Three who taught me ministry: Rev. John Mahler

As I prepare to retire from 42 years of pastoral ministry, I reflect on three pastors who were part of my early formation. This is the third and final installment.

“After your piano lesson is over,” my mom said, “walk over to the pastor’s house. He offered to give you a ride home.” Trudging three blocks down Temple Street, I realized I didn’t know Rev. Mahler very well. He was new to our community. And when he revved up his motorcycle, I knew I was in for a good ride.

Our two families grew close very quickly. We shared many meals and spent a lot of time together at the Mahler’s lakeside cabin in Susquehanna County. John Mahler had a son named Jonathan who was my age. He also had a very pretty daughter who was a year younger, although I would never have dared to show any interest. Jonathan and I became inseparable friends. We enjoyed all kinds of teenage hijinks and never seemed to get in trouble for them. Was that my first conscious experience of grace?

Having a friend who was a pastor’s kid gave me first-hand insight into a minister’s life. It was also a good reason to go to the church youth group on Sunday afternoons. We sat with our pastor to learn the Bible and negotiate the challenges of adolescence. My faith grew as my knowledge increased. Jonathan added a touch of holy irreverence. When the group celebrated a Passover seder, he gave me a yarmulke. When a Christian movie night was scheduled for the group, the two of us skipped out and went down the street to see the latest James Bond flick at the Tioga Theatre

As for Rev. Mahler, he was a preacher’s preacher. Tall, exuberant, arms flapping like a Gospel Bird, he was good on his feet. He took the Gospel seriously and was the quintessential storyteller. He read serious books, yet he could break down the insights in ways that teenagers and their parents could comprehend. Our congregation flourished because of his preaching. He transmitted spiritual energy, and there was nothing artificial about him.

When I mustered up the courage to announce that God was tugging me toward pastoral ministry, he exclaimed, “Praise the Lord!” And he meant it. When he asked me to preach one summer Sunday and the sermon went off the rails, he wrote a most gracious letter that I did not deserve. And when his son Jonathan died tragically in his mid-twenties in a plane crash, we were companions in deep grief. Even then, my pastor stood tall and proclaimed Resurrection. Because he believed it, I started believing it too.

How does belief happen? Through words - Gospel words - that lodge in our hearts and minds. Belief also happens through people who have seen and heard the truth of Christ and live out their convictions with courage and vulnerability. True witnesses don’t merely talk themselves into believing impossible things. Rather, they discern the goodness and mercy of God that pursue each one of us. They stand up and tell you what they have seen and heard.

Rev. John Mahler’s strong voice was silenced by death a few years ago, yet the echo of it still resounds in my ears. I am a preacher because of the preachers I have heard. I follow Christ because of the followers I have seen. This is how the Gospel keeps on.

 And I am grateful for the faithful witnesses who have shaped my soul.