Forty one years ago I sat in his office. We talked as good friends do, of family, the weather, and in our case, the church. We were both pastors, he seasoned and wise, me green and idealistic. His name was Bill Horn, and he was a bull of a man, standing about six foot four, with formidable bulk hanging on that frame. Bill was from Brooklyn and when he talked, he sounded like he had a mouthful of marbles. But he was one of the greatest friends I ever had. I was about to leave the little church on which I cut my pastoral teeth, move to Chicago and begin seminary, and that particular day we talked about the future; specifically, about my future.
It's not uncommon in the circles I commonly travel to have someone offer to pray for you when you are embarking on a new adventure in life, and Bill was no exception. He prayed for me that day. It's also not uncommon for people to tell you they'll keep praying for you. Bill told me he would pray for me every day. It's also not uncommon for people to forget. I know I've done it - promise to pray and promptly forgot.
It was a full year before I saw Bill again. I was home for our Annual Conference, a yearly gathering of clergy and laity in our denomination. Ours was held on the campus of Houghton College, and as I was strolling down the sidewalk towards the chapel on this particular day, Bill suddenly appeared, looming over me like a genie conjured up from a lamp. His first words to me were, "I've prayed for you every day since you left." He continued to do this until the day he died many years later.
I thought of this tonight at our men's Bible study. Among other concerns, we prayed for pastor Joe. As we did so, I became aware of the absence of stress in my life. I hadn't particularly noticed it while I was pastor, but I notice its absence now, and know that it rests on Joe's shoulders now. I don't know to what extent he feels the weight of it, but I know how much it weighed on me, and am very grateful to have passed that burden along with the baton. When Bill died, I felt like Obi-Wan declaring when Alderaan was destroyed by the Death Star that he felt a disturbance in the Force. My Champion was gone, and I felt the gap that was left.
Some of my Protestant friends might take issue with this, but I am grateful for the doctrine of the Church that speaks of the Church Militant (the saints here on earth) and the Church Triumphant (the saints who have gone to be with the Lord). Years ago, a fellow seminarian who happened to be Roman Catholic (what else would he be with a name like Giovanni Carlini?) explained to me his church's teaching along this line. I had asked him why Catholics pray to the saints instead of directly to God. "We don't," he said. "You Protestants have a truncated doctrine of the Church. We both divide the Church into Militant and Triumphant, but you only see the reality of the Church Militant. We see the Church undivided; we aren't praying to the saints; we're asking them to pray for us, just as I would ask you to pray for me. They haven't disappeared. They are more alive than ever. Why wouldn't I ask prayers of all God's people?"
I have to admit, I can't think of any reason. So perhaps Bill is still praying for me. Maybe the gap I felt was just my own perception. At any rate, I know from personal experience how much my pastor Joe needs my prayers. So I pray for him, grateful for the example left me by one of God's saints who prayed for me every day.
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