I'm spoiled when it comes to church.  I admit it.  I grew up in a church that never captured my interest.  I strayed from attending in my teen years and then I met Jack.  Jack was my future father-in-law.  He captured my interest.  His sermons ignited my interest.

I think about this because of my new litmus test for churches, compliments of a recent experience:  No PowerPoint presentations.  From now on if someone asks me to attend a service, my first question will be "Do you ever feature PowerPoint presentations in the service?"  If the answer is yes, I'm staying home to read the Book of Common Prayer - the 1928 version.  I like the "quick and the dead," language.

I should add a few additional concerns.  If the books in the pew (the Hymnal and the Prayer Book) are for show because the program details the entire service (and, God forbid, the projection system displays the words to the hymns), I'm skipping for that reason.

I'm spoiled.  I enjoyed flipping through the Book of Common Prayer to the necessary services ("today's lesson begins on page 335.").  I liked timing my page-turning abilities so that I got to the proper hymn just as the singing started.  I taught several of my children to recognize letters and to read along while kneeling and reciting the appropriate Prayers of the People.  In rare, slow moments (during the offertory anthem) I could flip through the pages and read other entries.

If I am truthful, though, it was Jack who spoiled me.  He is retired now.  But when he led the church, I loved to go just to listen to his voice.  And the sermons were brilliant.  Full of thought.  Full of substance.  Not brimstone, but thinking and oration and historical citations that made me think.  They called out for thinking while listening. 

When the sermon came, the lights went down in our historic church and he pulled the chain on his reading light at the pulpit (I can hear the click of the light as I write).  He lectured in the best possible sense of the word.  He was prepared.  He commanded your attention with his order, his message, his demeanor and his voice.

Jack was born in Tennessee and had the perfect remnant of a Southern accent, along with a wonderful voice, only made better by the cigarettes he smoked.  His voice was not the breathless southern minister's accent often lampooned, but the booming, certain voice that always knew what to say whether at the pulpit or in person when someone sought guidance or solace or even a joke.  Over the years, many people have relayed how Jack helped them.  He knew when to support but he also knew when to cut through the crap and tell you to step it up and do what is right.

On my wedding day, Jack performed the service even though he was giving away his only daughter.  As an example of his coolness under pressure, I relate the image of my best man and I awaiting our entrance in a rather isolated sacristy with nothing to do but partake of the Old Crow that my friend carried with him as part of a venerable wedding tradition.  In mid-shot, Jack entered the room in full Vestments.  We were uncertain what his reaction might be but the uncertainty turned to ease as he joined us in a toast.

He also chose wonderful prayers and lessons and messages - and, yes, he chose those prayers that would send us off at the end of the service.  My favorite one counseled us all to "go out into the world not to condemn it, but to save it for all that is right and good."

What a wonderful spoiling.  Thanks, Jack.

Listen here.