For Whom the Bell Tolls …

I made a visit to Acadia National Park in Maine, a place of amazing beauty.  To truly appreciate the glory of the park, you need to get off the road and get on a trail.  My wife and I decided to do just that.

Let me warn you: the National Park Service lies.  They label trails as “Easy.”  Only if you are a mountain goat.  We walked along a trail that skirted the coast.  The Maine coastline is not like any coastline I have ever seen.  I am accustomed to sand on the beach or mangrove islands.  The Maine coastline was marked by cliffs and rocks, with waves crashing against them.  I was reminded of a line from God’s speech in Job: “Can you say to the sea, ‘This far and no more.’”

As we hiked, I heard the regular clanging of a bell.  Trees and rocks obscured my view until we rounded a bend.  Offshore, about a quarter of a mile, was a rocky reef.  Waves broke over the low-lying rocks.  Placed alongside the reef was a green buoy with a clanging bell.  It did not take a sailor to know why the buoy and the bell were there.  It was a warning of danger.

I wonder how many boats crashed on those rocks before the buoy was placed there.  I can imagine a fishing boat sailing home at night, hearing waves crashing against the shore and missing the significance of the sound close by.  Before the sailor or the fisherman knew it, his boat was wrecked on the rocks; his life was in danger.  He faced the daunting choice of staying on the rocks until daylight or swimming for the cliffs in the darkness.  I have a feeling when the buoy was placed among the rocks; the boatmen were relieved.

God places warning buoys.  He sends warnings because he does not want you to wreck your life on rocks of reality.  The reason the Bible is filled with stories is so we can see choices and outcomes.  Through Samuel the prophet, God told his people the consequences of wanting a King.  A king, Samuel said, would extract taxes, draft sons into his army, and would control more of daily life than they could imagine.  The people still wanted a king, so God gave them one.  The first one, Saul, didn’t turn out so well.  God gave them a warning bell they ignored.

Many people do not understand the prophets because they think the prophets are there to tell the future.  Not so.  All the prophets try to warn God’s people that their choices are going to lead to destruction.  They were tolling bells, ringing out God’s warnings.  Most of the prophets were ignored.  The people of God were defeated in battle, dispersed, sent into exile, and banished from their homes.

God sends warnings to us from the people in our lives.  One man in his fifties told me, “I wish I had listened to my Dad.  He tried to warn me.  But I thought I was smarter than he was, and I wound up making a mess of things.”  This is not to say you take everyone’s advice.  But when a person of wisdom and spiritual maturity tells you something, their words might be a warning bell from God.

There is an old-fashioned word – conviction – that we do not use much anymore.  Conviction is what happens when you hear a sermon or a teaching that strikes your heart.  This is God speaking to you, telling you there is danger if you continue your present path.

I recently heard a pastor say, “Don’t make someone else responsible for your irresponsibility.”  I felt like a convictional bullet hit me between my eyes.  I thought about some of my poor choices that had harmed others in the past.  I thought about the poor decisions I make each day and how they pile up like plaque in an artery.  They bust loose one day and someone else feels pain, or must clean up after me, or must take care of me because I was irresponsible.  That sermon was a warning bell.

The most powerful warning buoy in my life, however, is God speaking directly to me.  No, I do not hear an audible voice.  But I hear a voice inside, in my heart, in my mind.  I take a second dessert, and the voice says, “Is this wise?”  I speak harshly to someone, and the voice says, “Was that necessary?”  Old hurts bubble up, and I guard them like treasures so I can justify my bad choices.  The voice says, “Isn’t it time to let all that go.”

If you listen closely, you can hear God’s warning bells telling you to turn away.  That is what the word “repent” means: turn and go in the other direction.  Turn away before you wreck your life on the rocks of sin. 

To paraphrase Hemingway, “Ask not for whom the bell tolls; it tolls for you.”

Aunt Jean …

My Aunt Jean passed away. In the odd genealogy of my family, she was not really my aunt but my first cousin. A mere twenty-nine years separated us. This wide range of age is explained by the fact I am the youngest child of the youngest child of the youngest child. I grew up calling all my older cousins “Aunt” and “Uncle.” 

Aunt Jean had the gift of making you feel special and loved. She was always interested in my work as a pastor and always encouraged me. She was always put together, always beautiful. In her house, everything was in place; everything spoke a sense of beauty.

Aunt Jean had a deep and profound faith. During one of our visits, she told me she was reading Bonhoeffer’s The Cost of Discipleship. It is a classic but not something the typical Baptist laywoman would read. When I did a consulting gig at her church, I asked eight focus groups who were the five most respected people in the church. Her name was the only one given in all eight groups. 

Aunt Jean grew up down the road from my grandparents. After my grandfather died, she was selected to stay with Granny Smith to help cook and clean. I think that is the time when she began to hero-worship my father. It was an era before TV when radio was barely a part of life. Evenings were spent telling stories. I can picture Aunt Jean, Granny Smith, my Daddy, and whoever else happened to be staying at the house gathered on the porch in the evening breeze, talking and telling stories in the moonlight. She remembered those stories and told them to me. That is part of what saddens me about her passing: she was the last person who held memories of my father as a young man in his late teens and early twenties. 

Aunt Jean walked three miles each day as an adult, but time eventually eroded her mind. When I visited her, she could clearly remember Granny Smith and my Daddy but had trouble remembering what year it was. When her son told her about the high price of calves, she said she needed to tell Granny Smith because she had a lot of cattle. The reality that Granny Smith had been dead for 67 years did not enter her mind.

When someone you love has dementia, you must be willing to enter their reality. Earlier this year, Aunt Jean was hospitalized. She woke up from a nap and asked her sitter if Kong knew she was in the hospital. The sitter did not quite understand and asked who she meant. Aunt Jean said impatiently, “King Kong, does he know I’m in the hospital? If he knew, he’d be here.”  She fell back asleep. When her children came to see her, the sitter told them Aunt Jean was losing her mind and was calling for King Kong. It took a while for them to convince the sitter that she was not referring to King Kong in the movies but to her uncle, my father, whose nickname was “King Kong.” 

I feel the loss of Aunt Jean. Like most people in their fifties and sixties, I am now losing the people who shaped my childhood and who remember the time before my memory began. I try to make sure those memories are tucked into secure corners. With Aunt Jean’s passing, one more keeper of the memories is gone.

More than that, one of the women who loved me and encouraged me is gone. Hillary Clinton said it takes a village to raise a child. There is truth in that, but my experience was it took a gathering of mothers to raise me. My Aunt Jean was one in the gathering. 

After my mother was rendered mute with Alzheimer’s disease, Aunt Jean and her sister, Aunt Faye, came to my tenth-anniversary celebration of serving as pastor of Alice Drive. We had a wonderful gathering after church. As I walked them to their car for their journey back to Florida, I told them, “You both are now the only mothers I have.”  They laughed and hugged my neck and told me they loved me.

Paul said to the church in Rome, “Greet Rufus and his mother, who has also been a mother to me.”  It is a great gift to expand your heart and mother children who are not your own. That was the gift Aunt Jean gave to me.

Now, I move up the generational ladder. There were twenty-one first cousins on my father’s side. Only four are now living. I’m the youngest by about 13 years. There are stories for me to tell the generations behind me; there are children who need to be loved and encouraged. When older people ask me, “Why has God left me here?” I tell them, “You have a story to tell. There are people who need your love.” 

Aunt Jean told me the stories. Aunt Jean loved me. My turn has come.

Gnats and Camels …

Most mornings I listen to a prayer podcast.  It begins with a scripture and then asks you to contemplate how that scripture applies to your life.

The other morning, the scripture was taken from Jesus’ speech to the scribes (think scholars) and Pharisees (think ultra-religious people).  Jesus said to them, “Woe to you, scribes and Pharisees, hypocrites!  For you, tithe mint, dill, and cummin, and have neglected the weightier matters of the law: justice and mercy and faith.  It is these you ought to have practiced without neglecting the others.  You blind guides!  You strain out a gnat and swallow a camel.”

The last phrase is funny: strain a gnat and swallow a camel.  I picture a man in a restaurant saying, “Waiter, there is a fly in my soup!”  The waiter responds, “Oh sir, I am so sorry!  Let me get a fresh bowl.  While I am here, how would you like your camel prepared!”

I thought about some Christians I know who fit this description.  There is no subtlety in them.  They cherry-pick their favorite issues and strain to prove how righteous they are.  They overlook bigger issues, like right and wrong, mercy and compassion, and living by faith.  They engage in fruitless arguments on “X (the platform previously known as Twitter)” that edify no one.  From my perspective, these people often sin in the name of straining flies. 

Listening to the podcast, I could feel the self-righteous anger building inside of me when the podcast voice challenged me, “Are you ever guilty of focusing on unimportant things, neglecting important things?” 

My anger quickly receded, and conviction took its place.  Yes, I am guilty of the very thing I condemn others for. 

