WHY I'M A MINISTER - Christianity Today

Prominent, and sometimes controversial, Norman Vincent Peale recalls in his autobiography the influences that led him into the pastorate-the model of his pastor father, his early encounters with God’s life-changing grace, and his own early attempts to share his faith. This is one man’s story of how God directed him into ministry.

Many people were surprised when I ended up a preacher, although I was not what might be called a bad kid. In the small Ohio towns of the early 1900s, a preacher’s kid was considered “different” and made to feel so.

But several influences conspired to make a minister out of an unlikely prospect for that profession. One was Father’s preaching. The way he described Jesus Christ gave me, early in life, a profound admiration and enthusiasm for the Master. He had an incomparable way of making Christianity real and exciting.

In one Ohio town we lived in, every Monday morning my father would go to the bank and the president would give him his salary check for the week. The banker would expect him to deposit the check forthwith in his bank. As he handed the check to Father, he would always ask, “Now, Brother Peale, do you think your sermon yesterday justifies this check?”

This riled me no end, for I usually accompanied Dad on this Monday morning ritual. But Father was urbane and responded in kind to this so-called witticism. It amazed me that my father and the banker were friends.

The banker lived in a big house down Main Street. It was set back, regally, among old trees, and a curving drive swept up to the door. Every morning a driver would take him in a spanking, shiny carriage, drawn by two beautiful black horses, down to the bank and back for lunch, and down and back in the afternoon. All as if he were some Roman conqueror; or at least that is how I resentfully thought of it. Who was this big shot to whom the servant of Almighty God had to come like a supplicant?

But Father said, “One needs to know all about an individual, or at least all you can know, before a proper judgment may be formed. Now take this banker. He is the son of a poor farmer, a father who could never make a go of his few rocky acres. The family was poorer than we are. That boy came into town one day years ago and went up and down the street looking for a job, any kind of job. Finally he was hired by this bank as a janitor. He swept out, washed the windows, dusted the desks, ran errands, cleaned the toilet, and he did each lowly chore with cheerfulness and to the best of his ability. Years came and went, and finally he became bank president.

“He married a lovely girl and they lived together in happiness for twenty-five years or more. Then early one morning that team of horses and carriage you resent came to me and carried me to his big house where, for all his wealth and position, his lovely wife could not be saved. I was there when she died and sat with him in his grief. ‘I’ll never forget you and what you have done by being with me in the worst hour of my life,’ he said, gripping my hand at the door.

“He has never spoken of it again, but it is his nature to conceal his feelings. But, you see, I know him and in his own way he loves me as one of his closest friends. So don’t mind that we carry on that little ritual every Monday morning. It’s just a way men have of showing the affection they have for each other.”

Thereafter I saw the bank president as a man, rather than as a banker, which was what Father intended, I’m sure. And for this man I began to have compassion. Apparently it reached him because the last time I saw him, he put his arm around my shoulder and said, “Norman, you have a fine man for a father. Take good care of him always.” So saying, he went back to his desk and waved me off. He had said all that he could. When some years later I heard of his death, I was saddened, but knew that a good man with clean hands had gone home to his Lord. To love people compassionately and to see the good in every man and woman was what my father taught his children by precept and example.

I was born on May 31, 1898, in Bowersville, Greene County, Ohio, a charming village of some three hundred people. My father, Charles Clifford Peale, pastor of the local Methodist church, had been trained as a physician and had practiced medicine in Milwaukee, Wisconsin. He was the health commissioner in Milwaukee when he became very ill. His mother despaired of his life, and being intensely religious, she “promised the Lord” that if her son, Cliffy, was spared, she would endeavor to persuade him to abandon his medical career and become a preacher of the Gospel.

His return to health seemed a direct answer to prayer, and Clifford Peale, while in no way unduly subject to maternal domination, felt the influence of Providence and became convinced that his recovery did indicate that he was intended, by the Lord, to devote himself to full-time Christian service as a minister.

