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From The Dark Despair of Tragedy #Louisiana

You turned my lament into dancing; You

Note From The Publisher: In 2011, Reverend Les Ferguson, Jr. of Orange Grove Church of Christ in Gulfport, Mississippi came home to discover that his wife and wheel-chair bound son had been murdered.

WLOX reported, “GULFPORT, MS (WLOX) –An outbreak of violence in a normally quiet Orange Grove neighborhood ended with three people dead, a community in shock, and a lot of unanswered questions. Authorities say they believe 70-year-old Paul Buckman killed 45-year old Karen Denise Ferguson and her 21-year old son Trevor Cole Ferguson before turning the gun on himself.”

In light of the recent shootings at the Louisiana Theater, we, at TRC Magazine, pray Les’s story will help you walk through the questions.

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I Found God!

 

PastedGraphic-1My name is Les Ferguson, Jr.

That may not mean much to you and that’s okay. In fact, you may have no idea who I am or where I have been. Any news stories you might have seen have long left the airwaves.

And I am good with that.

There was a time not so long ago when my name didn’t mean much to me either. I longed to drown my memories, to forget my existence, and to somehow alleviate my all-encompassing pain.

At this point, frankly, I am somewhat weary of the notoriety of my story—I am weary of some of the things that have become an ingrained part of my new identity. I am weary of the heartache of the past that will always be a part of my present and future.

 

My name is Les Ferguson, Jr.
I am a preacher’s kid.
The world of church work has been a part of my life since almost as long as I can remember.
I grew up in church.
I came of age in church.
Much of my identity and self-worth has long been tied up in church and in service to her. Even when I wanted to be far away, she was always close by, an ever present attraction or irritant, depending on the circumstances.

My name is Les Ferguson, Jr.
I used to be a preacher and that is a story we are getting to.
In fact, I started preaching for a little country church at the age of 15. It was a predominately African-American church. I say predominately, because there was one skinny white kid who preached there on Sunday mornings. Yes, that was me.
I owe that little group of folks a lot, but that’s a part of my story we will not delve into today.

My name is Les Ferguson, Jr.
I went to Magnolia Bible College and studied to be a preacher. My time at school was divided by a six year hitch in the US Navy. After the Navy, I began work as a youth minister in Vicksburg, MS and also went back to school. In time, I began a full-time preaching ministry in Laurel, MS, and later in Gulfport, MS.

I’d like to think I did good work during some of those years. Certainly, I grew as a speaker/ communicator. More importantly, I grew as a theologian and minister. And as compassionate as I’d like to think I was, I had lessons yet to learn that would prove to be the fight of my life.

My name is Les Ferguson, Jr.
I used to be a preacher, and then I found myself being one again.

In some ways, it would be easier if I could tell you I suffered a moral lapse or made some huge mistake that necessitated a ministry time-out. It would be easier to say I cheated with my time. Or maybe I swindled some sweet elderly lady out of her life’s savings or insurance. It would be so less painful to tell you I embezzled church funds or got caught up in some aspect of illegal drug use. It would be far simpler to just acknowledge some degree of depression or a mental breakdown.

It would be easier and I wish I could, but I can’t.

My name is Les Ferguson, Jr. and the time between having been a preacher and becoming one again was a long hard battle of lost and rediscovered faith.

Preachers are not supposed to lose their faith. Standing all alone atop our pedestal of supposed super spirituality, we are thought to be invincible to the failure of doubt. At least, until we aren’t, and by then, there is little you can say to stop it.

When faith departs, there isn’t a single religious cliche that will fix anything—not WWJD (What would Jesus Do) and not FROG (Fully Rely On God).

And faking it till you make it isn’t a viable option either.

And then there was scripture.
Comparing my story to the story of Job wasn’t comforting; it was obscene. And Romans 8:28 enraged me—there was nothing good about the murder of a wife and son!

And so faith departed. It didn’t happen all at once, but I felt it trickle away and was powerless to stop it.
I am not sure I wanted to.

I suppose I should clarify what I mean by losing faith:

In my case, I never quit believing in God.

I never doubted His existence.

I never doubted His presence in this world.

In fact, that knowledge and belief in Him fueled my doubt like pouring gasoline on an already raging fire.

When I say I lost my faith, what I mean is losing my trust, hope, and belief in a God who loved and cared for me. I knew He cared for others. I saw the evidence in a thousand places in a thousand times. I heard the happy praise. I saw the exponential joy. I felt the faith of others as a living, breathing, tangible thing.

I get giving God credit for the good things we experience in life. I really do. But every time I heard someone speak of what God had done for them–curing their illness, getting them a new job, buying them a new house, or making their headache go away–I wanted to scream at the top of my lungs both literally and metaphorically the immortal words of Esau, “Do you only have one blessing, my father? Bless me too, my father!” (Genesis 27:38 HCSB)

The next phrase in that verse says, “And Esau wept loudly.”

So did I.
So did I.

And in my tears, rage, and bitterness, I cried with an impotence hard to imagine:

What about me?
What about me, God?
Don’t I count too?
Why doesn’t my family matter as much as his stupid toothache or her goofy issues?
Why God, why!?
Why can’t I be blessed like all the rest around me?
What did I do wrong?
How did I fail you?
What about me?

In those words are the pain of every hurting, broken, questioner who has ever wondered where God is and why He hasn’t made a difference so desperately wanted and needed.

In the dark despair of tragedy, in the grip of a destructive evil, those were my words.

They were given birth the day my family was ripped from me.
I angrily thought them the day I was forced to pick out two caskets.
I mouthed those words relentlessly as I stood in a day-long receiving line.
I cried those words as the funeral message was preached.
I sobbed those words quietly at night as I tried to comfort a five-year demanding to see his grave-bound mother.

Eventually those words took on a life of their own. In my bitterness and despair–in a dry and weary land–there was no comfort, no solace, no balm of Gilead to soothe my spirit, to ease in even some small way the despair that had taken root in my soul.

In that fertile ground of pain and sorrow grew the sure knowledge that God—real and alive—cared nothing for me. I couldn’t trust Him. There were no bargains to be made; no deals to be had.

Hope was gone and I was alone.
Raw.
Bleeding.
And desperate for something to ease the pain.

In my heartache and anger, I eventually found God.
Not all at once.
But slowly and surely, as life became more than just my pain, God started showing up.

Here’s where the story gets real.

The former preacher, the guy with two theology degrees, and a lifetime of ministry, finally found God.

Not the God who blesses America (even though He does).
Not the prosperity God who delivers wealth to those who contribute (to whatever cause or bank account needing funding).
Not the God we keep all locked up in a box (church, traditions, understanding) of our own making (although He can dwell there too if He so chooses).
Not the God we bargain with and cut deals for (even though I am sure He is interested).

Instead, I found God.
The God who created everything.
The God who wants nothing more than a relationship with His creation.
The God who offers grace, mercy, and love.
The God who redeems our brokenness and changes our story.

For me, the redemption of my story was everything. To use my pain to bless others means my family did not die in vain.
And thus, the grace of God has proven to be overwhelming.
I am preaching again, and this time I share a message of grace I have experienced; a message of grace I am compelled to share with others.
My faith is secure.

It took awhile, but I finally found God on His terms and not mine…

Les Ferguson, Jr.
Madison/ Ridgeland, MS.

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  • Anna Popescu

    This made my eyes leak with sadness *and* joy. It is a wonderful example of how we may think God is no longer with us but, in fact, He never lets us go. If we are truly His, God patiently waits for us to return to our First Love. Thank you for sharing this with us.