This past Wednesday during my quiet time, I finished reading D. A. Carson’s book, Memoirs of An Ordinary Pastor. I cannot think of a book in recent memory that has moved me so emotionally. I see myself as an ordinary pastor.  In fact, weeks before the book was published I wrote a post about being an ordinary pastor. I had actually put down in writing a plan for a number of “Ordinary Pastor” posts, but I put them all on the shelf until I could obtain and read through Carson’s book.

The most compelling portions for me in the book are his stalwart commitments to work hard in study, evangelism, prayer and family. Reading of his unwavering commitment to his wife during her Alzheimer years challenged me now to be more devoted to my wife and children. Learning of his final years of life – how full they were of commitment to serving the church, study hard and give himself to future generations of pastors, inspired a sense of renewed devotion within me.

D. A. Carson’s final words about his father cap off what is a most excellent book:

Tom Carson never rose very far in denominational structures, but hundreds of people in the Outaouais and beyond testify how much he loved them. He never wrote a book, but he loved the Book. He was never wealthy or powerful, but he kept growing as a Christian: yesterday’s grace was never enough. He was not a farsighted visionary, but he looked forward to eternity. He was not a gifted administrator, but there is no text that says, “By this shall all men know that you are my disciples, if you are good administrators.” His journals have many, many entries bathed in tears of contrition, but his children and grandchildren remember his laughter. Only rarely did he break through his pattern of reserve and speak deeply and intimately with his children, but he modeled Christian virtues to them. He much preferred to avoid controversy than to stir things up, but his own commitments to historic confessionalism were unyielding, and in ethics he was a man of principle. His own ecclesiastical circles were rather small and narrow, but his reading was correspondingly large and expansive. He was not very good at putting people down, except on his prayer lists.

When he died, there were no crowds outside the hospital, no editorial comments in the papers, no announcements on television, no mention in Parliament, no attention paid by the nation. In his hospital room there was o one by his bedside. There was only the quiet hiss of oxygen, vainly venting because he had stopped breathing and would never need it again.

But on the other side all the trumpets sounded. Dad won entrance to the only throne room that matters, not because he was a good man or a great man – he was, after all, a most ordinary pastor – but because he was a forgiven man. And he heard the voice of him whom he longed to hear saying, “Well done, good and faithful servant; enter into the joy of your Lord.”

If that could be my own testimony, I would relish the ordinary.