If I use the measurements of justice, mercy, and faith, I fall woefully short.  In my pathological need to be liked by everyone, I will sometimes not speak up for justice.  Justice is rightly making decisions.  I find myself not speaking up when I see or hear injustice because I don’t want to offend people.  Just so I can offend everyone, it is unjust to malign candidates for office.  It is right to make decisions about candidates based on their character and their record.  It is unjust to make fun of their appearance, to criticize their family, and to tell lies about their records. 

I think about the times I failed to show mercy.  Mercy is having compassion that takes action.  I pass by people who need a word of encouragement, financial help, or an act of service because I am a busy person.  Jesus did not say this, but I think the priest and the Levite who passed by the man beaten and bleeding on the road to Jericho justified their lack of mercy based on the busyness or on some religious regulation they decided to keep instead of helping a fellow human.  If you are too busy for compassion, you are too busy.

When it comes to faith, I’d like to think I excel, but the truth is anxiety often rules my life.  Releasing matters into God’s hands is still difficult for me.  I probably inherited from my parents a fear of not having enough money.  I remember my mother not adding coconut to a cake because coconut was too expensive.  She said this not in the years she struggled but in the prosperous years.  Jesus told me (and you) that I was much more valuable than the birds our Heavenly Father takes care of.  He said I could trust our Father to take care of me, too.  My faith has a long way to go.

I thought about all my own hypocritical ways.  One of the great challenges of being a pastor is that when I preach, I know I don’t do all I am telling others to do.  I want to, really, but I fall short.  A man once told a pastor he didn’t go to church because of all the hypocrites.  The pastor replied, “Yep, we’ve got a lot of them; you will fit right in.”  Sounds like the pastor knew he was a hypocrite, too.

Do I ever strain at gnats?  Yes.  I have my own hot buttons.  The sad truth is I like feeling self-righteous.  I like feeling superior to others.  It boosts my ego when I point out the failures of others while feeling smug about my own superiority in some minor area.  To quote the Apostle Paul, “Oh wretched man that I am…” 

There is an old-fashioned word that is seldom used in church these days: conviction.  Conviction, rightly understood, means you listen to the Holy Spirit pointing out your character defects.  You ask for forgiveness with the sure knowledge that your Heavenly Father wants to forgive your sins.  Then, you humbly ask God to remove your defects of character. 

If you do not heed the conviction of the Holy Spirit, my hunch is you will remain in the company of gnat strainers and camel swallowers.  I am pretty sure that is a spiritual diet that will starve your soul.

Ignoring the King …

Jesus told a story about a King who threw a wedding banquet for his son. He sent invitations, and when the banquet was ready, he sent out his servants to tell his guests all was ready. The servants announced, “Prime rib is served!” which would have been enough to get me there.

A bit of historical context: a king would often marry his son to the daughter of another ruler. This would ensure peace between the two kingdoms. Prominent citizens from the other country would be invited to the wedding banquet as a way to solidify relationships.

As Jesus told the story, the reactions of the guests were surprising. One said he had farm chores to do; another said he had to stay and close his shop. Other invitees were not just rude; they were brutal. They beat the servants. Picture this: a man shows up at your house to invite you to the palace for prime rib and a party, and you get a baseball bat and start beating him. It doesn’t make any sense.

A couple of people got out of control and killed the servants. I do not know much about royal etiquette, but I am pretty sure killing a servant of the King is on the “Do not do” list.

Pause. Why are these people acting this way? There is only one explanation: they do not respect the King. They hold him in contempt. They believe they are the rulers of their lives, and they do not answer to him. They want to keep living in their own kingdom.

If you were the King, how would you react? Would you say, “Well, bless their hearts, they’re busy.”  Or “I guess my son’s wedding isn’t that big a deal.”  Speaking not as a king but as a man who has paid for two daughter’s weddings, not showing up for a wedding when you said you’d be there is a big deal. If the marriage of the King’s son was to be a union of two kingdoms, the refusal to come was an act of war.

The King orders his army to go and destroy the city and the people who rejected his invitation. Instead of a banquet, war. Instead of the joining of kingdoms, division. Before you think the King is cruel, remember he is reacting to their provocation. 

Meanwhile, back at the castle, the prime rib is getting cold. The King tells his servants to go out onto the highways and invite as many people as possible to the banquet. Jesus said the servants didn’t have time to do background checks, so the good and the bad came. Can you imagine that scene? A man is on a business trip, and one of the King’s servants runs up to him. “Hey, buddy, the King invites you to the wedding banquet of his son.”  “Who, me?”  “Yeah, you! Are you in?”  “Is this for real?”  “Yeah, hurry up and make up your mind.” “Well, okay, I guess.” “Great, turn around, go two blocks, hang a left. Great big palace straight ahead. You can’t miss it. Ask for Harry, he’s in charge of the coat room. He’ll take your traveling clothes and give you a wedding robe. We’ve got hundreds. Hurry up and go!”

There are hundreds, maybe thousands, who find themselves where they never expected to be that night: in the palace, lined up for prime rib, toasting the King’s son and his new daughter-in-law. If they had phones back then, I bet there would have been calls like this: “Honey, you won’t believe what happened to me today…”

We want Jesus to end the story here, but he doesn’t. Instead, he tells us the King comes down and starts greeting the guests. He sees a man who didn’t have on a wedding robe, which was provided on the way in. The King addresses the man in jocular terms: “Hey buddy, how did you get in without a wedding garment?”

Pause for a second time. Why didn’t the man get a robe? Maybe he thought, “What I have on is good enough.”  Maybe he thought the wedding robe clashed with his complexion. Maybe he was just stubborn and said, “I ain’t gonna wear no robe. I’ll go to this wedding banquet, but you can’t make me wear something like that.”

The man has no answer for the King. Maybe the man realizes now how stupid his answer would sound. The King has had it for one night, so he orders this man to be tied up and thrown out in the street. I can hear him, as he lays in the dirt, “I would have put on the dang robe if I’d known it was such a big deal!”

Jesus leaves the story with these words: “Many are called, few are chosen.” 

Sometimes, the best way to understand a story of Jesus is to figure out who’s who in the story. It is not hard to figure out that the King is God himself. The ones who refuse the invitation are the people who spend their lives ignoring God and deciding they will do life on their own. The man thrown out represents all the people who want the benefits of a relationship with God but will not submit to his will.

Who are you in the story?

One thing is clear: It is a dangerous thing to ignore God.

It Makes You Think …

The first Presidential election I remember was in 1968. My parents, with old prejudices inhabiting their souls, supported George Wallace. Adopting their politics, I remember arguing for Wallace during fourth-grade lunch. That memory shames me.

For those of you who don’t remember, Wallace was the radical governor of Alabama who declared, “Segregation now, segregation tomorrow, segregation forever.”  His rhetoric inflamed white Southerners. While Wallace committed no violence himself, he created an atmosphere where it was encouraged. Birmingham became known as “Bombingham.”  White supremacists bombed Martin Luther King’s brother’s home. They bombed the 16th Street Baptist Church, killing four young black girls and injuring a dozen or more. When Civil Rights leaders tried to march from Selma to Montgomery to present their concerns to Governor Wallace, they were attacked by police. John Lewis, later a congressman from Georgia, was beaten by Alabama State Troopers, causing head injury trauma.

Wallace ran again for President in 1972. His life was forever altered by four bullets from Arthur Bremer. One of those bullets struck his spine, and he would never walk again.

An article by Kristen Thomason in Baptist News revealed to me something I did not know. Shirley Chisolm, a black congresswoman from New York, was also running for President in 1972. Though she and Wallace were both Democrats, they did not see eye-to-eye politically. After Wallace was shot, despite the protests of her staff, Chisolm suspended her campaign for a week. 

She did an audacious act of grace: she visited Wallace in the hospital. She held his hand. She told him, “God guides us.”  When the doctor told her it was time to leave, she recalled, “He held on to my hands so tightly — he didn’t want me to go.”

That simple act of caring – of loving an enemy – cost Chisolm politically. Her constituents could not believe she would visit a racist segregationist in the hospital instead of taking advantage of the situation. One of her staff said, “She understood that if you really care about the country and you want to effect change, you have to embrace everybody. And when he was shot, he was a human being in pain. And she wasn’t going to turn her back on him.”

Something changed in George Wallace after he was paralyzed. Chisolm’s visit was part of that. Wallace’s daughter said, “Shirley Chisolm planted a seed of new beginnings in my father’s heart: A chance to make it right.” He committed his life to Christ. Giving his testimony to a church, he said he had “been through the valley of the shadow of death” and professed, “I am whole through the grace of our Lord and Savior, Jesus Christ.”

In 1979, he made an unannounced visit to Dexter Avenue Baptist Church in Montgomery, where Martin Luther King, Jr. had been the pastor. “I have learned what suffering means. In a way that was impossible (before the shooting),” he said. “I think I can understand something of the pain Black people have come to endure. I know I contributed to that pain, and I can only ask for your forgiveness.”

