I remember when I was a young preacher. My Dad and my brother Davy ministered with me in a small church that we started in Ponca City. Each of our ministries complimented the other. My Dad had a tender pastoral heart and hardly ever said anything that would be considered tough or mean. He was a good teacher. Davy was still a teenager and worked with the youth. He was a go-getter who laid it on the line. There was a lot of "turn or burn" in Davy's ministry. I was a preacher with a fire in my bones. There was nothing in the world better than preaching the gospel under the anointing of God.
I remember when Davy and I used to go down to the storefront church on First Street in the evening and stay until the wee hours of the morning seeking God in prayer, crying out for the people, hearing God in His Word, singing songs to Him. We would get so besotted with the Spirit that fire would nearly leap from our mouths when we preached the Word the next Sunday.
I remember one Sunday when the anointing was so strong that a man named Jerry couldn't wait until the invitation at the end of the sermon, but came to the front of the church and knelt at the communion table and received Christ as his Savior while I was preaching.
I remember when we thought something was wrong if someone didn't get saved, healed, or delivered every single week. If they didn't come to us, we'd go find them. I remember sitting on the tailgate of Davy's pickup in the middle of the night on 14th Street praying the Sinner's Prayer with a young man who was contemplating suicide. I remember taking the guitar and singing on the corner of 3rd and Grand downtown on Friday and Saturday nights.
I remember baptizing people in the lake. I remember building our altars and afterward celebrating communion with the people who helped build them. I remember how we accidentally spilled some of the juice on the unpainted wood, then realized with tearful eyes the incredible significance as we watched the red liquid stain the wood.
"Remember those earlier days..." Hebrews 10:32
I remember when Davy and I used to go down to the storefront church on First Street in the evening and stay until the wee hours of the morning seeking God in prayer, crying out for the people, hearing God in His Word, singing songs to Him. We would get so besotted with the Spirit that fire would nearly leap from our mouths when we preached the Word the next Sunday.
I remember one Sunday when the anointing was so strong that a man named Jerry couldn't wait until the invitation at the end of the sermon, but came to the front of the church and knelt at the communion table and received Christ as his Savior while I was preaching.
I remember when we thought something was wrong if someone didn't get saved, healed, or delivered every single week. If they didn't come to us, we'd go find them. I remember sitting on the tailgate of Davy's pickup in the middle of the night on 14th Street praying the Sinner's Prayer with a young man who was contemplating suicide. I remember taking the guitar and singing on the corner of 3rd and Grand downtown on Friday and Saturday nights.
I remember baptizing people in the lake. I remember building our altars and afterward celebrating communion with the people who helped build them. I remember how we accidentally spilled some of the juice on the unpainted wood, then realized with tearful eyes the incredible significance as we watched the red liquid stain the wood.
"Remember those earlier days..." Hebrews 10:32
3 comments:
Doesn't it make you excited when you remember the movements of God in your life, when God used you for His glorious purpose? It does me.
DK
Ahhh, the good old days when fervor and passion abounded.
Then what happened?
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