Preachers in Prison

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God’s preachers are in prison yet,

        But unlike Paul of old;

The bars and chains God’s preachers get

        Today, are manifold.

Paul’s habitat was likely cold

        In Rome, his dungeon crude.

But brethren now, God’s preachers hold           

        In chains of attitude.

“Just preach the Bible,” is the wail,

        “Leave everyone alone!”

But if this theme becomes their jail,

        The seed will scarce be sown.

“Do not condemn,” the cry is heard,

        “We like commending better!”

But such confines the Spirit’s Word.

        And binds it with a fetter.

Their charge demands they preach the Truth,

        With plain and mighty power.

And yet this work behind their booth

        Becomes the critic’s hour.

“Be positive,” they say with force,

        “Don’t name specific sin.

You might in someone stir remorse;

        He might not come again!”

The preachers of our day are cursed

        By two extremes of thought:

“Do all the work,” or what is worse,

        “Who cares if you do nought?”

Thus held in bondage by their lords,

        Or by their nonchalance hobbled,

They rarely opt for any course

        But what by some they’re gobbled.

God’s preachers oft must realize

       (A widely known admittance),

That they will struggle money-wise,

        For many receive but a pittance.

Yet they’re expected to entertain

        And dress to the highest status,

While brethren make it plain

        That their income is but “free gratis.”

Sometimes they’re prisoners of the view,

      “Your work is just to visit.”

Such thinking, by many or few,

        Should be met by asking, “What is it?”

They’re work is to preach and proclaim God’s plan

        To those who know not salvation.

They could spend all their time with cup in hand,

        But ‘twould be to their own condemnation.

Though the bars are not iron and the walls not stone,

        Nonetheless are these cell blocks real.

Because they exist, preachers oft feel alone,

        And thus unto to God they will steal.

They pray for bigger and more mature men,

        Who can in His church fill their place,

So that their hands, unfettered again,

        May preach to a perishing race.

Dear brethren, God’s preachers deserve to be free

        From any bonds men may have set.

Release them, don’t jail them, and thus guilty be

        Of a sin with eternal regret.

If preachers were freed, yet free they’d not be;

        From experience, I know this is true.

But bound by obsession that knows no degree,

        They must preach till their work here is through.

[Note: I wrote these lines in 1963, at the age of 25, after reflecting on several of Paul’s statements in his final letter (2 Tim.) from the cell of his second Roman imprisonment. At the time, my family and I lived in Tuscaloosa, AL, where I was then preaching.]

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