The Devil in Pew Number Seven (15 page)

He came close.

Very close. Almost too close.

The threatening letters and menacing phone calls didn’t do it. Neither did two home invasions, the weekly harassment during worship services, the sniper shootings, the cut phone lines, nor the first two bombings. None of those acts of intimidation had driven him from serving the people he loved in Sellerstown. But during the sleepless night following the third explosion, a blast that could have claimed the life of his only son, Daddy was toying with the unthinkable.
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The mental tug-of-war between staying and leaving became stronger.

Mr. Watts was determined.

Mr. Watts was capable of anything.

And Mr. Watts seemed willing to kill his children.

The night of July 1, 1975, changed everything. With his baby sleeping in a crib surrounded by broken glass and splinters of wood like miniature harpoons targeting his helpless body, Daddy was cut to the core. Mr. Watts and his partners in crime had tried to intimidate Daddy by attacking our house back when Momma was pregnant. As she told the press, “They felt like they could get to my husband
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through me. They had no consideration for my condition.” Now this unhinged fiend was going straight for Daddy’s son and daughter—and that was beyond the pale.

Hours after the neighbors, the police, and the press cleared from our yard, Daddy still heard the blast in his head, resounding, pounding, driving home the point that Mr. Watts would never give up his campaign of terror. Daddy wanted to be strong. He was convinced that the Lord wasn’t telling him to pack our bags and abandon the church—at least not yet. In fact, while praying with Brother Billy Sellers after the sniper attack several days prior to this bombing, he felt the Holy Spirit was saying that those things that had been done in darkness would be brought to light.

That wasn’t wishful thinking on Daddy’s part. He and Brother Billy had studied the words of Matthew, a follower of Jesus, who wrote, “All nations will hate you because you are my followers. But everyone who endures to the end will be saved. . . . Don’t be afraid of those who threaten you. For the time is coming when everything that is covered will be revealed, and all that is secret will be made known to all” (10:22, 26,
NLT
).

Daddy had taken encouragement from that portion of Scripture and their extended time of prayer. He had been convinced Mr. Watts would be caught and placed in jail. But two days after that precious time of prayer, with three windows blown from their frames and a wife and daughter struggling to hold on, Daddy’s resolve felt like sand draining from an hourglass. Time was running out. Dare he hold on to the hope that Mr. Watts would be arrested
before
he struck again?

After all, Mr. Watts should have been caught by now.

How could Mr. Watts evade justice for so long?

Everyone in the community knew
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who was behind these actions. Granted, the evidence was circumstantial, and Mr. Watts was a well-connected former county commissioner who was, by definition, above reproach—at least in the minds of some people. That meant nothing less than comprehensive corroboration of his hand in these crimes was necessary. Daddy knew Detective Dudley was doing his best to gather rock-solid proof in order to get a full and proper conviction.

That took time.

Maybe more time than Daddy could endure.

Besides, the lawman was just one man with a full workload. What if Mr. Watts struck again, and this time one of us was injured . . . or worse? How could Daddy live with himself? As the pastor, he was truly prepared to die for his flock. He was related to President Andrew “Old Hickory” Jackson, which may explain why he wasn’t about to abandon his post. But the thought that his family might be harmed wasn’t a price Daddy wanted to pay.

Just when he reached his lowest point, help arrived in full force. The morning after the bombing, July 2, 1975, as if drinking from a fire hose, we were deluged with assistance from every branch of law enforcement in the country: a cadre of local, state, and federal agents poured into our yard.

When it rained, it poured.

At long last, Columbus County Police Detective Sergeant George Dudley received the help he both needed and had requested from the State Bureau of Investigation (SBI), the Federal Bureau of Investigation (FBI), and the Bureau of Alcohol, Tobacco, and Firearms (ATF). And the unannounced appearance of a mobile crime laboratory parked on our front lawn meant one thing: these boys were serious players. They had all the tools necessary to study the evidence at the crime scene. This, in turn, convinced Daddy that the case would be quickly resolved.

