It was in a big white Southern Baptist Church ... because Baptists love buildings more than most anything else.
Months earlier I'd talked about Chester at the National Women's Missionary Union Annual meeting and the Mississippi Chapter didn't believe he actually existed so they invited me to prove it.
It was the first time Chester flew on a plane, stayed in a posh hotel (well by Mississippi standards) or gave a speech.
A thousand finely dressed women occupied the pews, sang Hymns, gave awards to one another, made lots of announcements and a gavel was passed as two women hugged and cried to the point of uncomfortableness.
I was introduced and talked about the tiny, rag-tag, inner city congregation in Kentucky and how we are changing the world.
They didn't care.
They wanted to hear Chester.
In his mid-60s, wearing a plaid coat from the Clothes Closet, with most of his teeth, salt-and-pepper hair, the thin little man stood behind the massive Pulpit ... cocked his head towards me and ... winked.
Then he grabs the microphone, storms across the stage, tells his story, cries in ways that puts Jimmy Swaggart to shame and ... gets a massive standing ovation.
Afterwards he got several wedding proposals and opportunities for discreet rendezvous in hotels just out of town.
Alone at the airport I look at Chester, who'd lived for several years in a Landfill, and ask, "Where'd you learn to speak like that?"
Flashing the crooked grin he laughs, "Aw Rev ... Preaching ... Panhandling ... it's all the same."
Erupting in laughter we hug, board the plan and fly home.
I tell you that story to tell you this one.
There's an honesty at Bar Church, I don't see much anymore.
I'm not asking for anything ... not panhandling ... or preaching ... but I was part of a special church before so I recognize special when I see it.
This is special.
