A Life Well Lived: In Honor of Jimmy England

It was a terribly hot summer day in July 1994. The location was a small community in southwest Arkansas. My great-aunt, whose first husband passed away from cancer years prior, was burying her second husband who also passed away after a brief bout with cancer. He was a dairy farmer who owned and operated Gregory Farms in that small community just outside of Hope, Arkansas, called Shover Springs. 

I had surrendered to preach less than a year before his death and had become very close to my Aunt Mary Jo and Uncle Delbert. I was asked to participate in his funeral. I was a couple of months shy of turning 16, and it was my first funeral. After the service at Bodcaw #2 Baptist Church (not to be confused with Bodcaw #1, and yes, I’m serious; in a town of 163 people there were two churches identically named), we drove less than a dozen miles to the cemetery at Shover Springs Baptist Church.

As I exited the cemetery, which sat across the county road from the church, I was approached by a couple of men. They were brothers, one of which bore the name Jimmy England. My dad knew of the older brother, Travis, and they asked me if I would be available to preach for them one Sunday. Their pastor had recently resigned. I gladly accepted their invitation.

To my surprise, none of the 30ish people present that Sunday left before the sermon ended. To my further surprise, they asked me if I could return in a few weeks because their fill-in schedule was soon to be scarce. I did just that, and a couple of weeks of Sundays turned into a couple of months of Sundays. They asked me to be their interim pastor. After asking my dad what an interim pastor was, and with his and my mom’s blessing (I was 16 years old), I agreed.

Then something totally unexpected happened. Their pulpit committee, on which Bro. Jimmy served, asked if they might could talk with me about becoming their pastor. To be honest, I’m still bewildered that they made such a request. Here I was, a kid who was barely old enough to drive, and I was being asked about the possibility of pastoring a church.

I would venture to say that I’m among a very small population of pastors who had to have a pulpit committee come to their house to talk to their parents to get blessing and permission to continue the pastor search process. But there we were. Those men drove the 12 miles from Shover Springs Baptist Church to my home in Brockman Hill (which you can’t even find on google), sat on the couch in the den of my childhood home, and discussed with me and my parents the possibility of me becoming their pastor. Jimmy England was the main spokesman.

I officially became their pastor in March 1995. Jimmy England became one of my best friends. Our friendship was one of the most unique experiences anyone could ever have. He was 41 years my senior. You read that right. I was 16 when I became his pastor. He was 57. And we became the best of friends. As a teenager, one of my closest allies in the world was a retired high school science teacher who had judged the science fair at my high school the year prior. No lie!

Bro. Jimmy was truly my first partner in ministry. We visited people in the hospital together. We made outreach visits together. We traveled to Texarkana to the Baptist Book Store to get Bogard Press materials for the church. I believe he occupied every role at some point at Shover Springs Baptist Church. From unlocking the church to teaching a Sunday school class, Jimmy England faithfully served the Lord.

He and I both aged, as we humans tend to do. And as we age, this shell that houses our immortal soul prepares to return to the place from which it came, the dust. Last Sunday, my good friend and first ministry colleague, having spent decades in service to the Lord by serving others, entered the presence of his Lord at the age of 87. No doubt he heard the voice of Jesus, saying, “Well done, good and faithful servant!”

Everyone needs a Jimmy England in their life, and it should be our goal to be a Jimmy England in someone else’s life. Though I was his pastor, he was my mentor. I saw him interact with others with love, joy, peace, patience, kindness, goodness, faithfulness, gentleness, and self-control. In this way he showed me what it looks like to live out the fruit of the Spirit.

The list of my biggest fans and supporters isn’t that long, and it seems to get shorter as more and more of them move into eternity. At the top of that list was my grandmother, my mother, and Jimmy England. If there was ever a Barnabas in my life, it would be him.

Shortly after becoming his pastor, a cousin of mine who was more like a brother was killed in an automobile accident. I preached his funeral, and the 1,000+ plus attendees had me as nervous as a long-tailed cat in a room full of rocking chairs. There was Bro. Jimmy, offering words of encouragement to me before the service and words of affirmation after the service.

In December of 2020 I very unexpectedly found myself standing behind the pulpit of the church I called home, and standing behind the casket that held my mother’s body, preaching her funeral after she passed away without any warning. At the cemetery stood Jimmy England. Some 15 months later I stood at the same spot in the same cemetery, this time preaching my father’s graveside service. Guess who was there? You guessed it: Jimmy England.

That was the last time I saw him. Somehow, I think it’s oddly fitting that both the first place we met and the last place we saw each other were at a cemetery. Tomorrow, his family and friends will gather at the same cemetery where we first met as they return his body to the place from which it came, the dust. Regrettably, I can’t be there, but I’ll certainly remember him. The grave isn’t his end, nor is it mine. The next time we meet it won’t be at a grave, but a garden that’s infused with the goodness of God. I’m thankful that the Lord allowed my life to be enriched by God’s goodness that was extended to me through the life of Jimmy England.

I hope you have such a person in your life, and I hope you’ll be that kind of person in someone else’s life.