DeMarcus

His enormous, black hands began to tremble as he took out a pencil to write down my email address on a sheet of paper. We were in my office, sitting down across from each other with only my desk between us. DeMarcus had come down from our Hebrew class to follow up on a few questions he had asked in class. He’s a large man, about mid-thirties, who's led a difficult life. DeMarcus was involved in various criminal activities as a teenager before coming to faith in Christ.

He didn’t have the patience to excel in his college classes and ditched them for a career in construction. When the hurricanes came to the coast, he traveled throughout Mississippi, Louisiana, and Alabama working hard. But he felt God calling him into the ministry and was now a pastor in a local African-American Baptist church.

DeMarcus is one of the top students in my class, but in my weaker moments he pushes my patience. Every teaching point I raise brings a question to his lips. He asks some questions that are at least tangentially relate to the topic at hand “Did the High Priest have a rope attached to him on Yom Kippur?” “”What does amen really mean?” “What’s the difference between seraphim and cherubim?” Other questions matter much less in our Hebrew class “Why do preachers raise their hand when they baptize someone?” “How often does the Bible say we should partake of the Lord’s Supper?” “Did Isaiah and Micah know each other?” I’ll patiently (and at times impatiently) explain that this class isn’t a at a seminary and we need to stick to the subject at hand (although when the subject involves Hebrew participles and construct nouns, I too am tempted to wander).

When he came into my office I took the opportunity to hear his story and find out a little about him. He explained to me why this class is important to him.

“You see Doc,” he began uncomfortably, “in the Baptist churches of my tradition there aren’t many of our pastors who have any education beyond High School. That’s one reason why I came back to finish up my degree. I study hard because I have to face the congregation. And every Sunday morning, when I’m standing in that pulpit, I have to get it right!”

His voice found new intensity at this last phrase. I told him I understood, and then he left the room.

I often wrestle with the fact that I’m not teaching at a Christian institution. I grow weary at times of keeping my light under a bushel. I suspect that often, I too pepper Him with many frivolous questions about my “secular” job and why I’m not working somewhere else.

But once in awhile Christ allows me to see a glimpse of Himself working through me. And that’s gratifying.