Wallace’s politics changed, too. When Chisolm presented a bill to Congress mandating minimum wage protection for domestic workers, Wallace worked the phones telling Southern politicians to support the bill and vote for it. He ran for governor of Alabama again in 1982, promising racial equality and to appoint blacks to positions throughout state government. He kept that promise, appointing over 160 blacks to judgeships, state boards, and, most importantly, as election officials. Over and over, he asked the black community to forgive him for his past actions and words.

During a service to remember the march from Selma to Montgomery, Joseph Lowery, President of the NAACP, spoke to the audience and to Wallace, saying, “You are a different George Wallace today. We both serve a God who can make the desert bloom. We ask God’s blessing on you.” 

You may not recognize it, but that sentence is a miracle. It describes a changed heart, which, in turn, changed lives. I never grow tired of hearing what God can do.

When I read Thomason’s article, I thought, wouldn’t the world be a better place if we, like Shirley Chisolm, had the courage to reach out to our enemies? Can you imagine a country where Presidential candidates prayed for each other? What if we let God direct us to ask forgiveness for those we wronged? What if we saw each other as human beings loved by God, no matter our politics or the color of our skin?

It makes you think.

Storms and Floods …

The weather forecasters were predicting 10-15 inches of rain as Tropical Storm Debby passed over South Carolina.  Headlines proclaimed we might surpass a 1,000-year storm total.  It looks like the forecasters were wrong.  The bulk of the rain was North and East of us.  Jesus did say it would rain on the just and the unjust.

I remember the flood of 2015.  We were hit by 22 inches of rain.  The rain started on Saturday.  We have a long-standing policy of not canceling church services.  When other churches cancel services, we tell people to use their judgment.  If we have power, we are going to have church.

By the next day, Sunday, my street was flooded.  So was the church parking lot.  I was getting ready for the first service when our Administrative Pastor stuck his head in the door and said, “I know I’m the cautious one, but I’m afraid if we don’t go home now, we might not be able to get home.”  I gathered up the small crowd ready for the first service and asked them for their opinion.  The decision was unanimous: let’s go home.  Several looked relieved.  I admit the thought of having to feed and sleep those fifty people was not appealing to me.  Still, I think everybody that day missed the best sermon I never preached.

The damage in our community was extensive.  Homes flooded; cars were abandoned.  Our house was on high ground, but I did have to pump out the pool, sending more water down the street to our neighbors.  I hated to do it, but…

Floods are a magnetic mystery to me.  I marvel at the power and weight of water.  After Hurricane Ian, I went to the ranch in Florida and was amazed.  In a grove belonging to my cousins, water had carved a new channel down the middle five feet deep. 

The main damage we had was to fences around the pasture.  Where the Buckhorn Creek flows through our property, debris was caught in the barbwire fence a quarter of a mile on both sides of the creek.  Water was standing in most of the pastures.  I was afraid the cows would get webbed feet.

I remember making a trip to Florida after Hurricane Charlie to check on my parents.  They had no electricity.  My mother was bedbound by this time, and it was miserably hot.  We had generators to keep refrigerators and freezers running and fans blowing on my Mom.  I spent a couple of miserable nights trying to sleep in my old room.  Riding in my airconditioned truck was much more comfortable. 

I went to check on the cows, riding a four-wheeler.  The water stretched out from the gullies and creeks.  I thought it was safe to cross until the four-wheeler began to float.  Prayer took on a new meaning that day.

Before my memory sparked alive, there was Hurricane Donna in 1960.  My mother told me that my father, all six feet, 280 pounds of him, got me (I was about eight months old) and crawled under the dining room table as the winds howled over, under, and through the Old House built by my great-grandfather.  The Old House held, but Mama said Daddy was stiff for days.

That story always stuck with me.  Years later, I would sing out of the old hymnal, “He hideth my soul in the cleft of rock…”  I would think about my earthly father hiding me under the table from the storm and my Heavenly Father hiding my soul in the cleft of the rock, in the safety of his love and grace.

Preachers love metaphors.  We talk about “the storms of life.”  And there are storms.  Sometimes, the storms are emotional.  Sometimes, they are relational.  Sometimes, they are literal and have names like Debby, Hugo, Ian, Charlie, and Donna.  We usually say something like, “God will protect us in the storm.”  I think it is more accurate to say, “God will be with us in the storm.”  If, like the personalities on the Weather Channel, we choose to stand out in the storm, God is still with us, even in our foolishness.  If the storm blows down our house (literally or figuratively), God is with us.  We are never alone in the storms.

God also gave us a promise: after the earth is wiped out in the Great Flood, God promises Noah he will never again flood the whole earth.  There may be a local flood, but there will always be high ground.  God then gives Noah a sign.  He puts his bow (as in “bow and arrows”) in the sky.  It is a sign that God does not want to react in anger to our misconduct.

Thousands of years later, God will erect another sign, his Son, on a cross.  With this great sacrifice, he tells us he is flooding the world with grace.  That is the flood we need, a flood of grace greater than all our sins.

Dads Digging on the Beach …

I was walking down the beach about mid-morning, trying to get my exercise in before everything got too hot.  Not many young people were on the beach at that hour; they were still sleeping off the fun from the night before.  Mostly there were other people like me, trying to get their exercise in before the heat became unbearable; some older couples sitting together, watching the waves; and lots of young families.

I remember what it was like when my kids were young.  Kids wake up early at the beach, and their hunger is the first item on the agenda.  Our special beach treat was Krispy Kreme doughnuts.  My job was to go and get them for the kids (and one or two for me).  Then about 8:00 AM, we’d hit the beach.

Kids do not lie out on the beach.  They are on the move.  There are sandcastles to be built, waves to surf, and games to play.  As I walked down the beach, families were camped out with umbrellas, chairs, coolers, and buckets.  Multiple sandcastles were being erected.  And almost every 100 feet, dads were digging ditches.

In my day, all we had was the cheap plastic shovel that came with the cheap plastic bucket you could buy at any dollar store.  But now, dads were upgraded to small trenching tools, or miniature shovels more suitable for dwarves. 

The dads were digging ditches to the water.  Why?  Everyone knows that castles, even sandcastles, must have a moat.  Moats must have water.  Water brought by buckets quickly disappeared into the sand.  A consistent source of water is needed.  I could re-construct the conversation that preceded the digging of the ditches: “Daddy, please dig a ditch to the water to fill the moat.  Please, Daddy?”  It is hard to say “no” to adorable little girls with pigtails, or toddling boys still in pull-ups. 

The dads were digging with determination.  One dad, obviously an engineer by training, had carefully calculated the depth needed for both moat and ditch and was digging a trench with steep sides.  This dad wanted his trench to last.  Another dad simply eyeballed it; his ditch collapsed with every approaching wave.  It didn’t seem to matter to the kids.  They were laughing and digging alongside him.

I passed six or seven dads all engaged in this task.  I’m sure none of them came to the beach to dig ditches.  Being adults, they all knew their hard work would be destroyed by the next high tide.  But there they were, digging ditches for their kids, while their wives sat under the tent, smiling at their husbands, enjoying a rare break.  The things you do for the people you love.

Jesus said, “If you, who are evil, know how to give good gifts to your children, how much more will your Father in Heaven give good gifts to those who ask him!”  Many people picture God as someone who is angry, and ready to lash out in judgment.  God is a judge, the one judge who always makes the right decision.  But Jesus wants to assure us that our Heavenly Father wants to bring good to us, to help us in life.

This is why God first sends Jesus, to take care of our biggest problem – sin.  God wants to forgive your sin (and mine) so we can have a clear and clean relationship with him. 

God then leads us and guides us.  He shows us his way of living is better.  As Andy Stanley puts it, “Following Jesus will make your life better and will make you better at life.”  Think about it.  If you do what Jesus says and forgive those who make your life difficult, you will live a better life.  If you live by Jesus’ teaching that it is better to give than receive, you will find joy in sharing deeper than having more possessions.  If you treat people as people made in God’s image, not objects of lust and desire, you will have deeper, more authentic relationships.  Our Heavenly Father, through Jesus, wants to give you this better life.

Though my children are grown and married, I still want to give them a better life.  I want to do all I can to show them my love.  Yes, secretly I am glad that none of them asked me to dig them a ditch on the beach.  But if they had asked, I would have said “yes,” and grabbed my shovel.

I can imagine our Heavenly Father asking us to open our eyes and see what he has already done for us, to see how he has already blessed us.  He might invite us to imagine what he might do in the future. What he has done for us is better than a ditch that the next tide will wash away.  What he has done for us will last forever.

End of the Line …

There were two events recently that marked the end of the line.

The first was a fire that destroyed the historic sanctuary of First Baptist Church, Dallas. The sanctuary was built in 1890. Southern Baptist greats like George Truett, W.A. Criswell, Billy Graham, and a host of others had preached in that historic place.