Joining the surge of law enforcement officers sweeping for evidence around our house was a U.S. postal inspector who came to investigate the assassination-like attack on our mailbox. His task included scrutinizing the unsigned letters that threatened harm and death. Daddy’s spirits soared. Maybe now the role of Mr. Watts in these events would be exposed and justice served.

From Daddy’s viewpoint, given this aggressive show of force by the authorities, he would be free to return to his first love—ministering to the people of Sellerstown. For the first time in years, he could set aside thoughts of retreating in the face of persecution to continue the work he felt God had called him to do.

Of all the law enforcement agents on the scene, Daddy was especially drawn to ATF Agent Charles Mercer. I can’t say for sure what it was about Agent Mercer that captured Daddy’s confidence. Physically speaking, Agent Mercer was no Arnold Schwarzenegger. Unlike the Terminator, Agent Mercer wasn’t an imposing man. He had no bulging muscles or steel blue eyes that instilled fear in the bad guys. In fact, Daddy was taller, broader, and more muscular than this ATF special detective.

With the exception of his sea green eyes,
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Agent Mercer was nondescript. He wore no glasses, no hat, and had no distinguishing features; he didn’t sport a handlebar mustache or Elvis-size sideburns. Husky, standing five feet nine, he wore a pressed shirt and pants with a gun strapped to his waist. But his eyes, as mysterious as the ocean, seemed to reflect his emotions and convey his thoughts as clearly as if he were having a conversation. Those who met him felt as if Agent Mercer could “talk” with his eyes even if he never uttered a word.

However he communicated it, this agent had a single focus—getting to the bottom of the case. I think what Daddy must have seen in his eyes was tenacity. Agent Mercer seemed to have a strength of purpose, some driving force that compelled him to get answers. As they spoke, it became clear that this man had the dogged determination of a hound dog who would refuse to give up the chase until justice rolled down upon the perpetrator.

Sharing an office with George Dudley
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at the Columbus County police headquarters, Agent Mercer quickly set up camp and got whatever he needed from the local police officers, who were eager to help. Daddy’s gut feeling about the man after their first meeting was later confirmed when Agent Mercer posted a $10,000 reward to the person who provided information that Mr. Watts was behind the bombings at the parsonage.

* * *

Like the welcoming rays of sunlight chasing away a stubborn fog, Daddy found himself basking in more good news the following Sunday. According to the church’s bylaws, the members were required to vote on the reappointment of their pastor on the first Sunday of July every two years. In a 60–2 decision, once again the church family overwhelmingly affirmed their desire to retain Daddy as their pastor.

That is, if my parents were willing to stay.

Daddy was honest with the church about the toll these attacks were having. Yet he promised to stay the course. Head held high, supernaturally calm in the face of his trials, he assured the packed church his message wouldn’t change, nor would he be intimidated from fulfilling his calling. His words reflected what he would soon tell a reporter: “We battle fear from time to time,
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even though we are spiritual people. Then, too, we feel that there’s no force that can destroy us.” He was honest that Momma, in particular, had some reservations. Living in the valley of the shadow of death isn’t for the faint of heart. Daddy admitted, “Her initial reaction was more emotional than mine, but after that initial reaction, she’s ready to fight along with me.”

He added, “I stand flat-footed and preach the truth. I don’t sugarcoat it. We feed the flock of God. I always had a certain amount of backbone, so we’re just stonewalling it here.” Another development that Sunday gave my parents the necessary hope to press on. Concerned about our safety, the church voted to hire an armed security guard to patrol the grounds around our house at night. That safeguard provided a certain peace of mind. Maybe, just maybe, there would be an end to the violence. And maybe, just maybe, we could sleep without the fear of awakening to yet another attack.

I suspect Mr. Watts was steaming in pew number seven.

He had done so much to chase my family away.
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And if we weren’t leaving voluntarily, Mr. Watts probably figured the church would see the wisdom of removing this man who, like a lightning rod, attracted unwanted negative attention to their fellowship. By his calculations, the church should have been sufficiently primed and ready to vote Daddy out of office and, in turn, seek a less “controversial” pastor to lead them. But what Mr. Watts failed to calculate was the deep bond Daddy and Momma had cemented in the early days of their ministry in Sellerstown.

