Parkway Baptist Church McKinney

A grocery store and a clinic, a house and a tavern, a government building and an Orthodox church—these occupy three corners of this doglegged crossroad in the Romanian village. Every year the same old drunk man greeted us, either from the tavern on one side or from the broken down chair on the other. He seemed to migrate from the table to the shade when he had consumed enough alcohol to dull the pain of his memory for a day. From there he sat facing the Orthodox Church without actually looking at it.

“I was priest,” he would tell us, slurring and spraying in broken English. “I was priest . . . Orthodox,” poking his breastbone.

I usually avoid conversations with intoxicated people, but it was hard to get around this man. Whenever I encountered him I listened with feigned patience until he pulled me close with his hand, breathed something emphatically in my face and waved goodbye. Ironically, he was one of the friendliest people in the neighborhood. He was never unkind to us; he was always delighted to see us.

Last summer I dropped my backpack by the fence in front of the clinic and began talking with the villagers. Our inebriated friend spotted us from the tavern and decided to join the conversation. None of the locals desired his company, so they disappeared as soon as he settled into the broken chair. The effect of his presence on our ministry frustrated me. But since there was no one else to talk to, I decided to get personal with him.

“Why are you wasting your life like this, sir?” I asked. “Don’t you know God still has profound purpose for your days on this earth?”  He lowered his eyes, reluctant to give a response.  “What has happened to you?” I probed.

After a little more persuasion, he told me that his wife of many years had left him and that his children had totally rejected him. I talked with him about salvation and about God’s grace for the believer. Then he quoted something from the book of John.

“John, you know John?” he said.  He read to me from a Greek New Testament. He was an educated man.

That evening he entered the Baptist church building where we were holding a service. His clumsy entrance interrupted the proceedings. Most everyone in the room could smell him. I was happy that he would hear the gospel again, but I think we all felt embarrassed, even in this rustic setting. He sat through part of the Bible study then left. That was the last time I ever saw him.

This year, as we walked the village streets, I looked for him. I wanted to talk to him again. I was certain he would show up before we completed our canvassing. On the second day, an elderly couple invited us to enter their courtyard and sit in the shade of the fruit trees. They talked about their health, about their grown children and about their life-long experience in Odobesti. When I shared the gospel they said they were Orthodox. Eventually I asked about the alcoholic priest. My heart sank to learn he had been found dead in his home a couple months back. I felt emotionally ambushed, realizing that somehow this old alcoholic had gained access to my heart.

The old couple spoke of him with tender words. They said he had been a good, compassionate priest, very unlike those presently in power. They glared across the street toward the Orthodox Church building.

“What happened to him?” I asked.

They told us the story of his childhood. When he was very young, a local priest approached his parents, offering personal attention and religious education. His poor father and mother allowed their child to be taken into a stranger’s home. That’s as far as they went. But they did go on to say that the alcoholic priest’s body was taken to another village for burial. I guess he caused embarrassment even in death. Our hosts said that the man’s wife and children came to mourn his passing.

That afternoon we walked back to the Baptist church building where I recounted the story for those in our team who knew this man. Some wept as they listened. We could only imagine what painful experiences might have contributed to his sorrowful life.

Now the broken down chair in front of the clinic seems tragically empty. I’m so happy that we showed some kindness to this man who spoke so kindly to us. I thank God that we got to tell him about Jesus. I wish I could hold his old dirty hand, look into his blurry eyes and listen sincerely to his rambling. I wish I had another opportunity to return his smile. We will not forget this tragic old man who was once a precious child. I can only hope that he came to faith in Christ before he died.

~ Jerry