Dad's Finest Hour

[The following story, which I wrote more than two decades ago, is reprinted here from my book “A Different Church for a Different World.” Some readers may also have heard me tell the story to illustrate some point in a sermon. It’s reprinted here as a Fathers Day tribute.]

I grew up in America's Midwest-–the "Buckle of the Bible Belt." All churchgoers were conservative. Adventist were more conservative than most. And my father thought that mainstream Adventism was a veritable hotbed of liberalism and decadence.

A number of negatively charged adjectives accurately describe him: dogmatic, opinionated, unbending, perfectionistic, judgmental-–and the list could go on. To put it bluntly, he knew where he stood: There was right; there was wrong; and there was nothing in between.

But to paint a true picture, I must add a number of positively charged adjectives as well-–caring, loving, committed, honest, just, dependable, industrious, selfless, generous-–and this list, too, could go on. In fact, if good works earned frequent flyer points, Dad would have earned free tickets to heaven for his entire family—first class!

There's something about raising six children-–four biological and two adopted-–that has a way of forcing some re-evaluation of life perspectives. Not every kid bought every argument Dad put forward. Not every kid followed the path Dad had so decisively outlined. And some of the in-laws who joined our family were downright heretics-–but such wonderful additions to the family! 

So what's a man to do? Forever look down on his own kin? Assume that his own offspring are hell-bound just because they don't cross every "t" and not every "i" as he does?

It was a bittersweet experience to watch Dad wrestling with a world that he could no longer control, and that he had to admit, was far more complex than he had initially realized. Almost imperceptibly, and then with accelerating momentum, the dogmatism softened, the flexibility increased, the human factor moved higher and higher up the scale of importance.

Dad learned a little poem about a man who once thought that black was black and white was white-–but who had eventually been forced to admit that there were shades of gray in between. In fact, when family discussions centered around some conundrum, instead of immediately stating his opinion, as he once would have done, Dad often just recited his poem. It definitely made family discussions more enjoyable.

For some time, my parents had been visiting an old man in our community. We’ll call him Sam. Sam was a hopeless alcoholic, dying an alcohol-induced death. Knowing Sam had only days, or maybe hours, to live, my father stopped by to see him on Sabbath morning on his way to church. 

When he arrived, Sam was in terrible shape. He had run out of whiskey and was beginning to sober up. For someone as alcohol-dependent as Sam, sober was a horrible state to be in. Sam pleaded with Dad to go and buy him something to quell the delirium tremens. 

Now Dad really, really believed in temperance. Alcohol and tobacco were evils of such indescribable magnitude that if a magazine or newspaper accepted alcohol or tobacco ads, our family didn't subscribe to it. And when his favorite shaving-cream company was bought out by a tobacco conglomerate, he quit using that shaving cream.

But giving Sam whiskey was only part of the problem. It was Sabbath. And on Sabbath, you don't buy our sell. I can remember sitting in a broken-down car by the side of the road for hours as we waited for the sun to sink in the west before we would seek a mechanic to do the needed repairs. The Sabbath was holy. 

Dad had yet another concern: public image. The appearance of evil was almost as bad as evil itself. How could he walk into a liquor store on Sabbath morning and emerge with a bottle of whiskey without giving the appearance of evil?

In Dad's early days, there would have been no question. But a lot of change had been going on. Rules were taking a backseat; people were what now counted. 

Dad looked at Sam. The man obviously didn't have long to live–he’d killed himself with alcohol. Yet he was in great pain. And, ironically, alcohol was the only substance readily available to relieve the pain.

I know—as only one of Dad's children can—it was a horrendous struggle. But he won the battle. Dad swallowed his pride. He pushed back his legalism. He marched boldly into that liquor store—when he should have been in church-–and he bought a bottle of whiskey to ensure that old Sam's last few hours were spent sedated instead of in the throes of DTs.

It was Dad's finest hour.