THE CHURCH
It was just a small clearing in the beautiful Blue Ridge Mountains, not far from Tellico Plains, Tennessee. The church house was a small, weather beaten building, which had never seen a coat of paint. The pews were built from rough-cut lumber and would only seat twentyfive or thirty adults. If the pews were full, the children would sit on the floor. It was a very simple place of worship, but to the congregation, it was their church.
THE SEASON
It was early Spring, a time when churches schedule revival. The people were ready, not only to worship, but to visit with friends they had not seen in weeks. They would arrive at the church early so there would be time for the children to play together, the women to compare "frocks," and the men smoke their pipes while talking about planting, the weather and such.
THE PREACHER
He was riding a dapple gray mare, his saddle was western and his arrival was expected. He had left home two days ago, and had spent the night with a family over on Candy Mountain. His booming voice announced his arrival, with the words of that old standard, "Bringing In The Sheaves." "Whoa, Dolly." The mare came to a halt and the preacher stepped down. What a sight he was. His suit was solid black, with a touch of dust, his hat was the same and his boots were black calfskin. His eyebrows were bushy, his mustache a handle-bar and his curly black hair was definitely too long for a preacher. One feller said, "Hit purt near kivered his coller."
He stuck out a big rough hand and announced, "Howye doin, I'm tha preacher!" One by one the men took his hand. He then walked over to where the women were gathered, "Howdy, sisters, how youenses doin? I'm tha preacher." The women nodded their heads, but none spoke. He acknowledged the children, but they only stared.
The preacher returned to his horse, removed a big black Bible from the saddle bag, loosened the girth on the saddle, led the mare over to a patch of green grass and dropped the reins. One of the men asked, "Preacher, ye goin tie ye horse?" "Naugh, she'll be here when I'm ready tago," he answered.
THE SERVICE
The Deacon came to the door, introduced himself to the preacher, and announced, "Time ta start." The men called to their wives, the wives rounded up the children and they all moved inside. One of the ladies went to the wellworn piano and sat down. The Deacon called out the name of the hymn, and the pianist started to play. There were not enough song books for everyone, so they shared.
Outside, the traveling preacher knelt on the ground to pray. He thanked God for his safe travel, for the opportunity to preach and asked for His strength and power in the service, and then he went inside. He strode down the aisle and sat on the front pew. As he looked around, he noticed a fire had been started in the wood heater, and kerosene lamps around the walls. He was glad to see a bucket of water, with a dipper. This church was like most of the churches he had preached in. He was not invited to the big churches in places like Murphy and Andrews. You see, he was a traveling preacher, a Circuit Rider.
Having surveyed the inside of the church house, the preacher turned to his Bible. It was the only book he ever read, and he had learned to read it after he was called of God to preach. He had never been to school, never had any formal education and probably didn't know what a seminary was. He couldn't sign his own name, but he could preach the Word of The Living God! As he looked at his Bible, he knew what he would preach that night, because his saddle time was also his praying time. God had filled his spirit with the Word for the evening.
THE VISITOR
The song service was over, the Deacon said, "Now here's tha preacher, and the people grew quiet. Every eye was focused on the speaker as he opened his Bible. "I'm the Reverend J.R.V. Hamilton from over `round Liberty. Most folks call me Brother Bud. Ize asked to come over here and preach fer a few days, and after much prayer and meditation, tha's what I come tado. Now open ye Bibles ta John's Gospel and if ye ken read, foller along." He read slowly and haltingly; sometimes stopping to sound out a word. Some of the children snickered. They could read much better than this preacher. Their parents shut them up with a look, and the preacher continued, reciting many of the words from memory. When he had finished reading the passage, he laid the Bible down and said, "Les pray." He knelt down on the old rough floor and prayed long and hard. As he prayed, his voice became stronger and louder. He awoke some of the babies and in the quiet of the evening, his voice rang throughout the clearing.
The praying was over and the preaching started. "Lisen, neighbor, I'm here ta tell ye, hell is hot and eternitys long, an less' ye borned agin, ye going ta hell! The only way ta escape is Jesus Christ! Ye must be borned agin! The Word-o-God sez ..." The preacher was cut off in mid sentence. The door burst open and standing there was a young man holding a pistol. The women gasped, the children screamed and the men arose to their feet. "Sedown!" he yelled. "Shaddup `em air youngans!" Mothers tried to comfort their children and one of the men said, "Whatdayeont?" "Iont `at preacher!" the gunman shouted.