At Bowersville my father was pastor of what was then called a “circuit”-three little churches scattered over an area of perhaps ten square miles. He would preach at one church on Sunday morning; at another, Sunday afternoon; and at the end of the Sabbath day he was in the third. From each church he might return home with a bushel of apples, a bag of potatoes, a basket of vegetables, sometimes a loaf or two of home-baked bread (I can almost smell its fragrance even now).

He had to collect his own pay. I recall going with him once to a big brick farmhouse where the farmer gave him two round silver dollars. “That’s all you’ve got coming to you, Reverend,” explained the parishioner. “Due to the bad weather I’ve only been to church two times this winter.” To which Father, who could always see humor in life, said, “Well, I’m glad to know my sermons are increasing in value . . . last time you only gave me fifty cents per sermon.”

Then there is the lifetime memory of that Sunday night in winter when Father was holding the annual series of revival meetings in a little church in southern Ohio. In those days the two weeks of revival, with meetings every night, was the big event of the year in the country round about. There were no movies, no radio, no television to compete. The church had preeminence. It was not only the spiritual center but the entertainment center, the gathering place. And since Father was a powerful speaker, the church was always filled, and for the revival meetings it was standing room only.

In the little village was a man, Dave Henderson, a nice enough fellow when he was sober. But when drunk, he was by common consent “a holy terror.” Dave was a big man with hands like hams and fists having the driving power of pistons, so said those who had felt their impact in fights. Ordinarily genial, with liquor in him Dave would pick a fight at the slightest provocation. He also had the reputation of being the champion local cusser, and was quite foulmouthed. Some said he was a wife beater, but his dignified and cultured wife would never admit to anything of the sort.

Curiously Dave was a fairly regular churchgoer, and he would sit in a back pew. He would always shake Father’s hand on the way out afterward. “Good sermon, Reverend. I like to hear you talk.” Father liked him, and often said that if old Dave ever got religion he would be a great man for the Lord. He worked on the big fellow spiritually, but with no apparent result. Until one night.

After preaching a strongly evangelistic sermon, it was Father’s practice to invite any who wished their lives changed to come forward and kneel at the altar, and many did. His ministry resulted in conversions, and most remained faithful over the years. But this night after the revival sermon, no one had come forward, when suddenly there was a stir. Someone was walking down the aisle. The very floor seemed to shake with his tread. Mother looked around. “It’s Dave!” she gasped. The big fellow knelt at the altar. He said something to Father. Afterward Father told us what Dave had said: “I don’t want to be this way anymore, Reverend. I want Jesus. I want Him to save me.” Father prayed with him in a low voice and put his hand in blessing on the big fellow’s unruly black hair.

Then Dave arose and faced the congregation. Boy though I was, I was awed by the look on his face, a look of wonder and inexpressible joy. It is printed on my memory to this day. Of course, some said the conversion wouldn’t last. How could a renegade like that be changed in a minute of time? But it did last for over fifty years. He became literally a saint, a new man in Christ, and for half a century he blessed the lives of everyone who knew him.

Then one day, only a few years ago, I heard that Dave’s life was nearing its end. So I went to see him in his old home in the little Ohio village. I found him in bed, his hair as white as the pillow on which his great head rested. He was emaciated and frail. His hands on the coverlet were thin, the blue veins showing. I took his hand. It still had something of its former massive grip. Anyway, there was love in it. We talked of the old days, of the ways of the Lord Jesus, how He blesses all who love and follow Him.

“Your father was a great man, Norman, greatest man I ever knew. Who can be greater than a man who leads you to the Lord? And I love you, son. You were with me that wonderful night when my soul was cleansed, when the Lord came and saved me, one of His wandering sheep. I’ll always love you, Norman.”

“And I, you, Dave,” I replied, choking up. “Let’s have a prayer before I go,” I said. “And I want you to pray.” I knelt by the bed of the great old saint. He put his hand upon my head. His voice faded at times either through weakness or emotion, but every word is burned into my memory. His blessing is unforgettable. At the door I stood and waved at him. With a gentle smile he lifted his hand. I never saw him again.

