Who is This Guy

Anyway?

Daniel Barth Peters

Ph.D. [preacher’s kid, holy and damned.]

The drgoodbooks Show

Who am I?

About me. (isn’t everything?)

What else do you need to know? What else do you want to know?

Is not all this a biographical text?

Throw in the preacher’s kid thing, the missionary kid thing, the good guy thing, the bad guy thing, the sensitive, smart, sarcastic thing,

and you’ve got a take.

Throw in the storytelling thing, the asking thing, the questioning thing, the relentless pursuit of truth thing, the respect when its earned thing, the abuse of pulpit, power, position or propaganda thing, and taking it to the mat thing, and not let you get away with it thing,

and you’ve got a take.

The knowing grief isn’t brief thing, the knowing life is suffering thing, the standing in grocery line with baloney and bread, and a carton of Rocky Road thing,

and you’ve got a take.

Throw in the moving manic joy of the Evangel thing, the destroying destruction of the Ism thing,

and you’ve got a take.

Then take the big three things:

Experience of stripes. Education of spots. Ego of grandeur.

drgoodbooks (one cool dude)

Where Do I come from?

I come from the story of the Evangel.

I come from the story of a grandfather, father, brother, uncle, and brother-in-law who preached the Evangel.

I come from the story of a father who preached on the street corners of Chicago in 1940, who left the wedding reception, skipped the honeymoon and caught a bus to preach, who preached in the woods of the Ozarks, who preached in the tents of revival, who preached in the pulpit, who preached on the DMZ in Vietnam, who hand painted his Vega to save the money to print the Gospel of John, and who in his 70’s died unloading them crate by crate back on the field.

John W. Peters preaching,

Ruby Mae Berneking in his back-up band playing the sax.

I come from a mother who was a preacher’s kid, who slurped soup in rescue missions as my grandfather travelled to preach town to town with a wife and seven kids, who took a New Jersey orphan and taught him what it meant to be a pastor, who worked outside the home back in the 1950s before it was a sin so that same pastor could feed her kids pork ‘n beans for school lunch back at the parsonage, who all the while remained the pastor’s wife, who followed him to the field and who never lived a single conscious day outside of ministry.

I come from a story of music, every Sunday morning, every Sunday night, on the radio, the record player, pianists, organists, choir directors, soloists, trios, gospel quartets, saxophones and even ukuleles - and way back when, “The Berneking Family Traveling Revival Band.”

I come from a story of kneeling by my father’s bedside to grasp Romans 10:9&10, a story of Sunday School, evangelistic clubs, missionary conferences, and family prayer meetings that redefined Wednesday nights.

I come from a story of being shot up, run down, and bombed out for Jesus in Saigon, then evacuated to silence, separation, and sickness in Singapore.

I come from a story of generations of servanthood, service and sacrifice.

I am from a story that wants to know how the Evangel fully resides in a person’s mind, body, soul, and spirit.

I am from a story that still wants to know what America has to do with it.

I am from a story of the Story.

The first two verses that I remember my father giving me were

one for truth

The fruit of the righteous is the tree of life And he that winneth souls is wise.

Proverbs 11:30 [KJV]

and one for wisdom

Dead flies cause the ointment of the apothecary to send forth a stinking savour: so doth a little folly him that is in reputation for wisdom and honour.

Ecclesiastes 10:1[KJV]

I was better at the second than the first. At 70 the time has come. Time for the Evangel as Story. Time to be of the Story. Time to stand for the Story. Get it right. Speak it now. Or forever hold your war.

This is my story, this is my song,

Seeking my Savior all the day long.

Imperfect submission, imperfect delight,

Visions of rapture now clouding my sight;

This is my story. This is my song.

I got my finger on the trigger

But I don’t know who to trust

When I look into your eyes

There’s just devil’s and dust

I got God on my side

And I'm just trying to survive

What if what you do to survive

kills the things you love?

This is my story. This is my song.

I love to tell the story,

for those who know it best

seem hungering and thirsting

to hear it like the rest.

And when in scenes of glory

I sing the new, new song,

'twill be the old, old story

that I have loved so long.

This is my story. This is my song.

There’s a blaze of light in every word;

It doesn’t matter which you heard,

the holy, or the broken Hallelujah!

I did my best; it wasn’t much,

I couldn’t feel so I learned to touch.

I’ve told the truth, I didn’t come to fool you.

And even though it all went wrong,

I’ll stand before the Lord of Song

With nothing on my lips but Hallelujah

This is my story. This is my song.

Comfort ye, comfort ye my people,

saith your God.

Speak ye comfortably to Jerusalem,

and cry unto her,

that her warfare is accomplished,

that her iniquity is pardoned.

The voice of him that crieth in the wilderness,

“Prepare ye the way of the Lord,

make straight in the desert a highway for our God.”

Hallelujah Hallelujah

The Holy or the Broken

Hallelujah.

This is my story. This is my song.

Adapted From:

This is My Story, Fanny Crosby.

Devils & Dust, Bruce Springsteen.

I Love to Tell the Story, Kate Hankey.

Hallelujah, Leonard Cohen.

Messiah Movement 2: Isaiah 40:1-3, George Frideric Handel.