Preaching and Panhandling

Chester Fawbush and I are in a First Baptist Church somewhere in Mississippi preparing to speak.

The Baptists flew us down after hearing me talk about him at the National Women's Missionary Union Conference in Nashville.

They wanted to see if he really exists or if I'm a liar.

Chester is a street alcoholic who used to live in a garbage dump where he could drink without being bothered.

He lives with me now in the Jefferson Street Baptist Chapel, makes endless coffee for whoever needs some and babysits my children.

"Hey Rev," he announces early one Sunday morning, "I quit drinking."

"That's great Chester," I reply.

"Yep," he continues, "six times already today."

The man is a master of one liners.

The Baptist lady introduces me and I tell stories about our homeless friends, our crazy little inner city Church and then I introduce Chester.

He's old, wears a suit he picked from the "Clothes Closet", is missing a few teeth, has salt-and-pepper hair and is the epitome of humility.

He proceeds to give a talk that has the whole damn Church in tears.

Finishing he sits beside me on the alter in a big preacher chair and winks.

The entire congregation sits in stunned silence ... wiping their eyes ... thanking Jesus ... until one stands and claps ... followed by every Baptists in the House ... and there's a thunderous standing ovation.

Leaning over I ask, "How did you do that?"

He leans over to me with a bowed head, "Rev ... Preaching ... Panhandling ... they're the same."

All these years later, Chester's still right.