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Surprise in the cemetery, part 1
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A burial service is supposed to be a solemn occasion, but I’ve left several cemeteries red-faced instead of teary-eyed.


Once a preacher showed up at the cemetery, saying the family asked him to help me with the service. I let him say a few words and pray after I read scripture. I found out he was preaching at the wrong man’s grave when he started calling the deceased by a different name in the middle of his message!


At another cemetery, I surprised myself. As I finished my prayer, I decided to honor the dead by taking off my boutonniere and placing it on the casket, a tradition I had learned in Mississippi.


But I was in Georgia, where this tradition was unknown, and the congregation didn’t have a clue what I was doing. They were even more baffled when I stepped on the green carpet next to the casket, and my foot went knee-deep into the grave.


Quickly, I jerked my foot out of the grave, and threw the boutonniere up on the casket and made a quick exit.


But the strangest thing I ever experienced was a graveside service I did in Reidsville, Georgia. The man being buried was in his 90s, and the pastor who knew him was unable to conduct the service, so I agreed to do the service, at the request of his relatives who attend my church.


We’ll call the deceased “Lloyd” (not his real name). The family told me some stories about his life, and added that his girlfriend from the nursing home would be there, and I needed to mention how they loved each other. We’ll call her “Ruby” (not her real name, either). I asked how old she was, and I was quite surprised when they said, “45.”


I arrived at the funeral home in Reidsville, where they were having visitation for a few minutes before going to the cemetery. There I met Ruby. Three women from the nursing home were with her, wearing their nurse uniforms and name tags. Ruby was sitting there with a single carnation in her hand.


I quickly realized that she was mentally challenged. (What I did not realize was that she was later going to challenge my mind.) I greeted Ruby, and remarked that I heard she was really good to Lloyd. She said, “Yeah, we really loved each other. Every night we would cuddle together until 9, when the nurses made me go back to my room.”


I had a feeling this was not going to be a normal graveside service, and boy, was I right. I’ll tell what happened in next week’s column.


(Copyright 2013 by Bob Rogers. Email: brogers@fbcrincon.com. Read this column each Friday in the Herald. Visit my blog at www.bobrogers.me.)

Is there a church for a big woman with an itch?
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A pastor was called to be guest preacher at a church. He knew this church was different when the congregation ended every line of the hymn with the shout of “yeehah!”


As he stood to preach, he noticed that people were spread out on the pews. He would see a person, then a space, then another person, and another space. He wondered why nobody sat next to another person, when he noticed on the pew beside each person was a cowboy hat.


Another time this same preacher was invited to a new church in the city. He was surprised to see that everybody there looked like they had fallen face first into a tackle box, because they had piercings and earrings on every part of the body imaginable. A rock band was playing alternative music on the stage.


As different as these two churches were, they were both growing and reaching people for Christ.


Years ago I was pastor of a small country church in the backwoods of Mississippi. There was another Baptist church just five miles away in the town (population 600). The pastor’s wife at the town church asked me, “Why don’t our two churches merge?” I said, “There are people in my church who would not feel comfortable or fit in at your town church.” She said, “Oh, come on. We’re a small town church. What could be so different?”


I said, “Well, I got one really big woman in my church who, when she gets to feeling an itch, she pulls her dress halfway up and she scratches herself.”


The eyes of this pastor’s wife got really big and she said, “I see what you mean.”


I forgot to tell her about another woman in my church who saw a roach running across the wood floor, so she stomped on it with her bare foot, laughed and shouted, “Aha! I got him!”


Yep, the culture was definitely different where I was pastor.


Jesus upset the religious establishment because He crossed cultural barriers. He loved to eat with tax collectors and Gentiles and other strange people. Jesus walked into the land of Samaria, full of half-breed Jews who worshiped in weird ways and talked different and smelled different.


Jesus walked right up to a Samaritan woman at a well and started talking her language. He accepted her culture, but he let her know her sinful lifestyle had to change. Soon she had the whole town following Jesus (see John 4).


So what cultural barrier is keeping somebody in your community from hearing the gospel? If you tear down the cultural barriers to share Christ in your neighborhood, you may hear the angels shouting, “Yeehah!”


Copyright 2014 by Bob Rogers. Email: brogers@fbcrincon.com. Read this column each Friday in the Herald. Visit my blog at www.bobrogers.me.