Big Shoes to Fill

I want the Lord to burn my mouth. If my mouth is burned with a heaven-sent fire, then the result will be the work of God.
—Gary V. Simpson

When I became pastor of Concord Baptist Church, in the heart of Brooklyn, I had an idea of what would be expected of me.

I was not coming as a stranger. I had served as associate pastor there for five years before taking a senior pastorate in New Jersey.

For 149 years, Concord Baptist has had a vibrant community-centered ministry. It has enjoyed a long tradition of positive pastor-congregation relationships. I am only the tenth pastor in the church’s history.

Recent history is most impressive. Concord has had as many pastors in its first fifteen years as it has had in the 132 years since. Since 1863, I am the fifth pastor. In all these years, thanks be to God, there have also been no splits nor schisms.

Most of my predecessors enjoyed recognition and accomplishment during their pastorates. My immediate predecessor, Gardner C. Taylor, served for forty-two years, instilling a vision for the church and community from the Concord pulpit. He is a master preacher, an effective leader, my former boss, a friend, and a second father.

Each of these identities presented me both a blessing and burden. I could not help but feel the pressure to live up to such a record.

When I first came to this historic pulpit, I wanted to live up to the legacy of eloquence and profundity that emanated from this station. For five years, I had heard Dr. Taylor preach Sunday after Sunday. I studied him closely. He preached with grandeur and power, eloquent beyond words, and the most awesome part of it was that it appeared almost effortless.

I knew, at least I thought I knew, that this was what the church wanted and needed each Sunday. During my first two years, I worked hard to make my preaching profound. People quoted Dr. Taylor. I wanted to be quotable. I figured that’s what it meant to be pastor of Concord Church.

I worked so hard to say something memorable every week that I almost forgot the central focus of the gospel—to say something salvific. But another sermon haunted me, one I heard my father—another great preacher—preach during my youth. It was based on 1 Samuel 17, where Saul gave David his armor and the shepherd boy was dwarfed by the king’s equipment that did not fit.

My father’s point: “You’ve got to wear your own armor.” That sermon stayed with me as I struggled to make the transition into this historic parish.

Then something happened that redefined my preaching course. For our Watch Meeting on the last night of 1992, I planned to preach from Psalm 51: “Renew a Right Spirit Within Me.” I had been very ill over the Christmas holiday. In fact, I had lost my voice after preaching the Sunday before Christmas, and I was not even sure I was going to be able to preach at all for our Watch Meeting.

Besides my feeling physically subpar, I also began to question the message I was going to deliver. Somehow I felt an unction to return to Isaiah 6. I changed the message to “My Prayer for the Church.”

In this sermon, I conveyed my earnest sentiments as a pastor—What was it I saw and believed the church should become? When I got to the verse referring to the angels placing the live coals on Isaiah’s mouth, the Scripture seemed to be speaking directly to me. That’s it! That’s what I want. I want the Lord to burn my mouth. Never mind profundity for profundity’s sake. If my mouth is burned with a heaven-sent fire, then the result will be the work of God.

Since then I have been preaching more freely from the fire in my soul, using the gifts—music and a peculiar sense of humor—that are unique to me.

The wall of the church lounge displays pictures memorializing each of my pastoral predecessors. Underneath the commissioned oil portrait of Dr. Taylor is a frame containing a well-worn piece of the carpet from right behind the pulpit where he stood for thirty-five years.

Before anchoring in and beginning to speak, he had a habit of moving his left foot over the carpet. Many a legend began from this small movement. Some said he was making the sign of the cross with his foot and thereby standing in the power of the crucified Lord. Others said he, like a batter, was clearing his own place and digging in to take his best swing.

On the framed carpet, you can clearly see where his feet made their impression in the fabric. The engraved label reads: FOOTPRINTS OF THE PREACHER, 1955-1990.

Looking at my own size 9s, I am humbled by the reminder of Dr. Taylor’s size 12s that stood firm and strong for so long.

Shortly after I assumed this charge, I walked through the sanctuary and saw one of our custodians behind the pulpit. The scent of freshly cut carpet filled the air, and there was a new red carpet where the framed carpet had been. The custodian looked up and said, “Reverend, it’s your carpet now!”

Now, as I step up to that historic pulpit, I have to dig in too. I know that I’ll have some misses and a few hits. But I am firmly planted and I know I must take my own swings.