Sometimes people may not like what we stand for, or preach, or write.
But I doubt any of us has ever received a death threat.
Years ago, though, my grandfather Preacher Miller did. Not only that: His enemies suggested it would happen before he ever stepped down from the pulpit.
Back in the 1950s, he went to preach way up in the hills of Kentucky. Folks in those hills back then were rough. But, in Preacher Miller’s way of thinking, that put them in greater need of the gospel; and nobody was better equipped to deliver what somebody needed than this Georgia preacher.
Preacher Miller understood that when the Lord sent him to preach that he didn’t say to go preach to a bunch of angels flying around in the sky. No, preacher, you go way down in the valley. You preach to those people down there, people such as you and I.
Brother Miller, as folks around the country still call him, always wielded a two-edged sword: On one blade he had an undying courage, and on the other a strong conviction in what he believed. Brother Miller had one belief, in particular, that he knew could lead to trouble. It involved Christians’ involvement in certain worldly organizations that he felt required them to compromise their faith. Such was likely the case, biblically, with the church in Pergamos which had many of their members involved with various guilds associated with their jobs (Revelation 2:12-17).
Brother Miller believed being involved with certain of these groups would cause a conflict of allegiance, forcing him occasionally to step into the pulpit with that two-edged sword and try to sway them in what he considered the right way – and the only way.
About half the folks in this back-woods church up in Kentucky where he was preaching was heavily involved with such an organization, putting Preacher Miller in a position to jeopardize any popularity he had. His unpopularity wasn’t like the mellow kind I might enjoy. No, his could get him killed, right in the middle of the twentieth century.
Undeterred, though, he announced to the congregation one night in his booming, rafter-shaking voice:
“Tomorrow night,” he announced, “if you’ll all come back, you’ll hear me preach a sermon that you may not want to hear …” And he went on to lay out his topic.
He knew as soon as he belted out that announcement that the tide was going to turn against him. Sure enough, a crew of those mountain-men had a stern warning waiting for him after services. They could have saved their breath, because he knew he had no choice but to preach it. A greater authority told him to declare “the whole counsel of God.” Like it or not, he was about to jump into that “whole counsel” head first.
When he left the building, he found a pay phone and called Grandma waiting for him back home in LaGrange.
“Zona Belle,” he said, “if I don’t make it back home, get the best lawyer you can and have them look into this.”
I’ve often wondered how Grandma made it through the next 24 hours as she waited for the next call from Granddad. I expect she waited with a healthy portion of prayer and faith.
The next afternoon – several hours before the preacher was scheduled to deliver his sermon – a car-load of big, country Kentuckians paid him a little visit at the hotel where he was staying. Two or three of them jumped out and approached Preacher Miller threateningly in the parking lot. They had a message, and the preacher knew what the bottom line was: If he wanted to live, he would have to change sermons fast. There was no middle ground.
He made a decision, and he knew that night he would have to live or die with the consequences.
(Next week—the conclusion.)
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