George Thompson was 76

years old when I first met him over 25 years ago. I was

only 23 and had just been assigned as a part-time student

pastor to N. G. Taylor Memorial United Methodist Church

in Carter County, Tennessee. The church was over 100

years old and, until I arrived, had been the lesser

church on a two-church circuit for as long as anybody

could remember. Mr. Thompson was one of about 30 faithful

members that called Taylor Church their spiritual home.

George Thompson was not a

physically imposing man. In fact, he was rather small,

standing about 5 feet 3 inches with a full head of

snow-white hair. He was missing a finger on one hand and,

through our conversations, I learned that a long-ago

accident in the coal mines was the cause. He was deeply

devoted to his frail wife and was a warm and engaging

man.

Yet, I was intimidated by

him. George Thompson knew the Bible better than any man I

had ever known up to that time. Even though I was a young

pastor, I'm not sure that, at the time I was assigned to

Taylor Memorial, I had even read the Bible all the way

through even once. I was very weak theologically and a

determined but pitifully poor preacher. (Some things

never change, they say.)

In fact, I was desperately

re-preaching some of Billy Graham's best sermons that I

had unashamedly lifted from one of his books. Mr.

Thompson, on the other hand, was a wise and knowledgeable

spiritual giant. He was also very encouraging and,

without question, was my biggest fan. He would shake my

hand vigorously every Sunday after the service and

exclaim, "Son, you're gonna be a fine preacher some

day! Just keep at it!"

One day, on a sunny Spring

afternoon, sitting on the Thompson's front porch, sipping

that sugary-sweet iced tea so familiar to Southerners, I

said, "You know, Mr. Thompson, you should be in the

pulpit and I should be sitting at your feet." He

seemed both surprised and amused as I continued,

"You know the Bible so well and I still can't even

find half the Old Testament books! I wish I was half the

biblical scholar you are."

It was then that George

Thompson, venerable patriarch of Taylor Church, told me

his story. "I was a hellion for most of my

life," he said. "I was as rough as a cob and

mean as a snake. You better be mean if you're as small as

I am!" He smiled and continued, "I didn't even

become a Christian until I was 45 - nearly twice the

age you are now. I had never cracked a Bible until

then."

After he became a believer,

George Thompson had an intense desire to learn what the

Bible said. The problem, however, was that this tough,

little coal miner had a secret. Carefully hidden from his

fellow workers was the truth that he was totally

illiterate. George Thompson couldn't even read his own

name.

Swallowing his pride, he

finally asked someone to help him learn to read. Slowly,

then steadily, he made progress. With each lesson, he

would try to read a few more words in his King James

Bible. Eventually, he would learn to read well enough to

work through the Bible at least once each year. He began

to take his Bible into the coal mines where he faced

stiff persecution and ridicule from some of the

unbelieving miners.

One day, George told the

biggest, most vocal miner, who claimed to be an atheist,

that he was mentioned in the Bible. "I'm mentioned

in the Bible?" the skeptical miner queried.

"Prove it!" he challenged. Turning to a

favorite passage, Mr. Thompson read, "The fool hath

said in his heart there is no God!" There was no

retaliation. Christian or not, George Thompson was known

to be a tough man!

Eventually, George Thompson

would convince many of his fellow miners to become

Christians. The once illiterate miner became a Sunday

School teacher and, over the years, instructed hundreds

in the Bible. "If you just keep readin' the

Word," he told me, "by the time you get to be

my age, you'll know a heck of a lot more about the Bible

than I do."

At the time, I didn't see

how anybody could possibly know more about the Bible than

Mr. George Thompson. I didn't know how anybody could pray

more sincere prayers and I didn't understand how anybody

could be as good an example as he was to me.

In the years that followed,

I attended hundreds (yea, thousands) of hours of classes

in seminaries and seminars on the Bible and related

subjects. I would take courses in Old Testament theology,

New Testament theology, systematic theology, the various

books of the Bible, biblical interpretation, exegesis,

and many other courses in a variety of schools. I would

take numerous preaching courses and would set under the

instruction of a few modern masters of the art and craft

of preaching.

In Mr. Thompson's day, my

sermonizing would rarely exceed 15 or 20 minutes as I

told them literally everything I knew. As I

"improved," those sermons would last an hour or

more, and on some days would reach a mind-numbing 90

minutes. These days, I'm back down to 20 or 30 minutes,

finally heeding my wife's admonition that "it

doesn't have to be eternal to be divine."

Yet, even now, I wonder if

Mr. Thompson would be proud of me. I hope so. I'm nearly

positive that he went to his well-deserved reward many

years ago. Yet, sometimes, in my mind's eye, I can still

see him sitting on the front row, smiling approvingly,

nodding his head affirmatively, encouraging me, urging me

to do my best.

In many ways, this

uneducated, rough-hewn, former coal miner with the

missing finger, was my first "grandfather in the

Lord." And sometimes, on Sundays, after the sermon

is over and the people have departed, I can still hear

him say, in the quietness of the empty sanctuary,

"Son, you're gonna be a fine preacher some day! Just

keep at it!"

I'm still trying, Mr.

Thompson. I'm still trying.

[Father

David Epps is rector of Christ the King Charismatic

Episcopal Church, meeting each Sunday at 10 a.m. in the

Carmichael-Hemperley building on Ga. Highway 74 in

Peachtree City. He may be contacted at [email protected] or at P. O. Box

2192, Peachtree City, GA 30269.