THIS IS MY STORY, THIS IS MY SONG 3. "The Jonah Man"

Readings: Psalm 70, Wisdom of Solomon 6:12-16, Matthew 25:1-13, Jonah 1:1-10

The last couple of Sundays I’ve been answering questions that folk have asked me throughout my ministry. How I came to faith. How I felt a call to ministry. My accent has a habit of evoking a response, “You are not from round here, are you?”  When people find out I came from Great Britain usually it isn’t long before somebody asks, “Well what made you decide to come to America?”

Two weeks ago, I was sharing how it was as a teenager that I became involved in a church and how in my early twenties I felt God called me to offer myself as a candidate for the ministry of the Presbyterian Church of Wales.

I shared last week, this call to be part of the established church was not something that I had ever seriously contemplated. Having been brought up near the City of Liverpool, whose only famous sons I knew about were the Beatles, I had a rebellious streak within me that had a profound distrust of authority and institutions. I can identify with the prophet Jonah whose first thoughts when God called Him to go one way was the desire to head as quickly as possible in the opposite direction.

Even when I departed from my hometown to study at Aberystwyth Theological College I was still nursing a real hope that... well... God had only called me to be a candidate for the ministry, God hadn’t actually said I had to become a minister. People who went to theological colleges ended up in all sorts of occupations. I could still play music. I could teach in a college. Offering myself as a candidate did not mean that my destiny was to be a minister of Word and Sacrament within an established denominational church.

One year went by, then the next and then the third year. All the time I’m saying to God, “C’mon now, times getting short here. “Time for You to show me what You really want me to do!”  During my final pastoral studies year, my name appeared on the list of prospective students open to receive a call to serve a church .

For Jonah it took sitting inside the belly of a stinky fish before he realized that, ‘Yes’, maybe doing what God asked could result in a favorable outcome for his life. In chapter 2 Jonah concludes a prayer about his plight with the phrase, “Deliverance belongs to the Lord.” Shortly afterward he is deposited on the shores of Nineveh to begin his task. I’m just glad that it didn’t take being thrown off a ship into the raging waves by a group of angry sailors, only to be swallowed up by a whale that convinced me to accept the preacher’s role. It was quite a challenge having to go to Wales to study, without being swallowed by a whale!

Accept ‘A Call’ I did. To two wonderful churches in the beautiful Welsh Vale of Clwyd, in two market towns called Denbigh and Ruthin. What I didn’t realize about the town of Denbigh back then, was that it housed a large mental hospital. “Going to Denbigh’ was a polite way to explain someone was being admitted to the insane asylum. After many years of being part of this institution we call the church, I am of the opinion that being a little bit crazy might be helpful for pastoral ministry.

After being in Wales, I moved to inner city ministry in Liverpool, which included chaplaincy work at a large Children’s hospital, before accepting a call to minister in the churches of Beaumaris, Menai Bridge and Caernarfon in North Wales. Caernarfon boasted a castle, making it a Mecca for tourists from all over the world. The Presbyterian Church in Caernarfon was situated right on the square, in view of the castle’s walls.

Now all of this is by way of a lengthy introduction to explain how it was that I came to America. Did I hear a voice from the heavens saying, “Go to the U.S.A?” Was it something that I had secretly been planning and hoping for all along. Did some scripture verse jump out of the bible to direct my path?  No.

Over the years I’ve learned something about the guidance of God. It can be most irregular. That as we place our trust in God and commit our way to doing the things God wants us to, both God’s methods and the outcome can be wildly unpredictable.

This was a message that Jonah found hard to understand. When he reluctantly marched into Nineveh declaring God’s judgment on its God forsaken inhabitants the last thing, he was expecting was that they would listen, and set about amending their lives to live the way God wanted them to.

He wants to see the Ninevites get blasted by the judgment of God. The story ends with Jonah in an angry sulk, sitting in the shade of a tree which dies. God suggests that Jonah is acting foolishly and that as God, He had every right to forgive whomsoever He wished to and to show mercy wherever mercy was needed. And it was certainly needed in Nineveh. So, Jonah, “Get over yourself.”

