The Crock Pot

A Short Story By:    Barbara McCain February, 2003

             A recent article in the newspaper said that an old appliance is coming back into use.  It seems a whole new generation of cooks are rediscovering the crock pot, or slow cooker.  In our family, it was used years ago for many a meal of spaghetti sauce, stew, pot roast, stewed chicken or chili.  Just as in many homes, the crock pot brings to memory a winter night’s hot dinner ready when we came home from work and school.

            But in our family, the phrase “crock pot” served another purpose as well.  That purpose was a spiritual one, a reminder of an important principle of Christian living.  We had a little private family catch phrase, “Have you looked in the crock pot?”  Interesting, you might say.  Yes, just as interesting as the true story that caused that little sentence to remind each of us not to judge others, to have the spirit of love and forgiveness and to marvel in God’s grace. 

            The story began long ago on a seventeen mile stretch of road and in an old country church.  The road ran next to a large river.  It wound through a deep canyon and then opened into amazing vistas of countryside, with fertile farmland that climbed to lush green hills.  Right in the middle of the stretch of road was a very old school house.  Forty years before we came, a preacher had felt a burden to share the gospel with the river families and soon the school house had been converted into a church.  Over the years, the wooden pews had been filled with smiling people, sharing together in the joy of their own church family.  There had been weddings and funerals and all the other times of a church life.  There were testimonies of salvations and memories of baptisms in the river across the road.  But suddenly one day that all changed.

The old white building suddenly must have looked very lonely.  For the pews were no longer filled and the sounds of laughter had departed.  For the church on the side of the river road was right in the middle of a problem.  That is when our family came into the story and learned our little phrase. 

            As missionaries in America, our job was not only to plant churches, but also be available for what was technically called “reconstruction.”  That was a grand term for the needed work of rescuing a church.  Our second ministry had been the “rescue” of another country church.  It had been a wonderful time for us, as we had seen the church once again filled to overflowing with a strengthened congregation.  So when the call came for help in the river road church, we were very excited.

            The office of the mission had suggested we visit one of the church deacons who was in the hospital.  They felt certain that Joe had not had a pastoral visit, because his heart attack had happened near the time the church trouble started.  We drove to the big city hospital and met Joe and his wife, Carol.  They were wonderful loving people.  Joe had just undergone open heart surgery and was very appreciative of our visit. 

            “Pastor,” he said to my husband, “Don’t let the old church die.  Our family has gone there for three generations.  In fact, my parents were the first ones saved.  Promise me you will try.”

My husband grasped his hand and promised.

            We soon learned the sad story of the trouble that had caused almost all to leave the church.  A young seminary student from the nearby big city Bible college had been sent to the little church on a preaching assignment for a year.  For many years this plan had helped supply a preacher for the church and a ministry experience for the students.  Everything seemed to be going great until one week the treasurer had discovered $400 missing from the church account.  The $400 had been collected in the offering on a Sunday morning, counted and recorded by two deacons after the offering time, then placed in a bank deposit bag and taken to the church office.  The $400 had never reached the bank.  Everyone in the close knit church knew that not one of them would have taken the money.  So all eyes had turned to the young student preacher.  He firmly denied all wrong doing, but a report was made to the college staff and he was removed from the pulpit until the affair could be investigated.  Sure enough, the money was missing.  There was no explanation, but the suspicions of the people made the return of the student impossible.

            We were told of the problem before we went.  We made a decision to have the confidence that there was an error, that the student was innocent and that God would vindicate him.  But we also knew we were called to minister to a group of injured, hurting and doubting people. 

            The first Sunday, we drove there early.  As we followed the road, we instantly fell in love with the beautiful country side and the vistas of the large river that was like something out of a tale of long ago.  When we came to the little community, we saw the old fashioned building and let ourselves in with the key we had been given.  We sat on the old wooden pews, prayed for the congregation and for the pews to be filled once again.  We also prayed for spiritual ears to hear the problems without making judgments.

            That first morning there was only our family and four adults, including Joe’s wife and mother.  It was a start. 

            Slowly we started to hear of each “count” that had been leveled by the members.  The first was of the missing money, but it was just the beginning.  After the offering problem, the church members started to notice other things.  The roof that a Bible college employee had fixed the year before had sprung a leak.  The employee had not returned to fix it.  There were soiled ceiling tiles in the auditorium from the leak that everyone saw each time they came in for services. Resentment started to build.  Since the church was technically a part of a chapel ministry of the college, everything that needed to be done was seen as related.  One by one, people started to stay away.  Every time they drove by the building, they noticed chipping paint, a broken window, and it all kept building up inside each one.  Bitterness became like a growing illness affecting everything it touched.

            We took home all the church records that first day.  They had been stuffed into shoe boxes.  My whole week was spent with the material from the boxes spread out on the floor in our home office.  With a new accounting system the mission had given us, I started to enter records and file the items into sturdy file boxes.  I was surprised to find an old savings account book that everyone had forgotten.  With interest, it now had just over $400 in it.  A significant amount, but I knew it still did not solve the missing offering problem.  When I finished the book keeping, it was clear, the money was missing. 

            One night that week, my husband and I made a list of everything we had seen or heard that was a complaint.  On Friday afternoon, we went to the building with our teenage children.  We measured and counted, then drove back into town to the hardware store. 

            Early Saturday morning, we were back at the church.  The boys and their Dad climbed up and put new flashing on the roof.  Our daughter and I started to clean the inside of the building.  Then the boys and Dad came inside and started to replace the soiled ceiling tiles.  We knew that every time someone had looked up during a service, they had been a reminder.  When the last tile went into place, we sat down on the pews and looked up.  

            “It needs some painting to cover the stains on the walls,” said my husband. 

            “Yes, and there is a broken window in the nursery.” said my daughter.

