afternoon, preparing for Worship. Still, those kids & VR were happy campers!
VR reported: one of our shut-ins ‘called for the preacher’— a country euphemism for Death Call. (Protestant version of “Last Rites”) VR carried me down an over-grown lane to a tattered tarpaper shack. I was ushered into the presence of a grizzled, whiskery old man with a whispery voice. He “presented his credentials” by explaining how his family had been ‘churching at Sinking Fork’ since its founding. He was ‘mightily pleased’ I would come to see him, since he never came to hear me preach in the 5 years I’d been pastor. I dismissed his humble pie objections; not knowing he was actually declaring his bona fides —all part of a rural ritual to claim his membership. We soon fell into the old prescribed pattern of ‘calling the church roll’—asking after folks he knew before he ‘took sick.’ I finally got around to the question of the hour: how are you doing? “Not so good; not sure I’m gonna make it. Preacher, pray for me!”
I took his hand and knelt by his bedside. I offered up one of those Great & Grand Old Gathering Up Prayers that Kentucky’s country preachers were famous for. I addressed our Maker in due & ancient form, quoting Genesis to Revelation. Finally, I placed the Golden Crown of Victory upon his withered brow while sweeping him up into Glory—pronouncing him “blessed”— and ending my benediction with “Well Done, Good and Faithful Servant; enter into the Joy of your Lord.” …. He did…. shortly after I left. We buried him out of Sinking Fork Church that very next Tuesday.
The deacons helped bury him in his family farmplot cemetery. After my final blessing, the menfolk shed coats & ties, and took turn-about shoveling. I shed my coat only to be told: ‘no preacher —your work is done; this is ours to do.’ Sadly, I can’t even recall the man’s name or kin.
Here’s the kicker. Leaving his shack with VR, my eye caught two faded, tattered, yellowed newspaper clippings pinned above his kitchen table. One clip showed JFK’s inauguration. The other clip announced me as his new preacher at Sinking Fork. The old man’s affection and respect for “his church” caught me totally off-guard. I left his shack with a prayer promise to honor his deep devotion. A truly humbling moment for me.
I slowly learned: when rural Kentucky folk ‘call for the preacher,’ I am not being asked to write St Peter a reference letter. Nor is this the occasion for an HR evaluation. A soul is being entrusted to my pastoral care to help carry them Home in prayer. I was honored to offer up a Good Word—commending this Beloved Child to God. In the solemn, sacred silence at graveside, just before I offer that Final Benediction, I always hear strains of that old hymn: “what a privilege to carry… everything to God in prayer.”
Over these 50 years, I’ve been called to countless bedsides and gravesides for prayer. It’s always humbling to accompany some soul seeking their Home in the Heart of God. By now I hope I’ve learned to at least offer an echo of that old tarpaper prayer.