George Truett, now almost forgotten, is a hero of mine. He eloquently spoke for the separation of church and state, defended the work of Southern Baptists when the convention was under attack, and was the preeminent preacher of the early 20th century.

During one trip to Dallas, I was privileged to stand behind that historic pulpit, literally in the footprints of Truett. I thought about all that God had done in that space and the power of God’s word proclaimed for over a hundred years. It was a humbling moment.

Now that space is gone. A four-alarm blaze resulted in structural failure. The roof collapsed and now the sanctuary, the stained glass, and the church history room – all gone.

Of course, buildings are simply tools to be used in ministry. Still, there is sadness that this great space reached the end of the line. The church must be thinking, “What do we do now?”

The other event, of course, was President Biden’s announcement that he is bowing out of the 2024 Presidential race. It is easy to forget that Joe Biden was once the youngest member of the Senate. His poor performance in the June debate caused his supporters to step back, his donors to withhold funds, and his poll numbers to plummet.

I cannot imagine what it is like to be the most powerful man in the world and feel abandoned by those you trusted. J.B. West, former chief usher at the White House, said all the first families hate to leave. Giving up the perks of power is hard. After spending most of his life in politics, it is now the end of the line for President Biden. I am sure he must be thinking, “What do I do now?”

Eventually, all of us face the end of the line. Something we love is destroyed. A marriage ends. Retirement beckons. You go to a family reunion and find you are the oldest one there. The diagnosis is cancer, and you are told you have months.

Most of us are not prepared for the end of the line. Almost 70% of Americans die without a will. Few people leave their family instructions about their funeral or the distribution of their possessions.

Many people do not prepare for retirement. I was at a restaurant not too long ago and my waitress was obviously in the senior citizen category. I made some comment saying she needed to retire, and she said, “I cannot afford to. I never thought I would be waiting tables at 74, but you do what you got to do.”

I remember a family back home who had canceled their homeowner’s insurance to save money. Within a year, their house burned to the ground. I remember the man saying, “I never thought this would happen to us.”

Jesus told us there would be an end. There would be signs, he said, but the end would come suddenly. He made it clear “No one knows about that day or hour, not even the angels in heaven, nor the Son, but only the Father.”  Never be fooled by someone who tells you they know the secret time of Jesus’ return. If the Father has not told Jesus, I doubt he will tell any of us.

Jesus goes on to say, “Therefore keep watch, because you do not know on what day your Lord will come.”  At the very least, this means we need to prepare for the end of the line.

I have stood beside more than one bedside to hear a man, or a woman say, “I know everyone dies preacher. I just did not think it would happen to me.”  Isn’t it funny how the one thing that should not be a surprise is a surprise to many?

You have heard “All good things come to an end.”  The original quote is from Geoffrey Chaucer, in 1374 who wrote: “All things come to an end.”  The word “good” was added centuries later. Chaucer understood that one day both good and bad will end. One day, whether by death or by the coming of Jesus, everything we know will end. Are you ready for the end of the line?

This is the great hope of Jesus, the great hope of the resurrection. The end of the line for us does not have to be destruction or riding off into the sunset. For Jesus followers, the end of the line is the beginning of a whole new chapter. And the title of that chapter is “Heaven.”

Assassinations …

One of my earliest memories, shortly after my fourth birthday, was being mad that my favorite cartoons were not on TV one Saturday morning. Instead, there were black and white images of a horse-drawn caisson, with a sober voice saying, “President Kennedy’s body is now being transferred to the Capitol Rotunda, where he will lie in state…”  It was the first assassination of a president since William McKinley, in 1901.

I remember the assassination of Martin Luther King, Jr. and the rioting that followed. Bobby Kennedy was assassinated two and half months later. I remember hearing Andy Williams sing “The Battle Hymn of the Republic” during his funeral service. In 1968, it felt like the world was coming apart.

I saw the footage of the assassination attempt of George Wallace in 1972. Later, when I was in college, I met Governor Wallace. He was oddly diminished and frail in his wheelchair, his life forever altered by Arthur Bremer.

I was in high school when there were two attempts on President Gerald Ford’s life, both in San Francisco. Both shooters missed and it felt like the nation escaped another tragedy.

I was on the balcony of my college dorm when I heard the news that Ronald Reagan had been shot. When he was wheeled into the operating room, he said to the team of doctors, “I hope you are Republicans.”  The chief surgeon replied, “Today, Mr. President, we are all Republicans.”  We all prayed for his recovery.

When I saw George W. Bush ducking the shoe thrown at him at a press conference, I was amazed. I thought how easily that could have been a bomb. When Barack Obama was elected, I was sure there would be some attempt on his life; thankfully, if there was one, it never succeeded.

I was troubled when I heard about the assassination attempt on former President Trump. When the news first broke, I wondered if it was a “fake” news story. It turned out to be horrifyingly real. Tragically, one man at the rally was killed, as was the shooter. Two others were critically wounded. A last-minute turn of his head caused a bullet to miss President Trump’s head and instead, merely nick his ear.  It was a miracle of millimeters.

Political assassinations are nothing new. Of the forty-two kings of Israel and Judah in the Old Testament, fifteen were assassinated. That’s about 35%.  It was a dangerous job. People back then (and today) were willing to kill to gain power, change the arc of history, and get rich. Politics was dangerous in the Bible. If you were caught on the wrong side of a regime change, you might be killed along with the former king.

Jesus was born into this brutal environment. Though not an emperor, Julius Caesar was assassinated by his friend Brutus (“Et tu, Brute?”).  Caesar Augustus was rumored to have been poisoned. Of the 77 emperors of the powerful Roman Empire, 37 were murdered.  It was the most dangerous job in the world. These kings were all killed because someone wanted their power or their position. Being the most powerful person in the world did not save them.

When Jesus came into the world, he did not seek political power. He refused the temptation when Satan offered him the kingdoms of the world. When the people came to make him king, he went up to the mountains to pray. When Pilate asked him, “Are you a King?” Jesus did not deny it. He said, “You say I that I am a king. For this, I was born and for this I came into the world, to testify to the truth. Everyone who hears my voice belongs to the truth.”   The Bible does not say this, but I have a feeling at this point, Pilate said to himself, “Huh?”

Jesus declared he was a different kind of King, a King who deals in truth, not in political power, a King not of this world, but of a Kingdom that was and is above all kingdoms that have ever been or ever will be. The deepest truth about our world and about ourselves is we are deeply broken, and we can’t fix ourselves, or our problems. The truth we sometimes hate to admit is we need a Savior. We need a different kind of King, and we need to live in a different kind of kingdom.

So, Jesus, this King of truth, who one day will be known as the King of Kings, allows himself to be assassinated – or crucified. Secret Service agents did not come to his rescue, though, as the old hymn proclaims, “He could have called Ten Thousand Angels.”  He willingly offered himself.

C.S. Lewis, in The Chronicles of Narnia, called this the deep and ancient magic. It was his way of trying to explain the deep work of God, to begin the unraveling of evil’s grip on his creation. The price required was the death of God’s own son, but the power of God thunders up in resurrection.

All the assassinations have not yet stopped, but we who follow Jesus believe that one day, one glorious day, the King of Kings will return to set right all that is wrong. On that day, every knee will bow, and every tongue confess that Jesus, the Christ, the King of Kings, is Lord, leader of all.

Until that day, we pray against the violence, we work for peace, and we live forward in hope.

Things You Think You Know…

From the Archives

Everyone knows that Adam and Eve ate the apple and got thrown out of the garden – right?  Actually, nowhere in the Bible is a specific fruit named.  John Milton in 1644 said it was an apple after French and German artists had depicted apples on the Forbidden Tree (personally, I think it was a guava).

Everyone knows that “God helps those who help themselves” is a verse in the Bible – right?  Actually, those words never appear in scripture.  In fact, the whole thought is contrary to the message of Jesus.  Other “verses” not in the Bible:  “God helps those who help themselves,” “Charity begins at home,” “Cleanliness is next to godliness,” “God works in mysterious ways,” and “This too shall pass.”

Everyone knows that Jesus was born on December 25th – right?  Actually, the Bible never tells us a specific date.  December 25th was decreed as the official day to celebrate Jesus’ birth by Pope Julius I in 350 AD. 

Everyone knows that Jonah was swallowed by a whale – right?  Actually, the Book of Jonah tells us he was swallowed by a “great fish.”  If this sounds like a fish tale, I’ve read stories about fish big enough to swallow other fish the size of a man.  This is one reason why I think noodling for catfish is not a good idea.

Everyone knows there were three wise men – right?  Actually, the Bible never tells us how many wise men there were, or their names.  It only tells us they brought three gifts:  gold, frankincense, and myrrh. 

Everyone knows the Bible says “Money is the root of all evil” – right?  Actually, that’s not what the Bible says.  1 Timothy 6:10 says, “For the love of money is the root of all kinds of evil.”  Money is amoral – meaning it is neither right or wrong.  It’s what we do with money and the meaning we attach to money that counts.  One man can save his money and sin, because he’s greedy; another man can save his money and be right with God because he is wise.  This requires some serious self-examination.

