It was June 23rd, 1965. It was the day before I was to leave to become pastor at my first parish. (You can do the math if you want to determine how long I've been trying to get this right.) The Reverend Clyde Calloway, pastor of my home church, had asked me to stop by his office that afternoon. I did.
Strange that I would think of Clyde now. Thinking of him was kindled by a memory of another pastor. That pastor was no where as accomplished or charming as Clyde. I'm sure someday he will be. But when I encountered him two years ago, he was four months into serving his first church. Let me describe him to you. He was naïve.
On that day I stopped by Clyde's office I was naïve also; I was really in the dark about what constituted being a pastor. But I didn't know it though. Back then, on that day before I left for my first church, I assumed I'd arrive there and do what pastor's do. I'd preach; I'd baptize babies; I'd marry endearing young couples who stared at each other in unbridled affection. I'd visit the sick; I'd visit the shut-in; I'd drop by the nursing home and pray with people by their hospital bedside.
That's what pastors do, right? Well, it is what pastors do. But it's not all that pastors do. Most pastors have to deal with things you'd never expect. And that brings me to why I mentioned that on June 23rd, 1965, I found myself in the office of Clyde Calloway.
Now understand that, even though I'd never served a church, even though I was unfamiliar with the inter workings of the denomination, I knew that Clyde Calloway was one powerful preacher. When Clyde spoke people listened. I was a reasonably intelligent young man. I was ready to hear any advice Clyde gave, to walk in any direction he pointed. I was willing to do that because, despite the fact I'd given my life to service, I was not without ambition.
Clyde educated me that day. He brought me into reality. He told me he wanted to give me two presents. So we went into his office. He sat behind his desk and pointed me to the chair opposite. I sat. He reached into a drawer and withdrew a package that was gift wrapped with fancy paper and ribbon. At his direction I opened the package. From it I withdrew a leather bound Bible. On the bottom right of the cover, engraved in gold lettering, was my name. It was the first time I'd seen “Reverend” proceeding my identity.
I thanked him profusely. And we talked a bit more. Eventually, Clyde worked the conversation around to reminding me he had another present. When I acknowledged I remembered he said there were two gifts, he reached under his desk and brought out another gift wrapped package. It was a little over a couple of feet long and a five inch wide rectangular shape. I was curious. I opened the package.
Imagine my surprise at withdrawing a plumber's helper with my name burned into the handle, once again with the adjective “Reverend”. I looked at Clyde in confusion. He smiled, and said to me: “You're a smart young man with a good United Methodist education. You're going to discover that you might be able to get by without that Bible.”

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