Again, the message that “We know best” is challenged by the thought that whatever we think should happen is not necessarily the way God sees things.  So, there I am, in this beautiful area of Wales, enjoying the mountains and the beaches and the castles and blessed with two children who were blossoming at 8 and 10 years old, and my wife in this wonderful job working in the offices of the Oceanography department. “Settled’ would be a good word to describe things.

One of the ministries that Castle Square, Caernarfon Church still operates on a Saturday morning is that they open up the church and invite visitors in for a coffee and a chat. One Saturday, a pastor and his son from the Chicago area walked in. The son was an organist and Alan Jones the organist at Castle Square was just finishing up his practice for Sunday. They got chatting and the son got to play the organ. A few months later I received a letter from the pastor in Chicago asking if I would be interested in doing an exchange trip.

So, we thought about it, and prayed about it, and decided that a twelve-week exchange trip to Chicago might be kind of fun. My churches in Wales agreed that they would carry on paying my salary, so we only had to find the airfares. We would live in each other’s houses, drive each other’s cars, minister through the summer in each other’s churches.

The phone rang. It was the pastor from Chicago. “I’ve accepted a call to serve a United Reformed Church in Cornwall, England. I’m guessing you wouldn’t really be interested in doing an exchange trip to England? However, there’s a guy from our church who is about your age, who went into the ministry and is in a place called Red Wing, in Minnesota, I’ve spoken with him. What do you think?”

I thought, “Whatever. Red Wing, MN, Chicago.IL, I’m sure they are very much the same.” In the summer of 1994, we exchanged pulpits and locations with Rev Elg and family from Red Wing Presbyterian Church and had a great time. I went back home with the thought that I could put all the things I’d learnt to good use in my churches in Wales.

Out of the blue I started to get invitations to consider moving to other positions in Wales and in England. Some of them weren’t even to do with me being a traditional minister. That ship to Tarshish stays in port for a long time!  Maybe that ‘Get out of the established church” clause that I’d expected to come along during my seminary days had finally come to pass. I investigated some of them, but they just didn’t feel right.

Following my Minnesota experience, I had received a subscription to a PC(USA) magazine that contained descriptions of pastoral vacancies. I should explain that the calling process in Wales is very different to that over here. Wales is a small place. As a pastor you didn’t call the church, they called you.

So, the notion of applying to a church for a position was completely alien to me. And I knew nothing of the Presbyterian USA’s process of filling in forms and matching candidates to churches and going through committees and presbyteries, and still less about the whole complicated process of obtaining Visas and permits to actually live in the United States.

But I did entertain the thought ‘I wonder what would happen if I responded to one of those churches in the magazine?’ So, I did. A very gracious church in Monroe, Louisiana replied to me, explaining the process and how they’d need a little more information than “Hello. My name is Adrian. I’m a pastor. Believe you might be looking for one?”  We corresponded; they flew me over for an interview. The interview went really well. Looking back though, I guess it wasn’t a good sign that the day I set foot in Louisiana … it snowed. Turned out that I wasn’t the best match for that position. So back to Wales.

Weeks later, in the middle of dinner, the phone rings. A guy called Mike from a place called Fayetteville, West Virginia, is on the line. He wants more information. I suggest calling the nominating Committee I’d met with in Louisiana and sent him a video of me preaching in Minnesota . A few weeks later he calls again. ‘Would I come over for an interview?’ ‘Sure’ I said. I hung up the phone and went look for an atlas. Never mind “Where was Fayetteville?”  where on earth was West Virginia? The only point of reference I had was a John Denver song about ‘Country Roads.’

In ways reminiscent of twisting, turning roads, one thing led to another. It really took a while for God to convince me that leaving the denomination that had nurtured my faith for a foreign land thousands of miles from my extended family was the right thing to do.  I’d always thought that those bits in the Bible about “Going into all the world” only applied to other people.

And it has not been all plain sailing. There were hassles with immigration that nearly had us being sent back to the UK the day we arrived. Were it not for a fax we had received, literally the morning we departed for Manchester airport to board the plane, that was a high probability!

