For Wilshire Baptist Church
It was at the end of a midday Holy Week service. The benediction had just been spoken, and Preston Bright leaned over from the pew in front of me and said, “Easter always comes just in time.” He said it, he smiled, and then he left me to chew on it. I’ve been chewing on it for 14 years now.
I don’t know if the comment was a familiar line Preston had offered to countless others over his long, rich life of pastoral ministry, but when he said it to me, I believed it was meant for my specific life situation. I had been going through one of the worst seasons of my life, but things were looking up in a miraculous way. I think Preston had observed that transition and was providing his interpretation of what I was experiencing: the promise of Easter.
I know Preston wasn’t being shallow or secular, like a Hallmark Easter movie that rolls out the themes of family, tradition, springtime, new beginnings and “Easter miracles” but never says a thing about Jesus. When Preston said “Easter,” he meant the actual resurrection of Christ and all that entails for you and me. I think he was reminding me that the Christ who redeemed our souls for eternity also redeems our lives for the living here and now.
Still, I had some misgivings because I felt some guilt about feeling alive again, but Preston’s comment gave me the nudge I needed to accept the gift of Easter. In that regard, those six words Preston shared with me may have been the greatest sermon I have ever heard. Like I said, I’m still chewing on it, still exploring it.
Preston passed away last week at age 85. I didn’t know him as some did in a deeply personal and familiar way, but every time I had an encounter with him as our associate pastor and later in his retirement, he always made the moment deeply personal and familiar. That was his gift; he had an Easter heart — one that always sought, found and pointed out signs of hope and redemption in others.
The last time LeAnn and I saw Preston was in April on the Maundy Thursday before Easter. We took communion to him and Mary Lynne as we did numerous times over the past decade. He was feeling well and we had a lively visit, but he also seemed restless. He said, “I miss the body; I just miss the body so much.” He wasn’t talking about the body of Christ shared in the observance of communion. He was talking about fellowship with the people of Wilshire. He watched our worship services each week on live stream, of course, but he missed being with us in person, in the flesh. Wilshire was his home.
Some years earlier on a Sunday afternoon when I was waiting for LeAnn to come out of a meeting, I walked into the darkness of the church parlor in search of some quiet. I heard rustling and looked over and saw Preston stretched out on one of the sofas. He yawned, smiled at me and said he was getting a little rest himself before needing to get up and be busy with church again. It was refreshing to know this man of such energy and enthusiasm was mortal after all. Except now he’s not mortal. He’s immortal, fully at home with the saints and experiencing the promise of Easter he so readily shared with others.