In 1961, a five-year-old boy was ushered to the pulpit in his home church in Savannah, GA. His pastor, Rev. Forman, said, “Bucky, would you pray for us this morning?” Without response, headshake, nod, or a “Yes, sir,” I launched into a prayer like those I prayed in the backseat of our family car, or in my bed at night after Mom or Dad turned off the lights and the shadows were stark.
Simple faith. Works every time.
I’d learned to pray at church as much as at home. My mother always said God wanted to hear our prayers whether they made a whole lot of sense or not. While she was what I would call a practical Christian, most of her conversations included memories of the depression she survived with her two brothers and disabled parents. In my ears I interpreted these stories as my own way to conquer my pre-adolescent challenges. If God could provide for the poor then he could probably handle my young issues, if I was willing to tell him. I did.
Throughout my juvenile journey through the teenage years I, like my school and church teenage cohorts lost my mind. I didn’t stray too far from the farm but my college years were more of a schizo Christian freak show. Even when I began theological courses I was still more than part-time crazy. The demon behind all of this was a performance based religion. I resented a God who required perfection especially when he knew it was impossible for human-beings without a surname of Jesus Christ. Simple faith became angry faith. Never worked.
After more alcohol than the law allows I called out in desperation. God listens to desperate prayers. I couldn’t do this if it meant being by myself. The idea of Grace was just another excuse for not being perfect. Not only was I not perfect, I didn’t want to be perfect, if for no other reason than to prove God wrong along with all of his Sanctified Stiff Shirts.
A very short while after my drunken prayer I met my wife. After two weeks of dating I knew (and she knew) we would spend the rest of our lives together. My wife, who is attractive in so many ways, was and is an attractive Christian. She didn’t worry about being right, just right with her Savior. Grace filled in the gaps. While my gaps were more than plentiful, she made me realize God didn’t keep score. He only wanted my heart. Grace handles the rest.
For the last 41 years, Kathy and I have made a life of serving the Lord, sometimes in very simple ways and sometimes in the most complicated of ways, when nothing made sense except for His Call. Let me be very clear, my wife is not my Savior, but like Andrew said to Peter, “I got a guy. His name is Jesus Christ. He understands.”
Simple faith. Works every time.
Bucky Burnsed