Then we had the challenge of living in the USA for 40 days without a Social Security number or any form of identification because our passports had been confiscated… and waiting for our furniture (which had been delayed because of immigration problems) to get here and then finding out we were moving to a different house across the road than the one we were in! I could write a book… and maybe one day I will.  

My ministry here in the USA has led me to different places. West Virginia, Maryland, Nassau County and now here in Bridgehampton. It’s been quite a journey and I’ve learnt so much about the crazy ways that God directs our lives. God has been so faithful. In difficult times, crazy times, times of uncertainty, times of doubt, God’s grace has just kept holding on tight, even though things hardly ever seem to work out as planned! Again, the story of Jonah and his reluctance, and the way things never turn out as he expects, often comes to mind!

I remain excited that the journey has led me here, to this beautiful corner of creation. Belonging to a historic church like Bridgehampton reminds me that the story never started, nor will end with me.

And I share my story, because truly, it’s not about me, it’s about the love of God, found in Jesus Christ, through the action of the Holy Spirit. And that love is so real and, as I said at the very, very start, if God can guide the life of someone like me, I am totally convinced God can do amazing, wonderful, exciting things in each of your lives.

As a youngster I searched for freedom, and was surprised that freedom, in Jesus Christ, found me! I’m just one stumbling pilgrim hoping to help other wanderers find their way home. But I am delighted to be able to share parts of my personal journey and say,  “This is my story, This is my song!” I pray that you will find your story and song within the all-encompassing love of God.

And to God’s name be the Glory! Amen.

The Reverend Adrian J. Pratt B.D.

THIS IS MY STORY, THIS IS MY SONG 1. "Called to be Free!"

 

Readings: Psalm 90:1-61, Leviticus 19:1-2, 15-18, Matthew 22:34-46, Galatians 5:1-13
Preached at Bridgehampton Presbyterian Church, NY, October 29, 2023

There have been three questions that I have been asked on more than one occasion since I became a Presbyterian minister. Firstly, “Adrian, How did you come to faith?” Secondly, “What made you want to be a minister?” and thirdly, “What made you decide to come to America?”

As I’ve again been asked those questions since moving to Bridgehampton, I’m going to take three weeks to answer each of those questions. It’s something I’ve normally done near the commencement of my ministry in a particular church, but as I arrived in the middle of Covid, it did not happen this time around. Seeing as I’ve now transitioned from a part-time to a full-time position, it seemed like a good moment to revisit that tradition.

My aim is not to put myself on a pedestal or make out that I’m something special. I’ve made so many mistakes in my life, and when things have turned out well, I put it down to the Grace of God. My hope is that as I share some things about my own spiritual journey, you will be encouraged that if God can work in the life of someone like me, He can also do awesome things for you.

This morning “This is my story, This is my Song,” I’d like to share with you how I came to faith in Jesus Christ and some thoughts around Galatians 5:13; “You were called to be free, but do not use your freedom to indulge the sinful nature. Rather serve one another in love.”

Freedom is one of the things I’d always searched for in my life. But when I look back to my school days, they were a fine example of the abuse of freedom. I started attending High School at a time when great changes were taking place within the Educational System in Merseyside, England, where I grew up. They introduced a system of “Fully Comprehensive Education,” which meant that the High School you went to didn’t depend on any grades you achieved but on parental choice.

I was sent to a school which until the year I attended had proudly been known as “Wallasey Technical Grammar School,”  a school with a history of academic and sporting achievements. A school, which until then had screened very carefully the kind of students they would admit. The school had now been renamed “Mosslands Senior Comprehensive” and they had to take any child whose parents wished them to go there.

On my first day, the principal (who was not far from retirement) did his usual welcome speech, about how fortunate we all were to have been “chosen” and “allowed” to be part of his wonderful school. Most of us knew there was no question of being chosen or fortunate. He had to take the whole lot of us including those who in previous years he’d have wanted nothing to do with. So, my first day at High School, I’m sitting there thinking, “This guy is an idiot. The government’s changed the rules, but he hasn’t changed his speech. And he’s the Principal!”