As a little boy, awestruck by the mystery of change in a man’s very nature, I asked Father to explain it. “All I can say is that it is the power of God.” Then he added, “The Creator is also the re-creator.” The incident with Dave impressed my consciousness with the wonder and glory of the ministry. I am certain that this, added to other experiences, overcame my resistance to becoming a minister.

My father loved people, all sorts and conditions of people, good or bad. To him there was no distinction. They were all God’s children, whether deserving of respect or not.

When I was perhaps nine or ten years old, a call came to my father from, of all people, the madam of a house of ill fame, called in those days by the explicit name of whorehouse, in the red-light district of Cincinnati.

Mother took the call, which shocked her some, but she reported that in that house a young woman, only nineteen years old, was dying and wanted to see a pastor. Would my father come and talk with her and offer a prayer? Father was never one to turn down a person in need. “Norman,” he said, “you come with me and we will do what we can to help this poor soul through the gates of death.”

“Clifford,” exclaimed Mother, “you are not actually going to take your young son into such a place?”

“I am,” he replied firmly. “Norman might as well start learning about the evil of this world. And besides, Anna, don’t you think it will prevent misinterpretation if I go to that house with my own son rather than alone?”

Grudgingly Mother assented and we went. We found the young woman. The madam and other women stood around the room against the wall. Father sat by the bed and asked the woman her name and where her family lived. His doctor’s knowledge and instinct told him she was indeed near death’s door.

She told him she came from a little country town in Kentucky where her family still lived. She described them as “honorable and upright Christians. But I am a bad girl. I started down a wrong path and have ended up a harlot. I’m a very bad girl. Is there any hope for me? Will the Lord forgive me?”

Father took her frail hand in his big, strong hands and said, “Not a bad girl, just a good girl who has acted badly. Do you love Jesus?”

“Oh, yes, sir. But I’ve been unfaithful to Him.”

“But don’t you remember how He went out to find the lost sheep, Good Shepherd that He is?” She nodded and he continued, “Are you contrite and sorry for your sins?”

“Yes,” she whispered. “Oh, yes.”

“And do you here and now accept Jesus Christ as your Savior and ask His mercy and forgiveness?”

“I do,” she said.

Then Father said, “The Lord has forgiven you all your sins and will take you this day to be with Him in paradise.” Then Father said a prayer, one of the most tender and beautiful in all my Christian experience. I opened my eyes as he prayed and saw tears running down the faces of the other women. But upon the girl’s face was a look of peace. Even though I was still so young, the experience awed me by its beauty. This unholy place of evil became holy because, for a fact, the Lord was there.

In that moment I saw the wonder and glory of the ministry, the majesty and power of the work of the pastor. That night the poor broken girl died, but the divine love accompanied her across the river.

Father had a great belief in people. For example, take the case of the minister whom I shall call Bill. Brother Bill, as he was affectionately called, was an inspiring preacher who loved and served his people, partaking with them in all their joys, successes, troubles, and sorrows. A caring and unselfish man, he was content with the little crossroads church he served. As superintendent of churches in that area, my father was Bill’s ecclesiastical superior.

Then, sudden tragedy descended. Bill’s always peaceful existence was shaken to its foundations, and apparently he was unprepared for it, not having developed a faith for personal adversity and a philosophy to cushion the shock. He tramped the roads unceasingly, no longer the man he had been. He would absent himself, but always provided a good substitute so that the work of his church went on after a fashion.

One day Brother Bill appeared at our home. He was obviously under great strain. “Dr. Peale,” he said, “I can’t stand it anymore. My life is ruined. I’ve come today to resign from my ministry and from the church. And I’m going away somewhere never to be heard of again. You see, I’m ashamed to look you in the face, you’ve been so good to me. But I have become a drunk, a plain no-account drunk. I can’t carry on as a preacher when my conscience accuses me as a liar and a cheat.”