Everyone knows that Satan has red skin, a tail, horns, and a pitchfork – right?  Actually, there is no physical description of Satan anywhere in the Bible.  We do know he was an angel, and we know angels have an impressive physical presence, but that’s about it.  Our common image of Satan didn’t rise until the Dark Ages, when it was assumed the old Roman gods were evil spirits.  Satan began to be portrayed as a darker depiction of these gods.

Everyone knows that Sodom and Gomorrah were destroyed because people there were gay – right?  Actually, there’s a lot more to the story.  It is true that the men of Sodom demanded Lot hand over the angels who were visiting him, and it is true that they wanted to rape these men.  it is also true that God had decided long before this incident to destroy these cities.  Why?  Genesis tells us they were wicked, which meant they no longer cared about right or wrong.  All they cared about was their own agenda.  This might make us pause just a moment to ask if our own country cares about right and wrong…

Everyone knows that Mary Magdalene was a prostitute – right?  Actually, we are only told that seven demons were cast out of her.  There is no mention at all of her being a prostitute.  Pope Gregory I in the 6th century assumed that seven demons would be the equivalent to the seven deadly sins and made the leap of imagination.  Preachers have been doing this ever since.

Everyone knows that when a person dies, they become an angel – right? Actually, there is nothing in the Bible that even hints that people become angels.  Angels are a different order of being than humans.  It sounds like a comforting thought, but God already has all the angels he needs.

Just because everyone “knows” something doesn’t mean it’s true.  Depending on someone else to tell you what is true is like depending on someone else to take your medicine for you.  Life just doesn’t work that way.  You are responsible for your own spiritual journey, for your own understanding of truth.

So, dig in.  Read.  Reflect.  Ask questions.  You may find out that what you know is not worth knowing.  Maybe, just maybe, you will find the truth.  If you know the truth, Jesus said, it will set you free.  That’s something everyone needs to know.

Fourth of July …

This Fourth of July will be a quiet one for me.  I will catch up on some chores, take a nap, feed my cows, and grill some hamburgers.  It is my right as an American to spend the day as I choose.

If I lived in North Korea, I might be forced to attend a parade in honor of the great leader.  If I lived in Russia, I might be hiding from a military draft.  If I lived in Ukraine, I might wearily be shouldering my weapon for another day of battle.

I might watch some TV or read a book.  I’m sure I will check my social media accounts, just to see what’s going on in the world.

If I lived in China, I could only watch a few channels on state-approved media.  My internet options would be limited.

I am certain on the Fourth I will pray to my God in the name of my Savior Jesus.  I will read my Bible, as I do every day. 

If I lived in Iran, I would have to pray in secret and worship in secret.  To follow any other God other than Allah might be risking death.

While I am driving out to feed the cows, I might get stopped by a Deputy Sheriff for speeding (it has happened before). I would expect to give him my license and registration, receive my ticket, and pay my fine.

If I lived in Mexico, I might have to pay a bribe to the police officer so I would not go to jail.  Or the officer who stopped me might not be a policeman at all; he might be a member of a drug gang.  I might be robbed or shot.

I will probably read the news on a couple of websites on the Fourth.  That’s my daily habit.  I might be depressed about the politics and division in our country and be frustrated about the candidates presented to me for office.

If I lived in Venezuela, I would be living under the brutal regime of Nicholas Madura, who oppresses dissenters and has lowered the standard of living of his country by 42 spots in his ten years of rule. 

When I lay down for my nap, I will not be afraid of a surprise attack on my home.  I know first responders are out there to protect me.  A strong US military will keep watch while I snore. 

If I lived in Israel or Gaza, I would be afraid of a rocket attack, or a tank bulldozing its way through my neighborhood.  I would live with the anxiety of not having a secure place.

I can go to the store to buy hamburgers on the Fourth and be reasonably sure there will be food there.  If the store is out of hamburgers, I can find chicken to grill.  If worse comes to worse, I can get a frozen pizza.  The grocery store always has something for me to eat.

If I lived in South Sudan, I would wonder where my next meal is coming from.  I would worry if there is enough to feed my children.  I would move slowly, not because I am lazy, but because I would be too weak from lack of proper nutrition.

I will do my chores around my yard and my house.  Sometimes I wonder why we have such a big house; there is just the two of us and the dog.  But there is room for all the kids when they come home and lots of room for the grandson to play. 

If I lived in Hong Kong, I might make a lot of money, but my home would be about a fourth of the size of my home.  I would have no yard but would live in a high-rise.  I would live in an exciting city, but I would also live in a noisy place where you cannot see the stars.

I realize there are places in the United States where there is violence and corruption, hunger and oppression, restrictions and constraints.  But overall, I am blessed to live in a country that provides more freedom, and more privileges than any other country in history.  When the Fathers of our country declared our independence from Great Britain, they opened the door to freedom.  That freedom had to be fought for and defended.  It must still be protected by our military, but also by our own votes and voices. Being an American citizen is a blessing.

Like all blessings, I must ask: Why has God blessed me in such a way?  Why was I not born in North Korea, or Russia, or China, or Venezuela?  Why am I so privileged?  I did nothing to deserve citizenship; I did not earn it.  My citizenship in this country is a gift.

This Fourth of July, I need to thank God for the gift of my country.  And I must ask, how do I use this gift to honor Him.

Weaning Calves …

I weaned my calves about four weeks ago.  For those of you not familiar with what this entails, I separated the calves from their mommas.  This is stressful, as you might imagine, but necessary.  The calves have been nourished by their mommas for about six months.  Now the cows have new calves inside that need their momma’s nutrition.  Plus, the cows were bred as young heifers.  They are not done growing themselves. 

Weaning is stressful.  The calves have been eating grass and feed for some time, but they were still getting some milk from their mommas.  When you cut a calf off from the good stuff, they are not happy.  Plus, they were secure under the protection of their mommas.  The cows were not particularly happy, either.  They produced milk for six months and now there was a build-up of supply before their bodies recognized milk was no longer needed.  I have no idea how that feels, but by the way some of them bellow, I think it must be painful.

The first afternoon of weaning, there was not much interaction between the calves and the cows.  They were separated by an electric fence and were interested in their own grazing.  It was that evening when the conversation started.  I don’t speak cow, but I am pretty sure the calves were saying, “We want the good stuff.”  The cows were saying, “It is painful to hold this in!”

It took a couple of days for everyone to settle down.  The calves have caught on that they have their feed trough.  The cows seem relieved to be eating for two, instead of three (think about it).  The bull seems happy, because none of this impacts him, which pretty much describes every male I have ever known, including myself.

In Psalm 131:2, there are these strange words: “But I have calmed and quieted myself, I am like a weaned child with its mother; like a weaned child I am content.”  We read these words, and they sound so peaceful.  But weaning a child, like weaning a calf, is not a peaceful experience.  The baby has a bond with his or her mother while breastfeeding.  To break that bond is painful.  What is the psalmist trying to tell us?

When we begin our walk with Jesus, it is wonderful.  We realize we have someone on our side.  Our sins are forgiven.  We see God’s hand at work, a hand we didn’t recognize until we started following Jesus.  We see prayers answered.  We become aware of the supernatural.  The love of God flows around us.

But there comes a time when God says, “I want you to grow.  I want you to develop spiritual maturity.  I am not going to answer every prayer request the way you want.  You may not feel my presence as much.  I haven’t left you.  But for you to grow, for our relationship to grow, you need to be weaned.  It is time for you to learn a healthy relationship is not just about receiving, but also about giving.  I want you not just to receive my love, but to love me in return.”

It is at this stage many of us feel the absence of God.  We are tempted to stop reading our Bibles or stop praying.  We wonder why we don’t feel so close to God.  I think if we prayed, he would explain, but most of us do not seek an answer.  We simply feel the pain.  It is at this point I have seen people turn away from church.  Some even turn away from God. 

I wish I could tell you that this will only happen once in your walk with Jesus.  It has happened to me several times throughout my life.  None have been pleasant.  Each time has been necessary. 

I think I finally understand what the psalmist was trying to teach us.  A weaned child can be in the presence of their mom and not need what they used to need.  The relationship has moved to a new level.  The child can learn to be present with their mother and can give something back.

I’ve thought about when I was a child and I sat with Mama on the screened-in porch, watching the rain she had prayed for.  We really didn’t talk much.  We just listened to the rain on the tin roof, watched the puddles form around the avocado tree and the wind blow the orange trees back and forth.  All we had to do was be.  Those were some of the most peaceful moments I’ve ever known.

Part of walking with Jesus is to prepare for heaven.  Heaven ultimately is the place we will simply be with God.  Like a weaned child I will be calm because I am with my Heavenly Father, and being with him is enough.

