Pastor
James worked part time at Bartlett’s Butcher Shop to provide for he
and his dear wife. The church met in a member’s living room in
Hooverton, about 11 miles from Junior Jericho. Twice each workday
‘Pastor J’ drove past Jr. Jericho and the large church next door.
He had a burden to plant a church in Hooverton as surely as Mt.
Everest is a foot tall. Each time he’d glance at the big church and
Mr. Jenkins out trimming the bushes with fancy tools. He just felt
like he was standing at the bottom of a mountain whose top was so
high it was hidden in the wispy forbidden clouds.
Pastor
J’s curiosity could be contained no longer. One day he stopped to
get a better look at the insides of Junior Jericho and all the young
people’s activity inside. “What is a Junior Jericho,” he asked
himself so many times. He quietly walked past Granny Simms and into
the discussion group room where Youth Pastor Dean was teaching the
boys and girls. They were learning about the Apostle Paul and the
heaven-high joy of planting seeds, starting churches on his
missionary travels.
The
lesson was close to being finished when one of the girls let out a
frightening yell. Pastor Dean hadn’t said anything that would have
caused that, nor were any other unusual sounds heard. Babs with the
yell also pointed at Pastor James quietly sitting in the last row.
What had frightened Babs was all the blood on Pastor J’s shirt.
Before anyone had a chance to call 911, James realized the confusion.
He held up his hands chest high in an ‘ok – calm down – nothing
to worry about’ gesture.
The
youth pastor introduced himself and welcomed the bloody visitor. With
a bloody shirt from his butcher shop labors, Pastor J introduced
himself. He spoke to Pastor Dean and the boys and girls. “I’m the
new pastor at Hooverton about 11 miles down highway 624. I wanted to
learn what a Junior Jericho was. The first thing I saw coming in the
building was the cross sculpture. I really like it. As yet, I don’t
really know what you’re doing with all the computer junk, other
than building crosses out of it, but I kind-of need your help. I mean
your junk help.”
The
visiting pastor with the bloody shirt continued, “The mission at
Hooverton needs something that will fire up the four boys and girls
we have. We have services in the living room next to Jacob’s well.
Most people know right where that well is, because some years ago a
child fell down it, but was recovered ok. On the 17th
through the 21st of next month, I want to have a little
vacation bible school with the very little bit of resources we have.
My wife Trudy and I have been praying desperately that God would help
us somehow, as He has promised in His precious word.”
“Is
there a way that you could bring some of your young people and show
us how to show God’s love and provision with some of your computer
junk lessons?”
From
the back of the room, Mr. Jenkins the grounds-keeper slapped his leg
and then stomped his big old clod-hoppers a couple times. “HOT
DAWG! Now I know why God had our church hold onto ol’ Bus #39!”
Jenkins stood up and said, “She don’t have a heater that works,
and the headlights aren’t much better, but, if you give me a week,
I’ll have her runnin’. I can put some plywood over a couple seats
and you can put some of the computer parts and displays on them.
We’ll drive your missions bus right up to Jacob’s Well and bring
the mountain to Jacob, so to speak. We’ll need some sign painters
to put something like ‘Jericho Missions On The Move’.”
Mr.
Jenkins’ adrenalin was pumping so hard he could’ve pushed ol’
39 all the way to Jacob’s Well at Hooverton by himself. At that
moment Pastor Dean and Pastor J shook hands, smiled big at each
other, and saw some seeds planted among the young people. Seeds that
are sure to grow at the base of a mountain God wants everyone to
strive for.
