I was sitting in my sophomore chemistry class, leaned up against the high-top tables meant for classroom experiments when an upperclassman walked in and said, “I’m looking for Jeb Beasley.” I slowly turned my head over my left shoulder towards the door in curiosity. No one came looking for me very often during school hours, so I wondered what this might be about. The messenger approached my corner of the table after I raised my hand and asked me a question, “Would you be able to lead the locker-side chat next week?”
To understand this question you’d have to understand that I attended the same Christian school from preschool through high school graduation, fifteen years in total. Everyday we would have a devotional, where students and teachers would gather to sing and listen to either a guest speaker or a faculty member lead us in a short lesson. Sometimes, to keep things interesting, we would break up into smaller groups, usually by grade, and meet in different areas across campus for our devotional time. Many times the high-schoolers would meet in their respective hallway besides their lockers, hence the locker-side chats, now back to the story.
I paused for a moment and then asked the messenger what I should talk about. He responded that it could be on any biblical topic that I felt comfortable with and that it should last about fifteen to twenty minutes. I’m not sure what compelled me to agree to this engagement, maybe it was the classroom full of other students watching this interaction, but I agreed to lead the devotion and went back to staring at my chemistry notes on the table in front of me.
Why had they asked me to speak? What in the world would I talk about? Am I even qualified to do this? These were all questions that I wrestled with through the remainder of the day and into the weekend.
To this point in my life I had little to no public speaking experience. I had taken one ninth grade level leadership class where we learned how to tie a tie, and give small speeches in front of our class, but I had never spoken in front of more than ten or twelve people at a time in this type of capacity. I wondered about what I might say. I had been to hundreds of similar devotionals by then, but suddenly I couldn’t remember any of them.
I had been to church and sat through years of bible classes, but I didn’t feel like that equipped me with enough experience to lead a devotional or preach in any sense of the word. I was a pretty quiet kid through most of school. I didn’t cause a lot of trouble and generally got along well with my fellow students. Perhaps those were the only qualifications for leading a talk like this. Either way it seemed that those around me saw some capability in me that I must have overlooked.
After a few days of wondering what I might say, I finally reasoned to speak on the topic of prayer. I was young, but an even younger Christian and the majority of my experience with faith and Christ came through prayer in those days. My church attendance was spotty at best, I was learning how to read scripture, but prayer always felt accessible for me, for this reason I felt most equipped to at least share my experience with what it meant to pray.
I went home later that day and grabbed a few note cards. Between homework sessions, I sat on my bed and realized it was much more difficult to explain prayer than it was to pray. I had my topic, but still very few words to pair with it. I jotted down some verses I found on the topic of prayer, namely 1 Thessalonians 5:17, pray without ceasing, a line I took too literally at times in my youth. I wrote out a few lines of what I thought it meant to pray and how God desired for us to be in open communication with him. An hour or more of pondering and writing yielded three or four note cards of material, this would have to do because my sermon was the next morning.
Devotional was always scheduled between first and second period, so I sat through my first class, growing anxious as the time to preach by the lockers approached. I shuffled and fidgeted with my note cards, which seemed to have much less material written out than I originally remembered. The tone of the bell rang and every member of the sophomore class filtered out into the hallways and sat against the wall of lockers to hear what I might have to say.
After a teacher initiated our meeting I stood with wobbly knees and started my talk. I read the verses I had on my note cards, shared some brief commentary, and tried my best to explain that God does not desire lengthy or elaborate prayers, He simply wants to talk with you. I folded my final note card and keeping with the theme of genuine brevity I looked around and said, “That’s all I got.” The clock had advanced maybe three or four minutes. We had thirty more minutes before our next class. I felt somewhat ashamed that I could not come up with more than a few minutes of material and that even what I did manage to say had come out through a cracking and unsure voice. Thankfully some teachers and other students decided to sing some worship songs to fill the remainder of our time. The echo of “Our God is an Awesome God” bouncing off those blue metal lockers never sounded so good. It meant I could now sit down and assume my normal disposition of not standing out.
I’m grateful for that little sermon by the lockers. It helped a shy high-schooler come out of his shell. It forced me to think through my faith in a different way. I still think about my first sermon and what that experience led to. Then and now, it seems that my “Dear Lords” are easier than my “Amens.” Despite years of growth, perhaps some trends stay the same.
Later on, going into my senior year of high school, I was asked to be an officer for our school’s chapter of Fellowship of Christian Athletes (FCA). Being an FCA officer, especially at a Christian school, was a big deal at the time. It meant the teachers and students recognized some leadership capabilities within you. I didn’t ask to be an officer, but was approached during lunch by one of my long-time teachers. I agreed to become an officer, in somewhat similar fashion to being asked to lead the locker-side chat, hesitant yet hopeful.