Losing It …

It happens more often now than it used to.  My wife and I will be talking about someone, and I can’t remember his or her name.  Usually, it is some person I have known for a long time, but I don’t see regularly.  After a few minutes, their name pops up in my memory.  I guess my memory processor runs a little slower these days.

I can’t find the remotes for one of our TVs.  I have looked in all the familiar places.  I am certain I put it someplace and told myself, “Remember where you put this.”  We are still searching the house.

Yes, I am one of those people who from time to time look for their keys while the keys are in my hand.  When this happens, I feel very stupid and a little bit frightened.  A fearful thought runs through my mind: “Do I have Alzheimer’s?”

This is a real fear for me.  When my mother turned seventy, she began to have some strange behaviors.  It started small; she ran a stop sign, hit another car, and bumped her head on the windshield.  She checked out okay, but she began to repeat herself.  Soon my conversations with her were so predictable, that I could recite her lines.  We had to take her car keys away from her, over her protests.

She went to see several doctors.  My stepfather chose not to go in to hear the doctor’s assessments, perhaps as a way of continuing his own denial.  When I called Mama to ask how the appointments went, the response was always the same, “Well, he said I don’t have Alzheimer’s.”  Now, I am pretty sure we were not getting the whole story.

She forgot how to cook, and increasingly lived in the past.  At one point, she reconnected with an old friend from high school, and they made plans to run away together.  He too had Alzheimer’s, was on oxygen, and had a cane.  It hurt my stepfather, but he could no longer stay in denial.

Mama got to the point she could not walk or bathe herself.  We brought in help to care for her.  Years before she made us promise not to put her in a nursing home.  We promised.  It was an expensive promise to keep.  Mama wound up bed-bound, requiring someone to stay around the clock.  By this point, my stepfather needed help too.  My childhood home became a nursing facility.

Mama lost her ability to communicate.  During my visits, I would read her Bible Stories, like she had read to me when I was a child.  I sang hymns and told her I loved her.  I would try to tell stories of the old days.  Sometimes, a tear would roll down her cheeks.  I hoped that was a sign that somewhere inside the shell of her body, my mother still remained. 

Pop passed away in 2010.  Mama lingered two more years before passing away, having suffered from Alzheimer’s for seventeen years.  She had really left us ten years before her body quit.

According to the National Institutes of Health, memory loss is a normal part of aging.  Dementia is not.  Just because you forget something doesn’t mean you are losing it.  It doesn’t mean you have dementia.

I know some people struggle with the idea of aging and not being as cognitively present as they once were.  This can lead to depression or anxiety, which tends to make the problem worse.  I’m no expert, but I know people who withdrew from life because they were afraid they would make a mistake or call someone by the wrong name.  I’ve also known people who became so anxious about losing it, they made their memory problems worse.

If you are struggling with memory, write yourself notes.  Exercise.  Claim the wisdom you gained by living through multiple decades and share it.  If it is something more serious, check with your doctor.  And if you get a diagnosis you don’t like, don’t give up.  Your family needs you.  Some family members need time to realize you are no longer super-dad or super-mom.  Others need a chance to care for you.  It can be a spiritual time for you – realizing you are dependent on the grace of your Heavenly Father, no matter how independent you thought you were.  God will be present in your mind and soul in ways you cannot share with the outside world.

As my mother went through this journey, I found myself praying for her peace.  In Philippians, Paul says, “The peace of God, which passes all understanding, will guard your hearts and minds in Christ Jesus.”  I may not have been able to communicate with Mama, but God’s peace could guard her heart and mind. 

The promise for all of us to hold is this: no matter how forgetful we become; God never forgets us.  Isaiah 49:15 says, “Can a woman forget her nursing child, that she should have no compassion on the son of her womb? Even these may forget, yet I will not forget you.”  Even if your Mama forgets you, God never forgets you.  He knows you and walks with you always.

When you forget, pray that God will help you remember.  He might even help you find the missing remote.

Dog in the Ditch …

One day, we might finally get a dog that we choose.  That hasn’t been the case for a long time.  We had two beagles that became ours.  Their mother was a gift to my daughter for her eighth birthday.  She had puppies.  The kids wanted to keep all six, but we settled on keeping two.  One of them lived for thirteen years, well past the time of my daughter’s college graduation.

We also inherited Moo, my son’s Christmas present.  He was a purebred Great Swiss Mountain dog.  When my son went to school in New York City, he stayed with us and became ours.  He was easily the most expensive dog we ever owned, with all sorts of medical problems. 

When Gina’s dad passed away, we inherited his dog, Sadie.  Sadie was fearless and a gem.  But in a terrible year of COVID and my brother passing away, we lost both Moo and Sadie.  We were dogless for the first time in our married life.

Then my son went to study in Egypt.  We asked what we could do to help.  He said, “Could you keep our dog while I am away.  One less thing for us to worry about.”  We said, “Of course,” and Rags came to live with us.

I am not one to brag, but when Rags came to live with us, he started his best life ever.  He went on long walks, helped herd cows, and found the joy of chasing squirrels in the neighborhood. 

We were walking Rags the other day and took him off the leash behind a church near our house.  He quickly smelled squirrel activity and went bounding off into the woods.  When I say, “bounding,” I mean it literally.  He is the only dog I have ever known who literally springs forward on all four legs, like Peppy Le Pew in the old cartoons. 

He was chasing a squirrel near a deep ditch when he went missing.  We called for him, but he didn’t return.  That was unusual.  We hustled over to the ditch and sure enough, there was Rags – happy, tongue out, celebrating chasing squirrels out of the ditch.  He did look puzzled, however, as he began to realize he did not know how to get out of the ditch.

Gina said, “I’ve got to find a way to get down there.”  I told her she was not going into the ditch; I was.  I had my reasons.  First, the ditch was ten feet deep and I am six feet, one inch tall.  I have a height advantage.  Second, I have male pride.  I did not say this out loud, but I thought, “No wife of my mine is going in the ditch to get the dog, leaving me up here.”  Gina did say something about me having a bad knee, but I reminded her it had been repaired by the best doctor in town.

Getting into a ditch is easy.  Just swing your legs over the ditch, inch forward and slide.  I found a little ledge about four feet from the bottom.  Rags, sensing deliverance was near, jumped on the ledge.  I grabbed him by his harness and vaulted him up to Gina.  Mission accomplished.  Almost. 

Having rescued the dog, I needed to rescue myself.  The banks of the ditch were almost vertical and there was no place to get a handhold.  I slid down to the bottom of the ditch (which thankfully was dry) and looked for a better place.  And I looked.  Finally, I spotted another small ledge.  I got a toe hold and worked my way up to it, still about six feet from the top.

Gina, who has a good heart, offered me her hand and said, “Let me try to pull you up.”  I knew that was a bad idea.  Without getting into specifics, let me just say, I outweigh her by a considerable amount.  It would be like a toy Jeep trying to pull a semi.

Gina then said, “Will we have to call the Fire Department?”  I said, “Absolutely not!”  I could see the headlines: “Local Pastor pulled out of Ditch by Sumter Fire Dept.”  Imagine what social media would do with that headline.  I was considering asking her to go back home and get my truck and some rope, but I held off on that request.

I spotted a small root and grabbed it.  It held.  Using the root, I pulled myself up and then caught hold of a small tree, then heaved myself back up on the bank.  There was nothing to do but laugh, wipe the dirt off, and start the journey home.

Walking home, I thought about all the times I have gotten myself in the ditch.  I was just having fun, not thinking of the consequences.  The next thing I knew, I was stuck in a place with no way out.  The Good News is my Savior Jesus got in the ditch with me and got me out.  He had to get dirty with my sin, my poor judgment, my mistakes, to do it.  But my dirt never scared Jesus off.  Neither will yours.  He is ready to get you out of the ditch.

The Safest Place to Hide from God …

Samuel’s boys got into the family business of serving in the tabernacle.  They did not, however, see it as a holy calling. For them, it was an opportunity to create a good life for themselves.  The rule was the choice parts of the animal being offered were to be burned up as an offering for God.  Samuel’s boys sent a servant in to spear the good parts for themselves.  They used their positions of power to seduce and sleep with the young women who served at the entrance to the tabernacle.  They were not the first nor the last “servants of God” to abuse their position.

The same thing happened with the chief priests in Jesus’ time.  Collaborating with the Romans ensured they retained their positions of power and wealth.  Backed by Roman military power, they continued to operate a money-changing scam in the Temple.  They required all offerings to be paid in “Temple money.”  All other money had to be exchanged (for a high fee).  The money changers got a cut and so did the chief priests.

You would think Jesus' followers would be above this sort of thing.  We’re not.  The papacy was bought, sold, and traded in the Middle Ages.  The church sold “indulgences,” which supposedly suspended the punishment for sin by giving an “offering.”  In reality, funds were needed to pay for a new St. Peter’s church in Rome.  Indulgences were a different way to raise money for the building fund.