            “Let’s get to the window first.  We’ll get some paint next week.”

            Just then the door opened and a man walked in. 

            “Hi there, you must be the missionary preacher.  I’m Joe’s brother.  See you are doing some work.”  His eyes traveled upward to the ceiling, but he never said a word.  “Going to fix the window are you?  Need some help?”

            “That would be great.”

            Soon the men were working together as Shannon and I removed the old curtains.  She knew we would go home and sew some bright new ones that evening.  The window was soon in, but the man lingered. 

            “Plan on staying for a while today?”  he said. “ I could introduce you to a couple of the families.”  Looking at our work clothes and then his, we knew we were dressed just right for visiting.  By the time noon arrived and the mist had cleared from the river, we were happily driving home.  It had been a good morning.

            That Sunday, twenty people were sitting in the pews when service started.  Every eye traveled up to the clean ceiling tiles and there were lots of quiet smiles.

            The next Saturday morning, we arrived early and painted the stained area.  We once again went visiting homes, just introducing ourselves and inviting people to come to service the next day.  The church had thirty-five people in it for service Sunday morning.  Several people said something complimentary about the new paint.  We did not say a word about the work we had done.  When my husband finished the service one of the men asked if he would be there again next Saturday morning. 

            “I’m planning to be here about nine in the morning,” he said quietly.

            At nine that next Saturday, one by one people started to come by. 

            “Got enough of that paint, preacher?” one asked.  “The nursery could use a fresh coat.”

            “I brought some tools to fix the lock on the front door, it always sticks in the bad weather,” said another. 

            “Thought you might like a cake to take home with you,” said one of the ladies.

            “You know, preacher, we need to go out and clean up the picnic area we built last year,” said her husband.  “We never really finished it.  My wife thought if we did, we could have a welcoming dinner out there tomorrow.”

            “I know where the materials are to finish the work,” said another man.  “They’re stored in the back shed.”

            At the service and dinner the next day, there were forty-five people.  The singing was wonderful, the food was great, and the fellowship was warm.  The church was on its way to recovery.  Sunday after Sunday, more people came.  Families were reunited in fellowship and joy was returning.  But there was still the unsolved mystery of the $400 offering and the seminary student whose name needed to be cleared.  We never said a word, but we prayed.

            Joe had returned to services after recuperating at home.  Often, we would walk the four houses down from the church building to his house to visit.  Soon he was ready to take on some of his old deacon responsibilities.  We knew that he was a very conscientious man.

            “What did you usually do?” asked my husband one day.

            “Well, one thing I always did was help count the offering.  Then I would take it home and deposit it on Monday morning.  Did it each week until the attack that last week in October.”

            Suddenly something clicked in my memory.  That was the date of the missing offering.  After Joe left, I shared with my husband my idea and we made a plan.  Soon our family was in Joe and Carol’s living room.   

            “Tell me about your heart attack, Joe,” said my husband.  “When did it happen?”

            “Well, it was on a Sunday morning, right during service.”  My husband and my eyes met.  We were both praying as we listened.  “I started feeling funny right after we counted the offering and by the time the sermon started, I knew I was getting sick and told my wife I was going to walk home.”

            Carol joined in.  “Yes, Joe left and I stayed at church, but I started to feel very concerned for him, and followed.  When I got here, he was on the floor in the kitchen.  Praise the Lord, I got here in time and some of the people from the church had followed me.  Joe doesn’t remember much of what happened after that.”

            “I really didn’t know I was going to have a heart attack,” said Joe, “But I knew something was wrong.  I didn’t want to frighten Carol or disturb service.  I even carried my Bible and the offering bag home.  I remember they started to get really heavy by the time I got in the door.”

            It was my turn now.  “What did you do with the offering, Joe?” I asked.

            Suddenly, his face registered total surprise.  “Oh, no,” he said.  “I had forgotten!  When I started to feel the pain in my chest, I knew it was serious and all I could think about was that I had the offering and I did not want it lost or taken.  So I put it the one place I thought it would be safe and yet Carol would find it.”

            “Where was that Joe?” asked my husband.

            “In the crock pot she keeps on the top shelf.” 

            By now Carol was hurrying to the kitchen with one of our boys to help her.  In a few minutes, our son placed the crock pot on the coffee table and my husband opened the lid.  Inside was the money bag filled with the missing offering.

            “Oh, Joe.  I was so busy taking care of you, I just never used the crock pot since the heart attack that day.”

            “I thought it was the safest place, but I guess I didn’t remember it until just now.”

            “It’s okay, Joe, God knew where it was all along,” said my husband.

            By that evening’s service, all the little community knew the story without us having to say a word.  On Monday morning, a grateful seminary student received a personal visit from two of the deacons in the President’s office. 

            The church had a major revival.  Tears and joy were joined together.  In a few weeks the congregation doubled.  Then there were salvations and even a baptism in the river.  Soon they were ready to call their own pastor, one of the staff from the Bible college who had long had a burden for the ministry there.  As far as I know, he is still there today.

            But also there was a new saying and a revealed truth for our family.  Whenever someone would bring up a question of doubt or an accusation, one of us would say, “Have you looked in the crock pot lately?”

            Do you have a church problem or other areas of trouble in your life?  Maybe you need to replace some flashing on your leaky relationships, or remove the tiles that are stained with the evidence of bitterness.  A fresh coat of God’s forgiveness is better than white paint, it not only covers a stain, it cleanses it.  But after all the obvious is done, just remember to lift the lid of remembrance and look in the crock pot, you might be surprised by God’s grace!.

The End

Side note: This is a true personal life story that happened in the missionary career of Dennis and Barbara McCain while serving with Baptist Mid-Missions on loan for a year to a smaller Baptist mission.