Through that last year of high school I helped lead and organize more devotionals, I got to speak at FCA events and started to become more comfortable in that type of setting. I remember on one occasion we hosted a volleyball tournament, paired with some spiritual formation practices of course, and each FCA officer was asked to share one Bible verse with all the students in attendance that served as an encouragement for the new school year. Each of my fellow officers took turns, going down the line, sharing their verse and why they chose it. Near the end of the line I was still trying to think of my verse and 1 Peter 5:7 came to mind, so I read, “cast your cares on him, because he cares for you.” I offered one or two more sentences encouraging my fellow students, many who were younger classmen, to not fret and worry over the burdens of high school, rather place those cares on the Lord. I might have also made some joke about a geometry test that was approaching for many in the crowd. After I concluded, the young people in attendance stood, cheered, and clapped at what I had said. It felt strange to have a group of people respond in that way to words in my voice. It was not a reaction I expected or desired, to be honest. Later on, our FCA advisor told me that he’d never seen students respond that way to anything another student said. I don’t share that detail to exalt myself or my abilities as a persuasive speaker, for I am far from it. Rather, I share it because it stands out in my memory as a powerful reminder of what can happen when you let the word of God speak, when you leave room for his spirit to move within you. Hearts respond when they are presented with gospel hope, even if that hope is packaged and delivered through the voice of a 17 year old who is worried about a geometry test.
Speaking opportunities came again through my college years, but not in ways I expected or wished for. I was asked to speak at the funeral of my great-aunt who, while growing up, lived just down the road from us. She was essentially another grandmother to me and my siblings. I was twenty years old when she passed and had never even thought of what I might say at a funeral. My family asked if I would read some scripture and offer some words of hope in the gloom of that day. Again, I knew not what to say, but I searched the Word for something that might shine light in dark and saddened hearts. I read from Philippians 1:21, where the Apostle Paul says, “for me to live is Christ and to die is gain.”
That might not seem to be the most cheerful of verses on the surface, but I tried to draw out the hope of what this verse implied for believers, a difficult task in and of itself, but made more difficult when those who mean most to you are sitting down in front filled with tears. They didn’t need to hear my voice on that day, they needed to hear from Christ.
When my grandmother passed a few years later I found myself at the podium in a funeral hall once again. She had asked me to preach her funeral well before she died. She’d remind me from time to time, as if one could forget such a request, and say, “When I die, I want you to do my funeral.” When the time came, I read from Philippians 1:21 again and felt more confident in the hope it gave this time around. However, it was no easier to deliver that hope a second time. My eyes blurred and my nose ran and when those symptoms of grief paused, I could only see the tears of those I love, with the pews a little more open between them.
Since my locker side sermon I have spoken at a few school functions, led small group discussions, preached two funerals, and taught Sunday school classes. I have never thought of myself as a preacher. I am just a man who loves Christ and wants to make him known. All of us in Christ have been made a royal priesthood (1 Peter 2:9), capable of sharing his gospel message with the world. He placed his Spirit in his body, the church, to partake in the work of advancing his kingdom. I am no preacher, but I have been given a word, the Word as a matter of fact, so I must learn to wield it responsibly. I must learn to love his Word. It is food for my soul and water for my mind. I must learn to cherish always, if I ever desire others to do the same.
The thought of pursuing full time ministry as a vocation simmers in my heart like a burning coal. Sometimes I think that desire has smoldered down to dust, only for a fresh breeze from the Spirit to blow through and fan it back to flame. There is a desire in my heart to preach his word, but desire alone is not the confirmation of a calling. I believe there must be desire, for he who desires the office of overseer desires good work (1 Timothy 3:1), but then again not many should become teachers (James 3:1). After desire, I believe there must be affirmation of that calling from others, mainly current leaders within the church. Finally, I believe that a door of opportunity must be opened to confirm the calling. I am somewhere between desire and affirmation on my road towards calling. We shall see what the Lord has planned for my vocational plans, but for the meantime I am called to be faithful where my feet are.
Through working out my desire to know, love, and distribute God’s word I have learned that I can preach almost anywhere, given the right delivery method. I can preach at work, in the woods, or on the pickleball court. I can preach in locker lined hallways, gymnasiums, park pavilions, cramped living rooms, or even funeral halls. I have found that the cab of my truck can be an excellent place for ministry and preaching to take place. There I have, quite literally, a captive audience.
Lord, whatever your plans might be for my preaching and teaching, let it all be in accordance to your will. I don’t aspire to the position of pastor or preacher more than I aspire to know you. Whether in a church or in a tree stand may your word rule in my heart and let it flow through me on its way to minister to others. Stir our hunger for holy things, intensify our affections for you, teach us to be faithful wherever we are placed, and may your truth reign in our hearts and minds.
I long for Christ, not just a place at your table. I trust you with what has and what will come.
Amen.
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