Father hadn’t been a doctor and a pastor for nothing. He knew how to receive a confession and explore a personality to apply healing. He showed no sense of shock, certainly expressed no condemnation. He had the dispassionate objectivity of a scientist, together with love for this broken man.

“Bill,” he said, “I want you to do as I say.” He reached in his pocket and pressed some money into the minister’s hands. “I want you to go up to Lakeside, Ohio. They are having a revival meeting there and you just get converted all over again. If you can’t handle alcohol, the Lord can; and I’m going to pray for victory. There are better days ahead. Stay at Lakeside until I send for you.” Though he protested, Bill docilely followed orders.

Then Father called a meeting of the members of Bill’s little church. He told them about their pastor, and the additional fact that Bill’s father had been an alcoholic. He gave them a little talk on his idea of the nature of Christian fellowship. He stated that with the help of church members he wanted to work out a plan of salvation and understanding for their pastor and he asked them not to expel him from the fellowship until every effort had been made to restore him by the grace of God.

He was speaking to a group of men and women, farm people, the sort of folk the media often write off as stiff-necked and narrow-minded.

A long silence ensued until a rugged, middle-aged farmer spoke: “It might have been any one of us. It might have been me.”

One said, “Some of you know that I was anything but a saint. And I backslid after I was converted and joined the church. But you didn’t turn your backs on me. Let’s do the same for Brother Bill.”

Father was surprised by the turn of the meeting, but it was as if everyone wanted to stand by Bill’s side. True, some were tight-lipped, and Father expected some denunciation. But it did not happen, for the atmosphere was understanding and forgiving.

Father made the situation clear. Bill could not serve as pastor until and unless he gained victory over his problem, until the Holy Spirit had reorganized him. Meanwhile, all would pray for their leader, for his redemption and renewal.

When he told us about it later, Father said, “Perhaps some might criticize me as being lenient and careless of the integrity of the church. But I believe it is our duty to go out after the lost sheep, even if it is the pastor himself. For the first time, in this small country church I saw the glory of Christianity, the brotherhood of humility and love in action.”

Brother Bill, supported by the prayers and affection of the people, found the Lord in the power of the Holy Spirit. He became a new man in Christ, old things passed away, all things became new. The validity of his change was attested by the fact that he never again fell away and continued faithful until his death, a walking, living sermon on the power of Christ to change a person and the effect of Christian fellowship in action. I saw early in life that in Christ the humble believer becomes great.

After graduating from college, Peale accepted a job as a newspaper reporter with the Detroit Journal.

My most interesting experience on the Detroit Journal concerned a fire in a six-story building. A big crowd had gathered when I came up, showed my press pass, and stepped up to the fire line. I noticed the crowd looking up in anxious concern. There a young girl, maybe twelve or thirteen years of age, was trying to muster up nerve to crawl over an eight-foot space on a one-foot-wide plank that someone had shoved across. She would try to move out, but on looking down became terrified and drew back. People in the crowd were shouting encouragement to her, but she was frozen with fear.

Breathing a prayer and unconscious of the crowd, I called up, “Honey, do you believe in God?” Down on all fours, she nodded. “Do you believe that God is up there with you, that He loves you and will take care of you?” Again the nod. “Then look straight ahead, see Him, and He will lead you across to safety in no time. And I and everyone down here will be praying for you.”

The girl hesitated, then slowly lifted her eyes and looked straight ahead. She crawled out slowly onto the plank. Halfway across she seemed to hesitate, and I called out, “Don’t stop, honey, God is helping you. Keep on straight ahead.” She did so, to the cheers of the crowd, and soon friendly hands received her in safety. A burly policeman standing by said, “Good job, son. You sound like a preacher.”

“Oh, I’m no preacher,” I protested.

“The hell you’re not,” he replied.

I walked around in excitement for two or three hours; then, though late at night, I telephoned my parents telling them what had happened.

“The man said I sounded like a preacher. What did he mean?”