The preacher stepped down from the platform, walked the small aisle and approached the angry intruder. "Whadayeont, son?" he asked. "Imma gonna keelye, preacher man!" "Why doyeontta keel me, son?" "Cause I'm sickntard oyou spouting off bout hell!" Bud could smell alcohol on the young man's breath. "You preacher! You thank you know everythang `bout hell! Well, ya donno nothin! I been follerin you from one church ta anuthern and yeaint preached nothin but hell. I don wanna hear no more hell. Only way ta shucheyeup is ta killye, and thas what Imma gonna tado."
The preacher said, "Son, letese people go outside. Theyaint got nothin tado with this." "No! Aint nobody goin nowhere! They goin see me keel you!" Bud tried another approach. "Son, put tha gun down and les talk." "You shaddup! Iaint yore son and yeaint my deddy!" The preacher was getting a little fed up with this boy. He knew he was drunk enough and mad enough to shoot him and maybe hit other people. He also knew he might be able to get the gun, but others might get hurt. Now, Bud was no limp wristed preacher. He had worked in some of the worst logging camps along the Tellico River, and had seen his share of scrapes. I suppose, with one blow he could have laid out this boy, but he realized there were others in danger.
"Ok boy, if ye gonna keelme, lemme pray. Then wegan go outside, and yeggan keel me." "No! Imonna keel ye ratchere!" "Ok lemme pray." Without waiting for an answer he knelt to pray. "Almighty and all wise God, our Heavenly Father ..." he started his prayer. "Lord forgive me fer any sin lodged aginst ma soul and please forgive this young man fer the sin he's `bout tado." "Thasanough! Gitup preacher!" The preacher stood as the boy raised the gun, and recognized it was an old single action Colt. He could see the bullets in the cylinder, and realized it was fully loaded. He saw the thumb on the hammer and heard the three clicks as it came to full cock. The people only heard a whisper as Bud prayed, "Father, it's in yore hans." He saw the finger squeeze the trigger and heard the hammer fall, but there was no report from the gun. The trigger released the hammer, the hammer fell, the firing pin hit the primer, but the primer didn't explode, the powder didn't burn and the bullet stayed in the chamber. The young shooter stared at the gun in his hand. It was a Colt revolver! It had never failed to fire! Colt was the most reliable gun made! The ammunition was fresh! It was good ammunition! He raised the gun again, pointed it directly at the preacher and, once again, he cocked the gun, once again he pulled the trigger, once again the trigger released the hammer, the hammer struck the primer, but once again the primer didn't explode, the powder didn't burn and the bullet stayed in the chamber.
The preacher realized he had just seen the intervention of Almighty God. He whispered, "Thank ye Jesus!" as he thought about his wife and children across the mountain. He thought about how much he loved them and how he missed them right now.
The would-be killer stared in dismay. The dismay turned into fear, the fear into conviction and conviction into tears which streamed down his cheeks. His body started to tremble, his knees grew limp and he sank to the floor. Bud knelt beside him, wrapped his arms around him and held him. The Colt was on the floor and one of the men picked it up. Tears flowed freely. "My mama raised me right, preacher. She tole me to stay away from alkyhall, but Pa `ould give it ta us boys. We'd git drunk with Pa an stay gone fer days. When we'd come home, Mama `ud always pray fer us."
"Preacher, you messed up everthang." "How dido `at, son?" "You come las year `n preached at Shoal Creek. Pa got religion an `e went home and toreup our steel. Mama `uz happy, but Pa did'n go wius nomore. He madeus lisen while Mama `ud read tha Bible. I run away `en been runnin ever since. Thas why I wan ta keel ye preacher, but I can't keelye! Magun won't shoot! I don know wha happen. I'm sorry, preacher!" The preacher lifted him to his feet, "Son, God kept ye from keeling me here tanight. I'm God's servant, and he's got work fer me tado. Whos yore pa?" "Clayton Stiles. We gotta farm overon Shoal Creek." "Yea, I know `ye deddy, son. Heesa good man. Now son, these people comere tanight tahear me preach. You seddown rachere, en lisen. Let God take `at bitterness outta ye heart."
The boy got saved that night, left his gun with the preacher, and went home. The next day, Bud fired the Colt five times, and it never failed. From that time on, it was in his saddle bag, where he kept it to remind him of the power and grace of Almighty God.
You better believe they had revival! Our God is more than awesome! He is almighty, eternal, omnipotent, omnipresent, omniscient, compassionate and full of grace! He is indeed, an awesome God! We sometimes need to be reminded! Even those of us who preach His Word, tend to forget!
God bless you, and watch out for bikers!
Bill Hamilton, The Circuit Rider
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