So, like a typical teenager, I rebelled. I developed a great distrust and dislike of authority. I found having to wear a school uniform, have my hair cut in a certain way, being- told to work at things I really didn’t think were important by people in whom I had little confidence in, infringed on my idea of freedom. I wanted to learn about life - not how many hours it took Mr. X to get from A to B if he was carrying a load of ‘Y’ amount. Anyway, if ‘Y’ was so heavy, and it was going to take that long, why didn’t he take a taxi? I wasted so much time in High School, because I thought freedom meant doing whatever I wanted to do.

I should explain that I don’t come from a particularly religious family. My mum was a good Methodist but for the rest of the family; church wasn’t on the agenda. Because most of my family never went to church; Sunday morning was an excuse for staying in bed. Having to go to Sunday School was an abuse of my freedom. - Why couldn’t I stay at home like my father, and my elder brother and sister? Why did I have to go and sit on those uncomfortable chairs, in that musty old room with the out-of-tune piano and listen to those people going on and on?

So early on in life, I dropped out of church. I don’t think I had anything against God; I just objected to being told to go to this place that seemed to bear no relevance to the rest of my life.
I couldn’t say that I believed or not believed in God. I had other things on my mind.

The city that I grew up nearest to was Liverpool. One thing the city was famous for was soccer or as we called it football. The city, even today, is football crazy. One of Liverpool’s most famous managers was Bill Shankly. Someone once accused him of making football more important than religion. He replied, “It’s far more serious than that.”

The other thing Liverpool was famous for was “The Beatles.” They were, for the people of Liverpool, a glimmer of hope. It wasn’t just the music, it was the fact that here were these four working class lads, living in a city that was on the way down  yet through their music and characters, they could rise above it and change the world.

The first recording (and I’m not talking downloads—I mean vinyl 33 1/3 records) we had in our house was “Peter and the Wolf.” The second was “Please, Please Me” by the Beatles. I was about 7 years old.  I grew up with the sounds of both the classics and the pops in my ears. By the time I was in my late teens and going through a rebellious stage at school, the Beatles were history.

Other groups had come along. Music had become for some people, not just something you listened to, but a reason for being.  I used to line up all day long to see concerts by bands like “Deep Purple” and “Black Sabbath,” dinosaurs of rock that were then spring chickens. As a teenager disillusioned with school, doubtful that if in the disintegrating economic climate of Northern England there would even be a job for me at the end of the road, I found that loud, rebellious, rock music was something I could really identify with.

I liked the message. “If it feels good, do it,” “Be free to be whatever you want.” A lot of the songs spoke about the hypocrisy of the establishment. “How can they tell us how to live our lives when they are making such a mess of the world? The politicians are liars, the religious people are hypocrites, the men of war want to destroy us, who are they to tell us what to do?” Much of it was a cry for freedom. It suggested that freedom could be found by hitting out at the hierarchies and doing whatever takes your fancy.

It was through rock music I eventually returned to the church. I’d grown up with the Beatles. Maybe if I could play the guitar, bang some drums... write a song, just maybe my life would amount to something. I could be in one of those mega groups and tour the world and party on for evermore. So, I taught myself to play guitar and keyboards and spent a lot of time dreaming.

I had some friends, who not only played guitar far better than me, but also went to a youth club in the Presbyterian Church at the top of the road where I lived. Occasionally they would have a local band playing at the church hall. Other times you could just go along and hang out. I started to be a hanger out.

One of the youth leaders asked me if I would like to join the club. He explained that as well as Friday nights, if I went along to the Youth Fellowship meetings on Sunday mornings, I would qualify for half-price entrance on the nights when they had a band playing. Sunday youth meeting wasn’t actually church, but a discussion group talking about God stuff. I didn’t think going to church would do much for my image as a cool-up and coming rock star. But, mind you, some of those girls at the church were really cute.

I went along. I discovered they talked about big problems like truth and honesty and peace, questions I was asking myself. An invitation was given to go on a course at a Youth college in a little Welsh town called Bala.  I remember thinking, “A weekend away. And the church is paying half. This will be a laugh!”

