Provided

Reverend Frank Harrington from Kingstree pastored Peachtree Presbyterian, the country’s largest Presbyterian congregation.

In turbulent times we’ve always had a beacon of Biblical inspiration to see us through.

Historians remember fiery Reverend John Witherspoon, president of Princeton, the only clergyman to sign the Declaration. More recently there was Peter Marshall who rose to prominence during the Berlin  Airlift to become chaplain of the Senate. Marshall had previously pastored a church in Covington, Georgia, before going to a tall steeple  church in D.C., and then to the Senate chaplaincy.

Of course, there are  towers of spiritual strength amongst us still.

Yet, the crises that  rattle us make many long for spiritual rock like Saint Peter or Peter  Marshall or perhaps the late Frank Harrington, the preacher from Pudding  Swamp crossroads over near Kingstree.

For those brought up protestant in the South, there’s little excuse for not having some knowledge of the huge man who made Peachtree  Presbyterian in Atlanta the largest Presbyterian church in North  America. For a denomination that has no rule by bishops, Frank  Harrington was often introduced as “The Cardinal.”  Harrington paid his dues by pastoring his way through a succession of small town churches until he was called by Peachtree in 1972 - then a church with 2000 members.

By the time of Frank’s untimely death 27 years later, that church had over 12,000 members. Because of Frank’s unique way of  presenting the Word, there was a vibrant feeling there that even the members found difficult to explain. If ever a protestant church had a  cardinal and a cathedral, it was Frank’s church. Though his attire may  have been Hart, Shaffner, and Marx, Harrington’s mindset was straight  from the age of Calvin and Zwingli. If Frank had been Catholic, then he’d had been another Johann Eck.

That’s the caliber of man that he was.

Yet he sprang from protestant, rural Colleton County during the  roughest days of The Great Depression. He was 8th generation at Midway  Presbyterian Church - a church that the Swamp Fox rode by on his raids.

A joint football, baseball athletic scholarship enabled this farm boy  to be the first of his family to earn a degree. The story is told that a group of city-slicker boys on the Presbyterian College football team  took Frank to play golf for his first time. The fellows were agape at the line-drive that Frank made from the first tee. “It’s just like playing baseball,” Frank drawled. “You gotta keep your eye on the ball  - that’s all.”

Frank’s farmer-father would have been pensioned out of the Army on a  disability in 1918 for mustard-gas complications if they’d had such a  thing as that in those days. As it was, the man everyone Kingstree  and Manning knew as “Mister Jake” was one of the hardest-working farmers in two counties. Mister Jake’s son was too young to be drafted into World War II, or he’d have enlisted as every male of his family had done for two-centuries. The boy who became Reverend Harrington matured  during the Depression and had to work several after-school jobs, plus do farm chores. He got more sleep at PC, even with playing two sports and  studying past midnight, than he got growing up on the farm.

Harrington, the strapping football lineman, was also handsome, and he  dressed well enough to attract the coeds on the PC campus. However,  Frank was smitten with pretty Sara Rodgers whom he’d met at church youth   camp. Sara went to Coker and graduated before Frank. They married and lived in campus housing built for returning WW II vets. The future seminarian played ball, made the dean’s list, and worked odd jobs to make ends meet.

Preacher Frank Harrington was physically made for a commanding pulpit presence. With the broad shoulders of a football lineman and the booming  voice of a regimental adjutant on parade, Harrington made his mark from day one. Frank’s daughters, Susan and Vicki, authored a book  commemorating their Dad’s ministry. Susan Harrington Porter wrote that  from the pulpit her father had a way of making words dance and sizzle.

The Reverend was never afraid of the dynamic, pregnant pause...or taking a moment to gather us in with his gaze. Over at Frank’s other   alma mater, Columbia Theological Seminary in Decatur, students still listen to recordings of the great man’s sermons. Each one was word-crafted to bring the moment, the worshiper, the Word, and the Holy  Spirit into oneness.

Harrington had a staff of a half-dozen associates at Peachtree Presbyterian to assist him in ministering to his flock of 12,000.

Often the associates preached in the summer while Frank sought soul-searching  solitude at Hilton Head - where he spent hundreds of hours writing his sermons for the coming months. He drew inspiration not just from scripture, but also from New Yorker cartoons, Tom Clancy novels, British and American poetry, and even the sports reports.

“When’s Frank coming back?” was a constant refrain on Atlanta Roswell Road around late July. When the big man mounted the pulpit in early September, there was a spontaneous murmur and ripple of applause. He posted in the bulletin the list of sermons for the coming months.

Members marked their calendars and invited out-of-town guests or  relatives to drive over for one of Frank’s great messages.

For visitors, Sunday at Peachtree with Frank Harrington was the  capstone to a wonderful weekend that included a Braves game, shopping at Rich’s, and a burger at The Varsity. Frank’s church even served Sunday  dinner in the huge fellowship hall. Today, Peachtree Presbyterian even  has a tunnel walk through 20 feet underneath Roswell Road to connect the  sanctuary with other buildings of the church campus.

No matter how many famous people sought him out, Presidents Carter and  Ford, for example, Harrington kept in touch with his rural, southern  roots around Kingstree and Manning. The preacher often told stories of  his mother, Miz Gladys, singing as she cooked over a wood stove. Dare to be a Daniel, Dare to stand alone, Dare to have a purpose firm, Dare  to make it known.? How much power does a mother’s quiet voice have for  her child? Frank lived his mother’s words for 67 years. He was never shy  about confronting heresy - let chips fall where they may.

For many  reasons they called Frank Harrington, “The Cardinal.”

Dr. Thomas B. Horton is a history teacher at Porter-Gaud School. Visit his Web site at www.historyslostmoments.com._