Essay: “Tribute”

One of the benefits of keeping a journal as I have for nearly forty years is the sacrament of etching onto paper the people, places, and experiences sacred to me, creating a verbal scrapbook.  A friend says he prays at the point of a pen... his daily journal is his prayer book, its entries psalms of petition, remembrance, and thanksgiving.

This morning, Mr. Joe Robertson and Elder William Reed came a calling from across the years.  They’re both gone now.  They didn’t know each other.  The only thing they have in common is the color of their skin and their both having blessed me by receiving a younger me into the hospitality of their presence.  Today their visages come to mind and I am grateful.

Here’s to you, Mr. Robertson.  Good morning, Elder Reed. 

1981.  I am in Mr. Joe Robertson’s living room.  He lives alone on the north side of Nashville.  He is dying of lung cancer.  I am a hospice volunteer.  At twenty-two, my life is ahead of me.  At seventy-five, his is drawing to a close with each raspy breath. 

I call him Mr. Robertson out of respect.  He is my elder.  He calls me Mr. David, interspersing our conversations with “Yes, sir, Mr. David” and “No, sir, Mr. David.”

I say, “Please just call me David, Mr. Robertson.”

He responds, “Yes, sir, Mr. David.”

Over three months, he and I become friends.  His one comfort is 7-Up.  He says it soothes his throat.  So, I bring a six-pack when I visit.  We sip cocktails of 7-Up on the rocks and talk about fishing, his work on the railroad, and his late wife. 

When he finds out I’m a divinity school student, a sparkle comes to eyes that are sunken and yellowed.  Between coughs and wheezes, he slaps his thigh and says, “Yes, sir, Mr. David.  Just preach the gospel of the Lord!”

I tell him a small church an hour east of Nashville is seeking a minister. Would I be interested?  I tell him when I think of preaching with fifteen people looking at me, my knees knock and my stomach churns and besides that, how would I come up with something to say every week?  As I whine my self-doubt, he leans forward, smiles a toothy grin, points at me and says, “The gospel of the Lord, Mr. David.  Just preach the gospel of the Lord!”

I’m invited to preach a trial sermon at the church.  I write it longhand on a pad of yellow legal paper and take the draft to Mr. Robertson’s house with a six-pack of 7-Up. 

“Mr. Robertson, mind if I run this sermon by you?”

He laughs, producing a coughing spell that soon abates. I launch into the sermon as he sips his 7-Up and listens.  As I stammer my way along, he interjects,  “Amen!” “Preach it!” and “Yes, sir, that’s right!” 

When I finish, I look up and ask, “What do you think?” And I remember those jaundiced eyes, that toothy grin, and his raspy refrain, “Yes, sir, Mr. David, just preach the gospel of the Lord.  You’ve got a word there.  Preach it!” 

I accept the call to serve the church and he coaches me.  For several months of Saturdays until the day he dies, I show up on his doorstep with a trial run sermon and practice it aloud interspersed with encouragements from a one-man amen corner. 

My first congregation was an African-American congregation of one.  His voice steeled and encouraged me.  He died, but now he lives.  The gospel of the Lord.  Mr. Robertson, a toast of 7-Up to you, sir.

And good morning to you, Elder Reed.  William B. Reed is in my mind’s eye, too, as I journal today.  He’s next to Mr. Robertson in the balcony of my memory.     

In 1987, my wife and I attended our church’s biennial international assembly in Louisville.  We attended an event at one of our church’s historic sites in Bourbon County on Sunday morning after which friends asked if we’d like to join them for worship in Paris at Seventh Street Christian Church, our historic African-American congregation.

“Sure,” we said. “Meet you there.” 

We were greeted at the door by a genial, dignified man who introduced himself as Elder Reed.  When we told him we were ministers and spouses attending the assembly in Louisville, he exclaimed, “The Lord is surely at work this morning!  Someone in our pastor’s extended family is having a medical emergency and he just left for the hospital.”

He continued, “The Lord has sent you pastors to lead us in worship.  One of you is going to pray, one is going to preside at the Lord’s Table, and one of you is going to preach.”       

Before I could get a word out edgewise, one of my colleagues said, “I’ll take the prayer.” The other quickly volunteered, “I’ll serve at the Table.” At which time Elder Reed looked at me and said, “You’re our preacher.”  He reached out and shook my trembling hand as my colleagues chuckled under their breath. 

I preached.  Somehow.  I came up with a thought and expounded on it extemporaneously, carried along by the verbal encouragement of the congregation.  Echoes of Mr. Robertson.  A Hammond organ’s swelling chords undergirded my thoughts to the finish and I returned to my seat with a side glance to my colleagues.

After the Benediction, Elder Reed asked me to stand at the door and greet the congregation.  They were graciously complimentary.  He was last in line.

Ten days later, I received a letter at our apartment in St. Louis.  It had a Paris, Kentucky, postmark and the return address of William B. Reed.  It read:     

Dear Rev. Shirey,

We definitely are considering changing pastors by the beginning of the fiscal year 1988. Would you ever consider the pastoring of an all black church?  I have contacted the membership about you and the response was encouraging.  Would you, if interested, please send full particulars as to salary, etc.  I believe should you accept you will never have cause to regret your decision. 

                                                                                    Sincerely,

                                                                                    William B. Read - Elder

I wrote a letter thanking Elder Reed for the honor of being deemed worthy of consideration but having only been in my position for two years, I couldn’t consider a new call.  I reiterated my gratitude for his welcome and the encouragement of my nascent ministry his letter represented.  I have kept it to this day.

After I was called to Lexington, I googled William B. Read, Paris, KY, and found an entry in the database of Notable Kentucky African Americans[1]:

Reed, William B. "Chief" (born: 1912 - died: 1996) William B. Reed, born in Paris, KY, was the last principal of the segregated Western School for Negroes. The Paris City Schools were fully integrated in 1966. Reed would become the first African American Assistant Principal in the Paris City School system. He was also the first to become a city commissioner in Paris.  Reed had been a star football and basketball player at Kentucky State College [now Kentucky State University] and coached the Western High basketball team to a national championship in 1953. He was also the school's football coach.  Reed was the first African American elected to the Paris City Council in 1977.  The William "Chief" Reed Park in Paris is named in his honor.

After my retirement, a few days after Elder Reed and Mr. Robertson had come to mind, I decided a field trip was in order.  I followed my GPS on a fifty-mile round trip to Chief Reed Park to pay my respects.  What I found both warmed and troubled me.  The park dedicated to the acclaimed athlete, coach, teacher, mentor, public servant, civil rights pioneer, and churchman is out of the way in a low-income neighborhood.  Just before the park is an unwelcoming NO OUTLET sign; just beyond it is the city dump.     I parked and got out, the only person there on that gray, wintry Sunday morning, and walked over to a plaque honoring Mr. Reed’s legacy.   As I stood there, church bells began tolling in the distance, a gifted soundtrack to my vigil.  The dump, the NO OUTLET sign, the church bells, an esteemed man’s enduring legacy etched onto copper for the ages -- there’s a sermon there somewhere, but that’s for another day. 

Today I write a psalm of thanksgiving in my journal for the indelible grace shown me four decades ago by two men who gave voice to my preaching for two thousand sermons and now have given voice to my writing.  I close my journal, their names enshrined within, black ink on white pages.

[1] “Reed, William B. "Chief",” Notable Kentucky African Americans Database, accessed January 8, 2023, https://nkaa.uky.edu/nkaa/items/show/435.