It seems like hardly a week goes by without hearing that another pastor has used church funds to buy a jet or to build himself a mansion.  On a smaller scale, I heard of one pastor who insisted on ordering the food for church suppers.  He always ordered extra, then took the extra home because he “didn’t want it to go to waste.”  A ham here and there adds up. 

I’ve heard pastors make all kinds of excuses through the years.  One pastor said he didn’t tithe because his church didn’t pay him enough.  Another pastor told me he found it difficult to pray because he was too busy for God.  Then there was a pastor who served a church that averaged about eighty people.  He told his deacons he didn’t have time to go to the hospital because he needed to “spend time in the word.”  The deacon who told me this added, “He needs to spend less time in the word and more time in the world.”

At our church we once had a man who was chairman of the deacons, chairman of the Stewardship Team, and chairman of the Personnel Team.  You’ve heard of the girl “who just can’t say ‘no?’”  He was the deacon who just couldn’t say no.  I told him it was too big a load for one person.  He insisted it wasn’t.  I asked him how his prayer life was.  He said he prayed every night when he went to bed.  I asked how many times he fell asleep during his prayers.  He was honest enough to say every night.  I gently told him if he was so busy for God that he fell asleep talking to God, he was too busy.

What I have come to realize is the safest place to hide from God is to be busy for God.  We fool ourselves into believing our effort for God is the same as having a relationship with God.  It’s not.  We need time to be still and know he is God.  As Dallas Willard said, “God’s joy is you becoming the person he made you to be.”  Doing for God is good; becoming who God wants you to be is better.

To become the person God wants us to be, we must spend enough time with Jesus to be like him.  Not only do we need to know his teaching, but we also need to talk about his teaching with him.  It is not enough to read, “Love your enemies.”  I must then talk with God so I can identify my enemies.  I must think through what it means to love them.  Then I must ask God for help in actively loving my enemy.

Unfortunately, I can serve God without growing my character to be like Jesus.  This seems to be the safest way to hide from God.  But when pressure comes – and it will – my true character comes out.  If I have been hiding from God and not doing character growth work, what comes out can be Ugly, with a capital “U.”

If you find yourself busy for God, be sure to ask, “Am I really serving, or am I hiding?”

The ER on a Hot Night with a Full Moon …

During my seminary days, I was a hospital chaplain one summer.  Unfortunately, I drew my first night on call over Memorial Day weekend.  University Hospital was the Level III trauma center for Central Kentucky, so all the gunshot victims, car accident survivors, and drug overdoses came to our Emergency Room.

As I reported for duty, one of the nurses warned me it would be a busy night.  “It’s Memorial Day weekend and a full moon,” she said.  “Plus, it will stay in the 80’s tonight.  That’s three strikes.  Don’t expect to get any rest tonight.”  She was right.

I had been on duty for about an hour when the first accident victims came in.  There were screams of pain as the doctors and nurses swarmed around the stretchers.  The man had a broken leg; the woman had lacerations to her head and fractured ribs.  At the appropriate time (after they gave them something for the pain), I prayed with them.  They both told me their accident was a wake-up call from God.  They were stitched up, put in casts, and discharged.  I hope they stayed awake for God.

The next trauma case was two guys in a bar fight.  Lots of stitches.  Other folks were in the ER waiting room with various aches and pains.  One man had an ice bag he held against his head.

It was about 9:00 PM when I was paged up to Labor and Delivery.  There was a woman in the stirrups, sweating and panting.  An anxious young man by her side looked at me and asked, “Are you the preacher?”  I told him yes, deciding this was not the moment to distinguish between “chaplain” and “preacher.”  He said, “We want to get married.”  She let out a soft moan.  I replied, “That’s probably a good idea.”  He looked at me as if I wasn’t getting the message.  “Can you do it now?” he asked.  She moaned again, a little louder this time. 

Never in my short ministerial career had I been asked to perform a wedding with such urgency.  I asked if they had a license.  This earnest young man, in all sincerity, asked, “You need a license to get married?”  I explained being married in the eyes of God and in the eyes of the state, but I kept my explanation short.  The woman’s moans were louder and coming more often.  It turned out he wanted to be sure the baby had his last name.  When he discovered they could give the baby his last name without being married, his anxiety diminished. 

It was midnight when I made it back down to the ER.  I was walking by a gurney when a resident grabbed me and said, “Hold this guy down.”  They were about to do a gastric lavage to see if there was internal bleeding.  I watched as they sliced open the man’s skin, then inserted a tube to see if there was any blood.  This particular ministerial duty was not covered in seminary.  I had dreams about that procedure for a long time.  Once they packed off the tube, the resident tapped me on my shoulder and said, “Nice work, Chap.”  That was the only time I have ever been praised for my skill of holding people down.

I looked in on a drug addict who was in restraints.  He was coming off a bad trip and didn’t want to talk to the chaplain. 

In another bay, there was a body with a sheet over it.  The doctor saw me and said, “Come with me, Chap.  I’m about to tell the family he didn’t make it.”  We walked into the consultation room, and I saw the anxious eyes of the family scan the doctor’s face.  They were crying before he started to speak.  He told them the nature of the injuries, and how they had tried to save their loved one.  But, the doctor said, he succumbed to his injuries.  An old man, maybe the deceased’s father, said, “What does “succumbed” mean?  The doctor hesitated and it fell to me to say, “It means he passed away.”  Tears ran down the old man’s face.  I prayed with the family, knowing my words would not take away the pain.  They had started the day with plans and chores and before the next day dawned, their lives had changed forever.  The family’s pastor showed up shortly thereafter, and it was plain to see he was better able to minister to that family than I was.

At about 2:00 AM a young girl was brought in to have her stomach pumped.  She had swallowed a bunch of pills to prove a point to her boyfriend.  When I talked to her, she said she couldn’t believe she was so stupid.  She hadn’t really wanted to kill herself; she just wanted him to pay attention to her. 

There were a few more car accident victims that night, one burn case from someone whose grill got away from him (who grills at 3:00 AM?).  Around 5:00 AM, things started to slow down.  The guy with the gastric lavage had the tube removed and was headed upstairs to a room.  The drug overdose guy let me pray with him.  I checked back with the couple in Labor and Delivery.  The baby had arrived and was doing fine.  There was no further mention of marriage.

My relief showed up at 8:00 AM and I went back to my dorm room, exhausted.  Before I drifted off to a fitful sleep, I thought about all I had seen on that hot, full-moon night.  This thought crossed my mind: Jesus loved every one of those people I saw.  He loved the accident victims, the drug overdose girl, the odd couple in Labor and Delivery, the guy who didn’t make it, his family, plus all the doctors and nurses, and the very tired student chaplain.  He was at work in each of those lives.  The hot, full-moon night didn’t chase him away.

His Life Mattered...

Mac Hammond grew up at Alice Drive Baptist Church.  I don’t really know much about him, but I knew his mother.  I would imagine that Mac, like most boys in the sixties, got through school, liked girls, hoped to settle down one day, and have a family.

He graduated in 1965 from Edmunds High School, which was not a good year if you were not going to college.  There was a high probability you would be drafted and sent to Vietnam.  You could also volunteer, which Mac did.  He enlisted in the Marines, went through basic at Parris Island, and was assigned to Company H, 2 Division battalion, 5th Marines – infantry, Vietnam.

If you talk to men who served in the infantry in Vietnam, they will tell you it was a frustrating war.  Battlelines were non-existent.  The Viet Cong fought a guerilla war.  They would occupy a village, fortify it, dig tunnels underneath it, and defend it.  When troops came to flush them out, they would engage in a battle, then melt away into the jungle or disappear into the tunnels.  You could not tell who was a civilian and who was a combatant.  It was a war of deep frustration.

Mac’s company was airlifted into the Quang Tri province as part of Operation Prairie.  On October 11, 1966, Company H faced North Vietnam troops in the village Thon Huong Thanh.  The North Vietnamese were in fortified positions.  Airstrikes were called in to force the North Vietnamese to flee.  Gunfire was exchanged.  Mac was hit by enemy fire and was killed.  He was nineteen. 

His family learned of his death when a photo of his body being carried by Company H soldiers appeared in LIFE magazine.  It would be weeks before official notice came from the State Department. 

The photo, by Larry Burrows, became famous.  It was often used to depict the death of a soldier and the brotherhood of those he fought beside.  One year, on Memorial Day, our church put together a montage of photos as a background for honoring those who died for our country.  Not knowing the connection, we included Mac’s photo.  After the first service, several long-timers at church came up to me and told me, “That photo must be taken out.  That is a picture of Lydia Hammond’s son the day he died.” 

I was shocked.  It had been just another picture to me.  At that moment, the picture became a person.  We immediately took the picture out.  Every year when we sought to honor those who fought and died for our country, I made sure that picture was never displayed again.

Though I was Lydia’s pastor for over twenty-five years, she never mentioned her son, never mentioned his death, never mentioned the picture.  Some memories are to be kept in the quiet places of the soul.

