If Memory Serves

My father was invited to take a memory test a couple of weeks ago. He didn’t do all that well.

They also asked him to draw a clock, apparently, only to learn – as anyone who’s had to transcribe his handwriting across the last eight decades could testify – that his penmanship and sketching skills are … problematic, for those compelled to decipher them.

So, they did an MRI, which showed that the part of his brain dedicated to retaining memory is in about the shape they’d expect, for a man his age. Which is to say, getting a little fuzzy around the edges.

It’s nothing anyone likes to hear, or be reminded of, but as personal medical updates go, it was better than what we feared, when the doctor summoned us for the report. So far, Dad still recalls what channel the westerns are on, which road is best for getting to the steakhouse, and sweet things about his deceased wife, when he gazes on her picture. That’s more than enough, for now.

He remembers something else, too.

When my father was serving in ministry, across five crowded decades, at various Southern Baptist churches across the South and Southwest, it was the custom of those leading worship services to offer, at their close, an “invitation.”

A pianist would play. People would sing. A lot of us would pray about our own sins, and for the salvation of those around us. And meanwhile, preachers would prayerfully encourage those whose souls had been pinched, prodded, or stirred by the sermon or the Scriptures or some other aspect of the service to come down front to the altar and pray with a counselor.

It was a way of nudging those wrestling with repentance, or perhaps a sense of God’s calling, to shake off their ennui and take those crucial first steps toward changing their life.

The invitation wasn’t just for those feeling spiritual conviction, however. Those moving forward were a tangible reminder to the rest of the congregation that this – people coming to Christ, people responding to God – was what church is about. Not the religious routine, not the familiar refrains of song and Scripture, not even the cheerful socializing with fellow believers. But lives, transformed.

That’s what the singing and the praying and the sermons were designed to facilitate. That’s what the Spirit was being asked to accomplish. And the response of some among us to the invitation was the evidence that He was at work all around us.

These days, sadly, those invitations are extended more infrequently, if at all. Pastors seem uncomfortable, challenging people to change their lives. “Altar calls” are going the way of Wednesday night prayer meetings, Sunday night services, and in-home visits.

We don’t want God to overtax people, or inconvenience them. And we certainly don’t want them to feel pushed to make any decision they haven’t already made up their minds to make.

We’re Christians, for heaven’s sake – or for somebody’s sake, anyway – and we don’t want to come off like used car salesmen. Or doctors, offering an unpleasant spiritual prognosis. If God wants people to make a life-changing decision, well … God can do that on His own time. Those of us in the pews today are busier than the generations gone by. We actually have places to go, things to do … and other ideas of what church is about.

It troubles my father, who attends a church of some size, led by a pastor of some talent, and strategically located to draw a fair number of visitors, week after week after week. Some Sundays, the pastor closes with an invitation. When he does, many tend to respond. Sometimes dozens, sometimes more. Often, those responding make a public profession of faith in Christ. Which means they’re going to heaven, in part, because someone took the time to invite them.

Only, many weeks, the pastor doesn’t do that. Undoubtedly, he has his reasons. The sermon felt a little flat … the service is running a little long … he just feels no Nudge to extend the offer. If the Spirit’s moving, surely a lost soul will reach out to someone. Or maybe, return next week.

The story goes that, one October evening in 1871, the Billy Graham of his era, Dwight L. Moody, was leading a major revival meeting that drew some 2,500 people from all over the thriving city of Chicago. The crowd seemed receptive, and he brought the service to a powerful close. But, having made the way of salvation clear, he hesitated.

He encouraged those listening to take the next few days and think about what He’d been saying. Then, if they were ready to make a life-changing decision, to come back the following week and accept God’s invitation.

Only, for some … there was no “following week.” Even as he dismissed the service, the crowd could hear the rising sound of fire engines. The infamous Chicago fire was ablaze. Moody and his family survived, but he always wondered how many of those he was preaching to that night did not. He called his decision not to extend an invitation one of the worst mistakes of his life.

Ever after, he said, “when I preach, I press Christ upon the people then and there and try to bring them to a decision on the spot. I would rather have [my] right hand cut off than to give an audience now a week to decide what to do with Jesus.”

A few Sundays ago, my father grew frustrated with his pastor’s decision, several weeks in a row, not to extend an invitation. Hobbling along on his painfully arthritic ankles, Dad made his way down after the first service to speak with the preacher and express his concern. Dad tried to be gracious – he likes the young man – but his sense of urgency and concern probably came bluntly through. The pastor acknowledged the admonishment, and Dad limped back to his seat.

He sat through the next service, as he always does. He likes to see old friends, hug their grandchildren, pray for any lost souls who might be sitting in that big auditorium.

At the close of the second service, the pastor, chastened, extended an invitation. Some 20 people came down, most to accept Christ. If his ankles and his Southern Baptist sensibilities would have allowed it, my dad might have done a jig, right there between the pews.

The pastor paused before dismissing the crowd. “I wasn’t going to do that,” he said. “Extend an invitation. But someone reminded me, and he was right.”

He extended an invitation again the next week, in both services. He did the same, the week after. Each time, people crowded the aisles, making decisions that will change eternity.

“How are you?” I asked, as Dad sat down for Sunday lunch today.

“Frustrated,” he said. “Pastor didn’t give an invitation again.”

“Wonder why,” I said.

“Said he was in a hurry – tickets for the ballgame.”

He’s a busy man. A young man. A family man. Lots to distract him. Sometimes, we all forget what’s important.

But my father is an old man. His friends are mostly gone and his family is mostly far away. He has time on his hands.

His memory, the doctor says, is fading, a little.

But some things, he does not forget.