Pentecostal giants
In this edition, BCCN pays tribute to two mainstays of
Canadian Pentecostalism, both of whom passed away last month. Here, we
offer an overview of the work of evangelist Bernice Gerard. Below, we
present a reminiscence from pastor Don Cantelon.
Don Cantelon: the art of retiring gracefully
By Don Cantelon
“THAT is absolutely the worst music and singing
that I have ever heard in my life!”
Right in the middle of one of my lovely (at least I
thought so) musical presentations, the man stood up and shouted those
devastating words. I must confess I was deeply grieved.
I knew my singing wasn’t that great, but dear and
kind people had given me the impression that I was a better-than-average
accordionist.
When I took some lessons from an accordion teacher, he
told me I treated the instrument like a gentleman (none of the oompa, oompa
stuff) – and that if I stayed with him for a while, he’d get me
into a full-time music career.
It was quite evident our shouting friend didn’t
have the same appreciation for my musicianship.
Drumming up enthusiasm
Another time I got a negative response to my ministry
of music was in a pre-crusade service in British Columbia. The chairman of
the upcoming crusade felt it would help the project (it didn’t) if we
would come ahead of time and drum up some enthusiasm.
He made a special point of asking that I bring my
accordion and do some singing and playing. My wife Ardena came along, but
she was not able to help me.
She had been my ministry partner for many years, and
was a far better singer than I; but a throat problem made it just about
impossible for her to help with solos or duets.
So it was up to me to sing beautiful songs by myself. I
had just finished my first song and had turned to pick up another piece of
music, when the clear, young voice of a small boy came from the back of the
sanctuary: “That music is awful!”
Well – the place fairly exploded. I was not
surprised when the young people all burst into laughter – but I was shocked when I glanced
at my wife and saw the tears rolling down her face.
I just grinned at the audience and said,
“That’s not the first time I’ve been told that kind of
thing,” and carried on with the next number – at least I tried
to.
For better or worse
It was a little difficult to do so with the continuing
laughter of the young people – and the behaviour of my wife. My wife,
my dear wife – the one who promised to hang in there with me,
“for better or worse” – just could not get control of
herself.
You’d think her love and loyalty for me would
have kept her from being overcome with unholy laughter, but that
wasn’t the case. Throughout the rest of the service, if I happened to
look toward her, she was having a terrible time trying to keep a straight
face.
When I was a boy, the piano accordion was one of the
most popular instruments, both in secular and religious circles. Most
prairie churches, at least the ones I attended, had an accordion in their
orchestra. And most of those orchestras were bad – really bad.
The accordion may have been a menace in church
orchestras, but it certainly was a real blessing at cottage and street
meetings. I lugged mine
halfway around the world, and even made an accordion LP recording.
However, as the years went by, I could tell a lot of
people were not interested in that kind of music. Oh, the seniors still
like it and get a far-off, nostalgic look in their eyes when I play an old
hymn; but my instrument is spending more and more time in its case.
Fading out gracefully
One of the bigger challenges in life is what I would
call ‘fade-out.’ When you know that something is fading out on
you, you have a choice: either you can refuse to accept it, or become a
realist – give in, and go on to something else.
The spirit of an athlete may be as strong as ever, but
his aging body will no longer cooperate with his mind – at least not
to the degree it once did. Some realize their glory days are done, and
retire with all kinds of honours; others refuse to quit, and end their
athletic careers as rather pathetic shells of what they once were.
We’ve all sat in embarrassment as an old man, who
was once a good singer, shuffles up to the microphone – and with
cracked and weakened voice, stumbles his way through a yesteryear song.
Oh, the audience will give him some polite applause
– and that’s what some will live and die for. But behind his
back, you can imagine people whispering: “Why didn’t he quit
while he was ahead?”
So what about the aging clergyman, who feels he still
has the same charisma and ‘preachin’ fire’ that he had
when he was a young man starting out in the ministry?
When to quit
I have felt sorry for preachers who just didn’t
seem to know when to quit. Thinking back to our school days when we were
involved in track and field, our teachers used to tell us how important it
was to start well. But then they would tell us that finishing well was
equally important, maybe even more so.
Wiseacres used to say those old preachers only had two
or three years in their sermon barrel. When they ran out of sermons,
they’d resign and move on to the next place, where they could repeat
some of the old sermons.