I’m surprised he missed this connection.

* * *

From the moment Daddy set foot in Sellerstown, he made it his mission to reach the unreachable and teach the unteachable. He provided a welcoming place where love and laughter were offered in generous servings regardless of who you were or what you had done in the past. If you weren’t in church on Sunday, on Monday he’d put on his boots, find you in the fields or at your place of business, and personally check on you. If you were sick, he’d pray for you and say, “See you in church next Sunday.”

Take James Tyree, for example.

A cattle farmer by trade, before he met my father, James had no use for church, primarily because there were those in the church who had no use for him. His mother, Betsy, had told James that he was going to hell for all the years he had lived like a heathen, which, no doubt, had something to do with his love of cigars and alcohol. He’d be the first to admit that his affinity for alcohol drove him to drink just about anything he could get his hands on.

To say that James enjoyed smoking cigars would be an understatement; they were his constant companion. Unless he was eating, sleeping, or in the shower, he had a stogie in his mouth. While the Bible doesn’t specifically teach that smoking is a sin, in Betsy’s book it was one of those outward signs of “heathen” behavior.

But more than these “sins of the flesh,” there was another reason why James was going to hell, or so his mother believed. James had been divorced. Compounding his “sin” was the fact that he had remarried. Betsy didn’t believe in second marriages. Living under a cloud of condemnation by his mother, convinced that he was beyond the reach of the Cross, it’s not surprising that James avoided going to church.

Shortly after Daddy arrived in town, he caught wind of James’s story—a story that was not too far from that of his own journey. Rather than write James off as a lost cause or a modern-day leper, Daddy slipped on his work boots and pursued James while he was out tending to his fields. I have no idea how Daddy developed his approach to pastoring. Somehow, somewhere along the way, he knew that to be effective in growing the church, he had to walk among the people, meet them on their turf, and accept them the way they were.

As he worked side by side with James, Daddy’s goal was to befriend this man. He knew he had to earn the right to be heard if the walls around James’s heart were ever to come down. On a number of occasions they spent hours digging holes to construct a post-and-wire electric fence. Daddy would say, “I’ll be over in a little while,” and then arrive at the work site before James. His enthusiasm to serve was infectious, although at first James wasn’t quite sure how to size up the new preacher. As they labored, Daddy told James about his path to faith in Jesus—how he, too, had tasted the wild life, watched his first marriage dissolve, drunk heavily, and been disinterested in the things of God.

This wasn’t what James had expected to hear. The tattoo on Daddy’s forearm, an indelible embarrassment left over from his Navy days, wasn’t what James expected to see. And the unconditional love and lack of condemnation he experienced from the “preacher man” wasn’t something he anticipated feeling, either. To James, Daddy was more like a brother than a pastor. Their lives had such a surprising amount in common, James liked to say, “We were clicking on the same clock.”
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Naturally, when Daddy went on to explain that his story didn’t end with the drinking and skirt chasing, James was all ears. The moment God had changed Daddy’s heart, he became a new man. Pausing long enough to make eye contact, his shirt matted with sweat and dirt, Daddy told him, “Brother James, God can do the same thing for you
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that He did for me.” With that, Daddy invited James to church the following Sunday. He was convinced that no one—not even James—was beyond the saving grace of Jesus.

James came.

So did his wife, Eleanor.

Like a thirsty man drawn to water, James came forward that morning in response to Daddy’s invitation to receive Jesus. At the end of the sermon, standing at the altar while Momma played “The Old Rugged Cross” on the organ, James gave his heart to the Lord. It wasn’t long before Eleanor, who had likewise lived under her mother-in-law’s condemnation, came to faith.

In the months and years following his conversion, James became one of the head deacons in the church, typically sitting on the platform while Daddy preached. And while they worked closely on church matters, the bond of friendship they shared spilled out into the week—sometimes in hilarious ways.