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Making
things happen - with integrity. A weekly CyberMemo designed to keep you on task. Monday October 30, 2000 Volume II Number 44
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FOCUS - My Pastor
C.W. Perry grew the church to well over two thousand from scratch. Thirty-seven years ago, he and his wife Mary came to North Orange County California with a dream of making a mark, and building a congregation that would last.
C.W. took the pulpit Sunday after Sunday, while Mary took her place at the sanctuary keyboard. Her music and his Bible talks drew them in.
Between Sundays, C.W. built relationships. With men. Athletes especially. These guys are young guys with big dreams. And dads with young families. And grand-dads who love their role in their kids’ lives. When he is out of the pulpit, he is out there with the guys – shootin’ hoops, or throwin’ the baseball, or swingin’ the bat or hittin’ the volleyball, or loftin’ the football for the long pass, or climbin’ a mountain or pullin’ skiers behind the speedboat. C.W. is known as a man’s man. He believes in hard work and hard play, his people would tell you. That’s why the church built a gymnasium before they built a sanctuary.
Mary and C.W. have five children. The first four girls. Then finally, number five – a son. David. Four of the five are married. His three sons-in-law think of C.W. as Dad. David, a former collegiate baseball player and now seminarian, is pastor to the church’s burgeoning high school group.
Wednesday morning this week, early, before day-break, C.W. was in the church gymnasium just like most every Wednesday, playing a pick up game with a bunch of guys from the church, including two sons-in-law, a couple of physical therapists and several other athletic types.
At
age sixty-seven, C.W. loves shakin’ a young defender with a quick move and
turning for the lay-up, or pullin’ down a rebound, or poppin’ a pass for
the assist, or sinkin’ an outside shot. Then he’d muscle his way inside, tappin’ a rebound back
in the bucket for two. Later one
of the guys said he was hot as a pistol that morning, hitting five for five
from outside in the final few minutes of play.
He thanked the guys for a good workout, and wished everyone well for the day shakin’ a few hands and high fivin’ a couple more and then he walked to the sideline to grab his gym bag and head for the shower. It was just before seven AM. As he reached down for the bag, he winced, his knees buckled, he groaned a deep groan, and fell to the floor.
“C Dub!” one of the guys yelled. The sound echoed off the walls in the gym. And everyone in the big room dashed to his side on the hardwood. The therapists knew what to do. Within minutes, paramedics arrived, with every high tech aid. An ambulance, sirens screaming, rushed him to cardiac care.
But Dr. C.W. Perry, pastor, friend, husband, father, grandfather, leader, teacher, counselor, athlete… never responded. That morning, with the suddenness of a lightening bolt, he died.
* * * * * *
My pastor is a lot like C.W. Bill Trok shoots hoops. He throws footballs. Climbs mountains.
Hard to believe, this month, we’ve been at it for a year.
Bill doesn’t call it a first anniversary. He calls it a first birthday.
For fifty-two Sundays now, we have gathered at the Middle School for worship in the Multi-Purpose Room. Early, the van arrives with all the equipment. The set-up crew knows the routines. There are toys and gates and books and teaching aids that go to the classrooms for the children. The sound crew plugs in a state-of-the-art sound system with mikes and amps and soundboard and monitors for the worship team and the speaker. Lights are up, along with the screen and the overhead projector and two hundred plus chairs and the welcome table. Signs are unpacked and rolled out and set in place outside – banners announce RIDGEVIEW CHURCH, and point cars to the parking area. Arrows direct RIDGEVIEW KIDS to their classrooms. Coffee is plugged in and nametags are at the ready.
The worship team gets a sound check. They warm up as people begin to arrive. Bill tests his roving wireless microphone. Ushers welcome the crowd with this week’s edition of the bulletin.
The buzz proliferates. People huggin’ and laughin’ and just plain glad to see each other. Minivans and SUVs arrive. Families pile out of the side doors, moms and dads herd their little ones while watchin’ the traffic in the parking lot; little boys with hair combed and shirts tucked in and little girls with buttons and bows. Teenagers lookin’ cool. And filin’ into the front row.
This month, it was for the first birthday party.
It was a reunion for all the musicians who’ve contributed throughout the year. By now we know the songs. The drummer long ago said good-by to his timid reserve. The lead guitar knows his licks. The keyboard man is back, and John works the transitions and fills the empty spaces with rhythm and lively chords. Add a set of tall hardwood congas to the percussion. The bass guitar snaps out a rumbling bass line. And the vocals, a record setting number; sopranos and altos singing countermelodies and the guys workin’ the harmonies and the lead layin’ down a strong melody line.