When I arrived at the youth college the theme of the weekend was ‘Freedom.’ Boy, I was going to show those narrow minded, hypocritical, bigoted religious people what freedom was all about. I was expecting, because it was a church college, some very strict organization. I was surprised after arriving late nobody was hassling us to get to bed. I was getting tired when someone said, “Hey, let’s go to Epilogue.” I didn’t even know what an epilogue was. (An evening service to end the day)

What really got to me was, not the epilogue, but the basement coffee bar. I should explain that whilst I was heavily into rock music, I am grateful to God that I never got involved with drugs. I’d seen what they could do to people, and I wasn’t impressed. Be young, be free, get a little crazy, but when people started taking pills or sticking needles in their arms, that wasn’t clever.

Anyway, I had a secret craving. Mars Bars. Mars Bars in Great Britain are a bit like Milky Ways here, but thicker and yummier. If I was at a party and something illegal was being passed around, I could always pull out my Mars Bar and say, “No thanks man, I’ve got my M.B.”

But back to the basement coffee bar. When you went down there, nobody served you. You just went and helped yourself to whatever you wanted and there was a box, to put money in and help yourself to the change. Coming from an area where one of our churches had put barbed wire on the roof to stop the kids stealing the lead from around the roofing tiles, I thought to myself, “Are these people crazy? What is to stop you coming down here and helping yourself to the goodies and taking all the money as well?”

I went down there all alone and there was a whole stack of glistening Mars Bars on the counter. It sounds stupid now, but for the first time in my life I was conscious of having to decide to do right or wrong. “Do I just take a Mars Bar, or do I pay for it? No-one is going to know. It’s up to me... Surely these crazy people don’t trust you?”

Getting back to that text from Galatians 5:13:- “You were called to be free. But do not use your freedom to indulge the sinful nature. Rather serve one another in love.” It would have been so easy just to pig out on illicit Mars Bars, but so unfair to these people who had given me the freedom to make a simple moral choice.

One thing we had to do this weekend was prepare an. item for a Sunday morning worship service. I’d decided I was going to keep my mouth shut and play guitar. But someone found out I’d written some songs and suggested that I could write something about freedom, to use in the service, the epilogue!

This really bothered me. Particularly after the experience all alone in the coffee bar. I liked these people. I didn’t want to let them down. Saturday night, a little group of us are talking. Two of them were committed Christians. They spoke about God, not as a distant concept but as somebody personal.

We talked about freedom. How we often abused it. I was so full of questions. God must have been with us that night because every question I threw at them, they seemed to find a bible passage that gave the answer in a way that I could relate to. (They confessed later that this wasn’t something they were usually so good at!)

It slowly started to dawn on me that there was a whole realm of freedom that I had never explored; the sort of freedom that was in the life and work and words of Jesus Christ. Here was this one man, who died horribly, yet praying that the abuses and mistakes we make with our freedom (mistakes He was paying the price for!) might be forgiven. After His death, His followers are saying that He is alive and that His love could be a living force in our lives — through the Holy Spirit.

I was hearing all this from some people who had a dimension to their lives lacking in my own. One of them prayed a prayer that night, asking Jesus to make Himself a personal reality in my life. I was worn out. In a way very uncharacteristic of a youth weekend I slept.

Sunday morning, I woke up and all I can tell you is that I knew life would not be the same again. It’s hard to put into words. It felt a bit like when you are on a jet plane, and you zoom down the runway and the power pushes you back in your seat. It was like starting over again. A bit like being born over again and given a second chance.

I knew the reality of Jesus Christ. I knew that God was my Father. I knew that the Holy Spirit was doing something inside of me that had not happened before. But I didn’t know where that journey was taking me, or how it would affect my life. I had come to faith. The freedom that had eluded me had now found me.  

Such is my story; such is my song. But there’s more to tell and time has gone. But for those who asked how I came to faith, hopefully that answers the question. Next time I’ll try and answer; “What made you want to be a minister?

The Reverend Adrian J. Pratt B.D.