Sunday Morning Left Turn …

We were on our way to church one Sunday about three years ago.  We had moved to Woodstock from Roswell a year earlier, so the drive to Roswell Presbyterian was right at 35 minutes.  Of course, we were running late and had left ourselves about 20 minutes to get there.  Which meant we would not make it for the music, which many times was the most uplifting part of the service for me.  My WW (wonderful wife) always was better at listening to the minister’s message than me; my mind tends to wander to much less important subjects – like where we would go for lunch, when could I get to The Cabin again, were the Falcons going to win, or how in the world our politicians have managed to royally screw things up so badly.  But, obviously I digress.

So, we were not going to make it to Roswell Pres anywhere near on time, and we were passing the huge Woodstock Baptist campus.  Why not give it a try?  A quick left turn and we were in a humongous parking lot – and it was only for senior citizens and handicapped folks.  And it was completely full.  Regular attendees were being shuttled from more distant lots.  We obviously looked like lost sinners, so the volunteers in bright orange vests waved us into the visitor parking area.

We found our way to the main sanctuary in time for the opening hymn.  What looked like a 200-person choir bellowed the words of “Just As I Am” as we found our seats in this massive indoor stadium.  I had not heard “Just As I Am” at church since my teenage years at Ridgecrest Baptist in Columbia, S.C.  And as I listened to the singing, I wondered if this left-turn decision was one of those devine intervention moments.

I would have been mesmerized by the sheer size of everything inside Woodstock Baptist had it not been for the pastor and his ability to captivate the congregation.  Who was this unmasked man?  Johnny Hunt.  Not The Reverend or Most Honorable.  Just Johnny.  I had seen his name on a road sign – somehow a major thoroughfare in front of the church had been named for him.  After hearing him, I understood why.  But he looked sort of ordinary.  No suit, no white shirt, not even a tie.  But this man could preach The Word – perhaps even better than Rev. Vello Forrester, my boyhood pastor at Ridgecrest, who often admonished us all that “there is no difference in a little white lie and a big black one.”  True stuff.  Rev. Forrester also declared my girlfriend as my WW about 47 years ago.  But Johnny Hunt’s background is stunning: a reformed drinker and gambler from a shady pool hall life with a message that was, and is, unmistakable and a commitment that was, and is, crystal clear.  He is a man of God.  Minds do not wander when he is delivering his messages.  Not even mine.

Absolutely nothing against Roswell Pres, but we no longer make that 35-minute drive to Roswell except when our granddaughters are in a special program.  And, the left turn that Sunday morning added to an interesting dichotomy in our lives. When in Woodstock, we now attend a church of 8,000 with a $17 million budget.  When in middle Georgia at The Cabin, we attend a church of 20-something (last week’s attendance was 17) where members pool their Christmas cards and send them to us in one envelope to save postage.  Bethel United Methodist is the mid-Georgia rural jewel where people experience real life.  When the church needs money, members are apt to schedule a series of yard sales.  Their prayer request list is much longer than its membership roll.  Johnny Hunt would love this little church.

And, we love Woodstock Baptist.  Devine intervention?  Sure glad we made that left turn years ago.