“He meant you have faith and communicated it to the girl. That’s preaching,” said Dad. “Wait a moment until I tell your mother.” There was no telephone extension in our home. “She says you were born to be a preacher,” he reported.

“But how can I know?” I asked, disturbed and perplexed.

“Only through prayer and by the willingness to do what God wants, not insisting on what you think you want.” And my wise father added, “Goodnight, son. We will pray also.”

Peale eventually enrolled at Boston University School of Theology to prepare for the ministry. His first church was a student pastorate in Berkeley, Rhode Island.

I have always been enthusiastic about the Gospel. I know that the Gospel works when one believes and follows the teachings. So Sunday after Sunday I told what faith in and commitment to Jesus Christ could do for those who would believe.

All my sermons were evangelistic. They were designed to persuade and to win people to acceptance of Jesus Christ as Lord and Savior. Following the sermon I invited people who wanted their lives changed to come forward and kneel at the altar. There they were to confess to God their sins and weaknesses and truly ask for salvation and life changing. Never shall I forget the first Sunday night that I “gave the invitation.” To my surprise five persons came and knelt at the altar, three men and two women. I knew them to be quite non-Christian in their attitudes and life-styles. Now that they humbly knelt before the altar, accepting my assurances that their lives could change, I hardly knew what to do with them. So I appealed straight to the Lord in whose name I had promised them newness of life.

“Dear Lord,” I prayed aloud, “You know what I promised these people. You know it is the truth. Please change them now by Your power.” One man, Henry G. I will call him, was generally referred to as “the meanest devil in town.” He himself confessed as he knelt there that “a devil is in me filling me with hate and anger. I’ve been this way from my youth. I hated my father.”

“Henry,” I said, “do you want to be changed? Do you mean it one hundred percent?”

“I do, I do,” he said and his voice broke.

“And do you believe that Jesus Christ can change you here and now?”

Again he replied with deep feeling, “I do.”

I told him to say to the Lord, “What I can’t do for myself, You, Lord, please do for me now.”

Then in my enthusiasm I declared, “Henry, you have been changed. You are a new creature. Old things have passed away. You are a new man. All that old hate stuff is gone.”

When I told some of the students at the school of theology about this, they shook their heads. “What if it had not worked?” But I remonstrated that Henry had met all the qualifications for life changing: confession, witnessing to his faith, appeal to the grace of God, commitment. Furthermore, I believed that if the faith is in depth, the change is so powerful as to be immediate. Whatever the reasoning, the operation of spiritual power swept this man’s personality totally clean. He became calm, quiet, controlled, a loving and lovable person from that minute in time, and continued so until his death over thirty years later.

But learning to be a preacher is no easy process. After all these years, I still think that public speaking is one of the most difficult of all human occupations to master. Just when one begins to think he is getting fairly good at it, will come an embarrassing and humiliating experience. In public speaking, for sure, “pride goeth before a fall.” And the falls are many, at least so it has been in my experience.

How well I recall the Sunday at Berkeley when I just couldn’t get going at all in my sermon. Everything seemed to go wrong. I left out the best ideas I had intended to present and came out with pretty poor material. Coming down from the pulpit, I told a retired and distinguished minister, who was in church that day, about my discomfiture.

“Tell you what, Norman,” he said. “When you are in the pulpit just do the best you can. And when it’s over, come down and forget it. The congregation will, and you might as well make it unanimous.”

My ordination as a minister was performed in what was then called the Methodist Episcopal Church, later renamed the United Methodist Church. The ordination ceremony took place in a Sunday morning service at the annual session of the West Ohio Conference in September 1922.

I came to this significant point in life through a hard decision process, but when I was actually made an ordained minister, an unforgettable sense of peace and rightness came upon me.

Though there have been some difficult times across the years, I have never regretted the decision to become a preacher and pastor. The Lord has blessed my ministry beyond all expectations and, of course, always beyond all deserving.

Norman Vincent Peale is senior minister of Marble Collegiate Church in New York City.