An Unlikely Saint

Next month, still nearly all in Pentecost, begins with All Saints Sunday, one of my favorites--a time not only to remember those who have passed from us over the last twelve months but the larger host of all who now, including them, have inspired our faith in God over time.

One such for me was George Fischer of Bethany Covenant Church on the south side of Chicago, an Archie Bunker kind of guy who worked for the Swift Company in their meat packing division. I always liked George and was drawn to him, in spite of the fact that so far as I knew he never said much about his faith or relationship to God. We most often shared lighter banter, mixed inevitably with jokes, nothing all that serious.

One Sunday evening, however, in Bethany's lovely Fireside Room at the rear of the sanctuary, we had gathered by a glowing fire to worship as we did in those days. A senior in Seminary, I was serving Bethany as a kind of student-interim. Way across town, the three-times-weekly trek Alyce and I made to serve in that roll, even while carrying a full load of study, were both inspiring and tiring. Sundays were especially challenging, in that we were gone from home on the north side twelve hours or more.

Alyce was pregnant with our first child, and after morning activities and dinner at some one's home--usually chicken, not her favorite at that point--we would return to the church for an afternoon nap on the sanctuary pews. It was a long time until evening.

When it came time to preach that night I really did not feel like preaching, so not to appear unprepared I simply held up my notes before the people--thus to justify myself--before telling them so. "I'm tired tonight," I said, "so if it's alright with you I"m just going to sit down and wait with you in silence until someone has something to say." Two, three, four, and five minutes passed. No word from anyone, nor any sound save for the crackling of the fire in its place.

I was about to get up and say "O.K., I'll preach!" when George Fischer stood erect like a ramrod in the back row and startled us all by crying out in a very loud voice, "O God, what a sinner I am!" I'll never forget that moment or the outpouring of fervent and honest witness that followed from others. Thus did the saints preach, inspired by brother George, and pray together afterward in as moving a way as made clear that God's Spirit was present.

The lesson, for me, remains indelible. Saints are not manifest in Plaster of Paris. Nor are they revealed in memorized spiritual jargon that just as often as not hides hardened and judgmental hearts. Saints are sinners who are in touch both with their sinful nature and the God who alone opens their hearts to confess, if only to offer them his forgiveness.

I'll miss Saint George this year, and pray while remembering a host of others like him whose lives and spirits have blessed mine, to be more like them in the sharing of my own need for God and his grace.