Funerals are part and parcel of this business. Being a pastor is to be acquainted with death and dying, to become comfortable in those awkward situations when there is nothing left to say as a saint of God breaths his last breath this side of the resurrection. Yet, I find it increasingly difficult to come to terms with the death of those wild and influential mentors whose actions and words seemed to come from a different age. Those men who shaped me and inspired me along the way. And so it is with the death of my pastor, the Rev. Dr. Benedict Benjamin Yaspelkis Jr. (2/22/1938-9/30/2024)

To be honest, I’m not sure what to say. I feel that I need to say something; he deserves to be remembered and honored. But perhaps it is just my fear of being forgotten. An insecurity I’m projecting on him. I suppose this is how it goes in the ministry, and I shouldn’t expect anything else. Yet, of all the idiotic things we regard with solemn reverence, shouldn’t a faithful preacher of the Word be one of them?

And a preacher he was. His entire career was spent in one pulpit, the same one I now preach from. And his voice still echoes in my ears every Sunday as I speak the Benediction as he once did. Pastor Yaspelkis was a force to be reckoned with—a prominent, imposing figure with a booming voice that could bring both terror and comfort. My pastor was not easy to ignore. I remember an old friend of mine during our youth group days once remarking that while he didn’t know what God looked like, he was pretty sure it looked something like our pastor. And why not? Through his mouth, the Word went forth, sins were forgiven, and the promises of Christ were made clear. He was all in for this vocation and carried it out as best he could come what may, no matter the cost. And for that, I thank him; for that, I love him.

Pastor Yaspelkis was not a man of half measures or easy compromise, which certainly rubbed many the wrong way over the years. Just as I long for his voice these days, there are undoubtedly those who are glad that it is no longer prominent. Such men could not be tamed and didn’t always play well with others.

I remember going to watch my dad play softball on the church team quite often as a kid. He was a third baseman back in those days, but Yaspelkis was the pitcher, and rightly so. His trash talk was epic, as he poked fun at the lesser denominations whose teams would regularly get schooled by our unruly bunch. The men would gather in the parking lot afterward, where he would open his trunk, revealing a cooler of beer. The beers were handed out after a prayer of thanks, and the laughter and storytelling would begin in earnest. These men loved to be around him, and I’m thankful that, for a time, I was welcomed into their midst.

Pastor Yaspelkis taught me the faith and confirmed me into it more years ago than I care to admit. He is also the one who ordained me into the Office of the Ministry, and eight years later, his study became my study. I wrote to him at that time, asking him to preach at my installation; it was then that I learned that things had not gone well. He declined my invitation and said it would be better for me if he weren’t there.

I tried to piece together what had happened, and over time, I think I’ve got a pretty good idea. The reality is that when the church hurts people and wounds those it is supposed to love, those wounds are deep and lasting, even for a pastor. Or perhaps especially for a pastor. He never again set foot in the church he gave his life in service of. There’s plenty of blame to go around, but in the end, it couldn’t be fixed—just sin, pain, and sadness. And yet God’s work continued to be done.

I wrestle with this. I know that the church is not built upon any one character, that it is the Word alone that kills and brings forth life, and that we are all simply tools in the hands of our God. But some of those tools ought not be forgotten. Above all things, he inspired me to be a preacher. If I was going to preach, I wanted to do it like he did, without a safety net, full-throated and raw, unwavering in the face of opposition. I fail, of course; I’m plagued with doubts and fears as my life and words often collide with one another. And perhaps I, too, may find myself outside of the very congregation I love. But as long as I am able, I will continue to do as my pastor did; I will preach the Word, in season and out of season. Until the dawning of that more glorious day.