I used to listen to radio preachers. I don’t mean the guys with the megachurches and the international ministries. I used to listen to the guys who had tiny churches and bought time on the local AM radio station (because it was cheaper than FM) so that they could extend their outreach.
In northeastern Tennessee and western North Carolina, there are huge numbers of these churches and, at least back in the day, there were quite a few that bought time.
Why did I like to listen? Well, for one thing these guys were sincere. They were, for the most part, simple men who had a passionate love for God and felt highly honored to be called to the ministry, even if they were stuck in the backwoods in a church that would never be featured in denominational magazines. And, secondly, they could say some of the funniest things without really meaning to be funny.
Once I was driving through Church Hill, Tenn., and found a radio preacher on the local AM station. Evidently, he was re-broadcasting his sermon from the previous Sunday. I should add here that many of these men were products of the local culture. They didn’t always use correct grammar, they preached with a mountain twang (not a Southern accent), and were all as blunt as a baseball bat in their preaching style.
Anyway, back to Church Hill. I tuned in, turned up the volume, and caught the very beginning of the pastor’s sermon: “Well, I’ma gonna preach this morning on women’s pants (pronounced “paints”). I realize that this will be the fourth week in a row that I’ve preached on women’s pants (pronounced “paints”) but some of you women ain’t a gettin’ the message. I seen some of you women at the Wal-mart. So, I’ma gonna preach on women’s pants (again, “paints”) until I preach the pants right off you women!” I must confess that the image of that happening that came to my mind resulted in a belly laugh.
Another time, my wife’s family was gathering at Linville Land Harbor, near Newland, N.C., for a summer weekend. It was a Sunday morning and I was sent into the little town to pick up something that was needed for lunch but I have since forgotten what. I took my two oldest sons with me, who were then about 12 and 10 years old. Once again, I searched for a radio preacher on the drive into town. I was not to be disappointed.
This time, I caught a live broadcast of a small mountain church service. The preacher was giving it to the congregation (and to the radio audience) about the fiery dangers of Hell. Somewhere along the way, he turned his full attention to the listening radio congregation. “I’m telling you people out there that some of you have a shovel in your hands and are digging a hole to Hell as fast as you can!”
He continued, “I’m telling you right now that if some of you within the sound of my voice don’t get right with Jesus and give your heart to God, you’re gonna fry like a sausage on a hot summer day!”
My boys thought that was the funniest thing they had heard all day. I think they giggled all the way back to the mountain house, looking at each other periodically and saying in unison, “You’re gonna fry like a sausage on a hot summer day!” And then the uncontrolled giggling would start all over.
It must have been 10 or 12 years later when our family attended a service together in Kingsport, Tenn. We were celebrating a milestone in the lives of my in-laws (a special wedding anniversary, I think) and the only gift my in-laws wanted from their four children, their spouses, and the grandchildren (and their spouses) was for the whole family to sit with them in church that Sunday at Higher Ground Baptist Church.
Higher Ground was a large Southern Baptist Church in the Lynn Garden area of Kingsport. It was huge by the standards of the day. There were easily 1,000 to 1,500 people in church that Sunday, and their church would later outgrow that sanctuary.
We were all sitting on the left side of the church, not far from the back, in pews that had been reserved for the Douglas family. We were all dressed up. One of my sons had on his police uniform. I had on my suit with a clerical collar because it was a Baptist church and I just couldn’t resist.
The speaker that morning was a guest preacher, a former president of the Southern Baptist Convention. As most Baptists in the South know, every service must end with an altar call and this Sunday was no exception. We sang quite a number of verses of the closing hymn and the preacher implored people to come to the altar and make things right with God. He was a good speaker, a polished preacher with no hint of grammatical flubs or that mountain twangy accent.
However, he was evidently not satisfied with the congregational response. He had the music get a bit quieter, looked at the congregation, locked eyes with them and, with quiet authority, said, “Folks, there are people here within the sound of my voice who need Jesus. And I’m here to tell you that if you don’t make things right with God …”
It was at that moment that my two oldest adult sons, who were sitting next to each other, turned and looked in each other’s eyes, and said, in unison in their outside voice, “You’re gonna fry like a sausage on a hot summer day!” They then proceeded to dissolve into gales of uncontrolled merriment, giggling, and snickering as the entire congregation turned and looked in their direction and I quietly slid to the right hoping that no one would think I was with them. Fortunately, we left as soon as church was over and headed back to Georgia.
It wasn’t always like that of course. In fact, some of the greatest sermons I ever heard were from the various small church radio preachers I listened to over the years. These were men who weren’t in it for the money (they never made much), the fame (there was none), or even the recognition (outside of the belief they were doing God’s will).
Like most faithful ministers of small, struggling churches, they did it because they loved God, knew that God loved the people to whom they preached, and simply wanted to see God and people reconciled to each other.
And even though some of them were grammatically challenged, had mountain accents akin to that of Festus Haggin on “Gunsmoke,” and were pretty unpolished, I think what they did was appreciated, and ultimately rewarded, by the God whose love they preached. And that was all they ever wanted.
[David Epps is the pastor of the Cathedral of Christ the King, 4881 Hwy. 34 E., Sharpsburg, GA between Newnan and Peachtree City (www.ctk.life). He is the bishop of the Charismatic Episcopal Diocese of the Mid-South which consists of Georgia and Tennessee and is the Associate Endorser for the Department of the Armed Forces, U. S. Military Chaplains, ICCEC. He may contacted at davidepps@ctk.life.]
