I attended the funeral for W.R. Jones last week. Though it sounds strange to say that a funeral service was enjoyable, this one truly was the celebration of a good preacher and an even better man. Judging by the standing-room-only crowd gathered to pay their last respects, it was evident that he touched the lives of multiple generations of people. For me, it brought back some special memories of why I loved him and love him still.

Brother Jones was the first preacher I ever heard. He helped start the Kleinwood church in Houston where I grew up. For the first several months, we met in classrooms and other temporary settings while the church building was being built. When it was finally finished, he gathered all of the congregation in the auditorium on the eve of our first worship service. He wanted “Ring Out the Message” to be the first sounds echoing through the room. It was a reminder that though the building was completed, the work was still under construction.

W.R. Jones spent his lifetime ringing the message out. He did it for churches all around Texas, big and small. He did it in meetings and through his writings, spreading his influence across the country. He did it when it was not popular during the institutional fight of the fifties. In fact, when one of the elders early in his career informed him that he was being fired for preaching on the issues, he vowed to ruin Brother Jones’ name among the churches of Christ. Tell that to people in Bellaire, Baytown, Nacogdoches, Tomball, Lufkin, La Porte, Liberty, and Conroe. Folks may not have known what W.R.’s initials stood for, but they knew he stood for the truth.

When I was six or seven years old, my friends and I sat on the front row during services. We tried desperately to copy down all of his overhead charts as he preached about the home or the plan of salvation or the judgment. One night, instead of taking notes, I decided to draw a picture of Brother Jones baptizing someone who was very important in my life at that time. It was the Incredible Hulk. When I showed him the picture afterwards, he studied it carefully and adjusted his black, horn-rimmed glasses. Finally, he smiled and said, “Well, the gospel is for all.” I got the picture.

You see, W.R. made time for everyone. He loved people. All of them. It made quite an impression on a group of young boys when the preacher came down the row shaking hands, calling each of us by name. It meant even more to a young preacher when he was never too important to ask how my work was going or whether or not I was keeping Dee in line. He believed the gospel was for all men, alright. He was just as convinced that all men were for him.

Brother Jones was an avid golfer. He played nearly every week with Mike Dubose and occasionally with other preachers. While some might have hit it farther than he did, not many hit it straighter. And while most were searching for their balls in the rough or in the woods, he was safely in the fairway. He was that way, though—steady, stable, patient, consistent. His preaching was not flashy, but it was effective. It was simple and straightforward, yet powerful and provoking. That’s why he was so capable of rescuing churches from extinction and planting new works along the way. You always knew that W.R. Jones would hit it right down the middle every time.

He had a reputation for wearing a coat and tie wherever he went. Once, when meeting three other preachers for a golf outing, his playing partners laughed when he stepped out of the car in a shirt and tie. “Brother Jones,” they asked, “were you planning on baptizing someone on the way here?” But that was him. He brought a sense of dignity and discipline to the work of an evangelist. He wanted to represent the Lord well. And that he did. I counted nearly thirty preachers in the audience at his funeral, all wearing coats and ties. W.R. would have been so proud. We certainly were of our fallen comrade who taught us how to dress and address the great responsibility before us.

A few years ago, the Goose Creek church in Baytown completed their new building and hosted a lectureship to introduce themselves to people in the area. Brother Jones spoke the first night. After complimenting them on their comfortable and accommodating facility, he offered a subtle but stern admonition. “Jesus said to be fishers of men, not keepers of the aquarium.” It made me smile. It was another “Ring Out the Message” moment.

W.R. Jones, though being dead, still speaks. His legacy lives on. I can still hear it ringing.