I grew up in a parsonage because my dad was a pastor. You see, it wasn’t our house; it was the church’s house. If we wanted to paint our rooms, the committee had to approve. Sometimes they inspected the house. They said things like, “Children, did you stop up that commode?” It made me want to stop it up on purpose.
As I grew up in a parsonage, I begin to think a little neurotically. I felt that I had to please people for things to go well with my family. I remember thinking that I needed to please some special people; they were deacons. They could make it tough on my dad. I guess that’s why I believe like the little boy who said, “Jesus went around doing ministry and casting out deacons.”
Then we had a traumatic experience. A traumatic experience is an experience that changes your life. It’s kind of like the first time I put a bobby pin in the electric plug. It made an impression.
It had to do with our dog, Blackie, a beautiful cocker spaniel. Now we all lived at the church (the parsonage) and Blackie lived with us. So Blackie was always at the church. Sunday morning, Sunday night, every night. He was there.
Well, one day Blackie didn’t make it across the road. He was killed. My brothers and I loved Blackie. If you could get to heaven by working, Blackie would be there — because he was always at church. We figured the least we could do was to give him a Christian funeral. We went out to the cemetery and found a tent (only shady place we could find), and dug a grave beside it. We read Scripture and said a few words. My brother John made up a poem about Blackie. I can’t remember all of it, but the end was something like this: “We think Blackie Lowery went to heaven, but you never ever can tell; he could have gone elsewhere.”
Well, late that night my dad called the three Lowery boys into the study. Now you didn’t want to get called into the study, because that is where God and Dad talked. You knew you had problems if they invited you.
Dad asked my older brother, Fred (who now is a distinguished pastor, but who wasn’t much in those days), if we had buried Blackie in the church cemetery. I thought Fred would lie. We lied a lot in those days, but Fred said, “Yes.” I couldn’t believe it, but Fred was older and wiser. He knew the evidence was in the church cemetery, and we would get it for doing what we did and for lying. So he admitted it.
Dad said, “Did you bury Blackie next to Sister McDaniel?” Fred said, “I don’t know.” Dad said, “Did you see anything that looked like a tent?” Fred said, “Oh yes. We sat under it to rest after we dug the grave.” Dad was King James ballistic. He said, “Son, that’s what the funeral home puts up over a new grave. Sister McDaniel had only been buried a couple of days. I’ve gotten about 10 phone calls; they can’t believe you have buried your dog next to their dear departed mother.” I interrupted and told Dad I thought it was an honor for Sister McDaniel to be buried next to Blackie. He told me that I was in danger of being buried beside Sister McDaniel.
That was my beginning of life as a people pleaser — trying to keep everybody happy. It even started to spill over into my theology: I have to sweat to keep God happy.
Then it finally hit me. God is pleased with me because I have accepted His Son. It’s not my sweat; it’s His blood. It is His blood that makes me totally pleasing to God. When Jesus was baptized, the Father said that He was well pleased with Jesus. Jesus had no accomplishments yet. I am pleasing to God because of who I am (in Jesus), not because of what I do. Imagine that — pleasing God. It’s really easier than pleasing church people or any people. Now that’s good news.