From the first number, Ridgeview was a Church. Standing and clapping and celebrating a birthday.
Bill set aside his usual sermon in favor of a more personal day of reflection. He invited six people, three men and three women, to talk about their own “firsts.” Bill makes a living as a public speaker. He has found his voice. He’s a teacher and a motivator and a master storyteller and a stand-up comic. All in one. But on this particular Sunday, he deferred to amateurs.
Six who spoke directly from the heart.
* * * * * * *
Deborah is a professional. She thought she had it all. A big house. Room for the horses. Then her husband decided he didn’t want to be married anymore. Her world collapsed. She never went to church. Until Ridgeview.
A friend from about an hour away attended a sister church. He’d heard that Ridgeview was up and running. One Sunday morning, he and a couple friends left early. They arrived at Deborah’s doorstep and took her to Ridgeview. For the first time.
She liked what she heard. She met new friends. She hasn’t missed a Sunday since. And several months ago, Pastor Bill baptized her as two hundred watched around the pool on a Sunday afternoon. Her life has been completely changed, she said. For the better.
Jimmy is fifty something. Two years ago, he told a group of guys in a small group that he realizes he’s only got one thing left to give his grown up kids – a godly Dad. But, he said, he didn’t know how to do it. One of the guys there said, “we’re gunna help you, Jimmy.” And in two years, it’s happened. Jim leads Bible studies. And that Sunday morning, at Ridgeview’s first birthday party, Jim shared a dynamic testimony of a life-changing faith.
Four others shared that morning. Dwayne. Heidi. Rick. Claudia. Over three-hundred listened in. And Bill, our pastor, was moved. So much so that tears washed a contact lens out of position… he could barely speak.
People finding direction. Hope. Renewed commitment. Meaningful friendships. Marriages energized. Stories of forgiveness and reconciliation. New motivation for parenting. Personal wholeness. A new sense of community. A life centered – by personal faith. In Jesus.
Later that day, after a baptism and celebration of communion, Bill and Sharon cut the birthday cake. As a new congregation held hands and prayed, there was a deep sense of gratitude… for a God who is alive and well.
And for a man we call our Pastor.
* * * * * * *
Monday, we will gather with about four thousand others in a makeshift tent – to remember a man we all feel was our friend. A Pastor called “C Dub.” Just a couple years ago, the University recognized his life work with an honorary doctorate. He was a faithful teacher. An evangelist. A musician. The CEO of a large and growing church. A counselor. A mentor. He was there when the kids took their marriage vows. He was there dedicating the newborns and the new parents before a charmed congregation. He was there when death took a loved one. And Sunday after Sunday, he took the pulpit and served up a generous helping of Bible knowledge and hope and direction and grace and mercy.
Sometimes people we care about are taken from us gradually. We have time to get used to the idea. But sometimes, one is snatched away from us with a shocking suddenness that leaves us numb. Off balance. The void hurts.
This loss is a category two.
* * * * * * *
On this Monday morning, as a leader, I hope you have a Pastor. A good one.
One who knows you by name. One who knows your family. One you can admire.
You’ll never find a perfect one. But you want him to be real. Authentic. Genuine. Winsome. One who loves his work.
My eighty-four year old mentor loves to talk about his pastor. He refers to him as “my Pastor.” Not “the Pastor” or “the Preacher” or “the Reverend.” Not even “our Pastor.” But “my Pastor.” He’s just about thirty years his junior… but he’s still “my Pastor,” Ted says. (His name is Pastor Gordon Kirk.)
This week, C.W. Perry’s pastoral ministry came to an abrupt end. Those who knew him as “my Pastor” are going to need some time to recover from the devastating news.
This week, Pastor Bill’s work is just beginning. A growing number of us know him as “my Pastor.” That’s what he is.
You’ve got a family doctor. An accountant. An attorney. A therapist. A trainer. A financial advisor. Shouldn’t you have a pastor?
I think so.
Sometimes it takes a significant loss to get us thinking about priorities. What’s really important. Who is really important.
If you still don’t have a pastor, find one. If you’ve got one, let him know how much you appreciate him.
Don’t put it off.
© Copyright Kenneth E. Kemp 2000
Special Thanks to my good friend David Belcher, owner of Rhino Media Group and creator of WisdomGram
LeaderFOCUS is a service of Good Stewardship Associates
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