I am sure that was not the only reason they
didn’t stay too long in one church; but as the years have gone by,
pastors now seem to stay in their churches for a longer period of time
– five or 10 years; some even 20 or more.
In some cases, it has worked out very well, but in
others, the members of the congregation become restless and begin muttering:
“We love the old boy, but how in the world do we get rid of
him?”
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So how does a person know when it is time to fold up
the tent, throw in the towel, write that letter of resignation? At times,
the preacher does not make the decision; other circumstances or other
people make it for him. A debilitating sickness takes over, and it is
simply impossible for him to carry on.
In the secular field, sometimes the company is taken
over by a conglomerate, and the job is phased out.
Then of course, there are times when a person is just
plain old fired –
and I would think that is the roughest of all.
In the religious world we never speak of a preacher
being ‘fired.’ That wouldn’t be nice. He moves on, or is
in between churches, or has taken ‘early retirement.’ Never,
ever, do we say, “The guy just got fired.”
I usually knew when it was time for me to tender my
resignation as pastor of a church. It was always hard. Even though I had
been there for a good number of years, there were always those who felt I
should stay longer.
Some would even lay a guilt trip on me by saying I was
really letting them – and the whole congregation – down. Others
would get a sort of prophetic gleam in their eye, and predict dire judgment
on me if I went through with my resignation.
But even if flags were still waving and banners flying,
I knew it was time to say that final good-bye. So the Sunday arrived
when I read the letter of resignation to the congregation, usually at the
end of a Sunday morning worship service.
It was always my custom, after any service was over, to
go to the front foyer and shake hands with the people who were leaving. To
do it that day was particularly heart-wrenching.
There was only one time when I realized there was no
way I could stand by that door and face all the kind words and tears of my
dear people. Instead I excused myself, headed for my office, put my face
between my knees and sobbed like a child.
I know some of us pastors have been accused of not
really loving our people, of having a ‘hireling’ rather than a
‘shepherd’ mentality. I would like to think that most of us
truly loved our people, and were not in the ministry just to get a
salary.
After the farewell service, usually a few weeks after
the reading of the resignation, there was always a special luncheon for the
whole congregation. I always approached that particular social event with
very mixed feelings.
In a way, it was tremendous to receive the outpouring
of love and appreciation from all the people who had gathered.
On the other hand, it was the end of an era; and if
you’re an old pastor, it can seem to be the end of everything.
Then there was that last visit to my office.
I take forever to pack up the Bibles and books, then
sit behind my desk for the last time. I lean back in my chair and seem to
see the faces of a thousand people who came and sat across from me –
some smiling, some crying, some suicidal, but all of them looking for some
kind of help, comfort or guidance.
I smile a bit as I think of young couples, head over
heels in love, who came to make arrangements for their wedding.
My eyes mist over as I see the heartbroken widows,
bravely trying to stay in control, the big bitter tears rolling gently down
their sad, sad faces.
I think of days when everything went well and I went
home, thankful for the privilege of being a preacher.
But then those other days come before me – days
I’d like to forget, but know I never will. They were the days that,
in spite of my best efforts, I seemed to fail miserably.
So I leave. As I go through the foyer for the last
time, my steps are a lot slower than when I first walked in to take over
leadership of that church. I don’t really feel like talking to
anybody; but as I reach the front door, a handsome, long-haired,
leather-clad fellow just happens to be standing there.
Do angels have long hair and wear leather? I
don’t know. But he reaches out, grabs my hand in a vicelike grip,
gives me a sideways grin and says, “Way to go, Preacher!”
So what do we do when the applause fades and finally
dies? If we’re wise, we simply and humbly thank our God that we had
the opportunity to be any kind of blessing to our fellow man. So maybe
we’re not up-front or centre-stage anymore, but there are neighbours,
friends and loved ones who are so thankful that we are still alive.
Our sphere of influence may not be nearly as big as it
once was; but as long as we have breath in our bodies, we can give a little
love, share a little hope and spread a little cheer in the world around us.
Sure, it may be behind the scenes; and there may not be
much, if any, applause. But if we are willing to do it in the name of the
Lord, we may very well one day hear the words, “Well done, my child
– well done.”
Has the road always been easy? No, I can’t say
that. But when I’ve hit some humps and bumps, there has always been a
hand to guide, a voice to comfort – and a Presence that surrounded me
every step of the way.
Excerpted from Don Cantelon’s book, The Day I Burned the Hotel Down.
December 2008
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