I looked up Thon Huong Thanh.  It is still a small village in Vietnam.  I am sure few, if any, remember that day of bombs, napalm, and bullets.  Operation Prairie was considered a success by the US military.  But in Vietnam, all success was temporary.  The battle at Thon Huong Thanh was an engagement that never made the headlines.  It was never a battle that turned the tide, but it was a battle that left heartbreaks for families.

It might be important for some people to ask, “Why did Mac have to die?  What was the point?”  There is a restless part of our souls that wants answers to questions that have no answers.  What I know for sure is Mac wasn’t planning to die at nineteen.  I don’t know what he hoped and dreamed, but every nineteen-year-old I have known has hopes and dreams. 

This Memorial Day, we remember and honor those who died in service of our country.  Some died to secure our independence.  Some died to keep our country united.  Some died to preserve freedom.  Some died to punish our enemies.  And yes, some died in wars that we still wonder about, if those wars were worth fighting. 

But those who died, their lives mattered.  They deserve to be remembered.  They deserve to be honored.  When we moved Memorial Day to Monday, instead of its traditional date of May 30th, we lost something of the specialness of the day.  Yes, posting flags and memes on Facebook is a way to honor them, but it requires so little effort.

What we can do is remember.  On this Memorial Day, I will choose to remember Lance Corporal Leland Emanuel “Mac” Hammon, killed in action, October 11, 1966.  I will remember he served.  I will remember his Mama.  And I will pray for peace.

The Banker…

In one small town lived an unusual banker.  He was known for taking chances on people.  His bank didn’t run on committees or send decisions to Charlotte; he’d make a loan at the lunch counter of the drugstore.  It didn’t matter if you needed $500 or $5,000, he’d listen, give advice, and more often than not, give you the loan.

One day, before the bank opened, two men were waiting outside.  The banker recognized them both.  He’d loaned Al $5,000 to buy some chicken feed; he’d loaned Joe $50,000 to start a restaurant.  Both men had furrowed brows, their heads down.

The banker greeted the men, unlocked the door of the bank, and invited them in.  Al said, “I need to speak to you, sir, in private if I can.”  The banker told Joe to wait a minute, invited Al into his office, and closed the door.

Al took a seat in front of the desk, looked at the floor, and started to speak: “I don’t know how to tell you this, but you know that $5,000 I borrowed for chicken feed?  Well, I bought the feed, and gave it to my chickens, but it must have been poisoned, because I went out the next day and all 800 of my chickens were dead.  Nobody wants to buy dead poisoned chickens.  You know I was counting on those chickens to grow out.  I was going to sell them, and then pay you back.  But now, I’m busted.  I can’t pay.  I don’t know what I’m going to do.”

The banker looked at this defeated man, and said, “Al, it’s okay.  I’m going to forgive this loan.  You don’t have to pay me a dime.”

Al looked shocked.  “You can’t do that.  I’ll pay you back someday, I promise.”  Both Al and the banker knew that was a lie, but it made Al feel better to say it. 

“Al,” said the banker, “don’t you worry about it.  Take this load off your shoulders.  Go home and start over.” 

Al got up, choked up, and hugged the banker.  Al said, “I’ll never forget this.  Never.  Thank you.”

Al walked out of the office and the banker motioned for Joe to walk in.  He wore the troubled look Al had worn just a few minutes ago. 

Joe took the same seat as Al, looked at the floor, and started to speak: “I don’t know how to tell you this, but you know that $50,000 I borrowed to start my restaurant?  Well, last night I got careless with my stove and had a grease fire.  It’s my fault; I was being stupid.  The whole building burned to the ground.  I lost my furnishings, my inventory, my building … everything.”

The banker said, “Well, now don’t worry.  Insurance will cover it.  You’ll rebuild.”

Joe dropped his head again.  “Well, I don’t know how to tell you this, but see a couple of months ago, things got tight, and I let my insurance coverage lapse.  I don’t have any coverage.  I made a bad mistake and now, I’m busted.  I got no way to pay you.”

The banker got up from his chair and went around his desk.  He took a seat beside Joe and said, “Joe, letting your insurance lapse was a mistake.  Not paying attention to your stove was a mistake.  Here’s what I’m going to do.  I’m going to forgive your loan.  You don’t have to pay it back.  Instead, I’m going to be your partner.  We’ll go into business together and start over.  I think together we can build you a better business and a better life.”

Joe stammered, “You’d take a chance on me?  Even after I screwed up?” 

The banker smiled and said, “That’s what I do; I invest in people so they can have a better life.”

Joe burst into tears.  Never in his dreams did he believe he would be given another chance.

After Joe left, the banker went back to his desk with a smile.  Another day of grace had begun.

Jesus told several variations of this story.  The point was always the same, though we missed it.  The point is not that the debt was forgiven.  The point is not the gratitude of the two debtors.  The point of the story is how rich the banker is, that he can forgive debt, no matter what size. 

Jesus is so rich in grace and mercy, that he forgives every sin.  You cannot overdraw his grace balance.

Before you invest your life, know who is the banker of your soul.

Retirement…

Last Sunday, after serving for thirty years as pastor of Alice Drive Baptist Church, I announced my intention to step down once a new pastor has been found. 

This whole experience has been a bit unreal. First, the average pastor in North America stays about five to seven years. One friend of mine is currently in his fifth pastorate – and he is ten years younger than me. I never dreamed I would stay at one church this long. I’ve had opportunities to go elsewhere but never felt led to go.   

Second, to stay at one church for thirty years means I am thirty years older. This does not seem possible. I began serving Alice Drive when I was thirty-four. I had two small children. My youngest was born in my second year at the church. Back then, we had two other children in the nursery. A baby boom followed. Some of the kids born in my first years are now married and have children of their own. How could this be? In my mind, I am still in my early thirties, no matter what my mirror says. 

Third, people refer to this as “retirement.”  When I shared this news with our church, several people my age who have already retired told me, “You will love retirement.”  I am sure I will enjoy having great control of my schedule, but I really don’t have a model for retirement. My stepfather retired after thirty-seven years with S.H. Kress, then went to work the next week at the ranch, where he worked another thirty years. My father-in-law went to work every day up until a few weeks before his death. So, I am not thinking about retirement; I am thinking about this as the beginning of another chapter. 

I plan to write more, spend more time with the cows, and do some consulting – after I spend the first month sleeping. But that will have to wait until a new pastor arrives. 

People told me the new pastor will have big shoes to fill. I replied, “Not really. I wear a 10 – wide.”  I know they mean well, but I am not one of those guys who wants his successor to fail so he can prove how valuable he was. I think a new pastor will bring new ideas and new energy. I look forward to being his greatest encourager. 

What will I miss most about being a pastor? It’s hard to say. Since I will still be in my role for several more months, my tasks and schedule will not change much for now. I do enjoy seeing people take their next steps toward Jesus, whether it is a child professing their faith and saying they want to be baptized, an adult who is struggling with faith stepping through the doors for the first time, or a couple who begins to lead a LIFE Group and discovers this is their ministry. I enjoy preaching and teaching the scriptures; especially when I can help people discover something about God they did not know. I feel truly blessed that over my thirty years as pastor, I have walked beside people in some of the most important moments of their lives. I’ve celebrated their marriages and the birth of their children. I’ve been at the hospital when they faced injury or illness (the stories I could tell). I’ve tried to counsel them through tough moments in life and marriage. I’ve walked with them to the final resting place of their loved ones. No seminary professor ever explained how sacred these moments are when you sense and feel the holiness of God. 

I do have regrets. Too often, I put the church ahead of my wife and my children. I wish I had developed better ways of taking care of myself physically and emotionally. I was far too sensitive about what people said about me instead of listening to what God wanted for me.   

Strangely, I also regret running out of time. There are things I wished I’d had a chance to do that I won’t. There are still sermons I want to preach, ministries I want to launch, and people I want to tell about Jesus. Of course, I will still be able to do some of those things, but not as a pastor. I recently told my wife, “I just realized Alice Drive will be the last church I will ever pastor.”   

My friend Dave Travis, who works with large churches in their transitions, tells me the average church takes about eight months to a year to find a new pastor. I’ve got some time. In these last months, I am going to enjoy my job. Psalm 126:3 says, “The Lord has done great things for us, and we are filled with joy.”

 The truth is, there is a time limit on all of us. Solomon told us in Ecclesiastes that the best thing we can do is enjoy our work while we can. It has been a joy to serve the people of Alice Drive, and I look forward to our last few months together.

Storms…

Trivia question: What place on Earth has more thunderstorms than any other? 

Answer: The Tampa Bay area in Florida.  As the crow flies, it is forty-eight miles from the ranch to Tampa.  We get our fair share of thunderstorms.  As people say, in the summer, you can set your watch by the storms: every afternoon at about four, lightning pops and rain falls.

Even as a child, storms fascinated me.  I would go out on the screened-in porch and watch the rain pour off the steep roof of the Old House.  For some reason, lightning didn’t scare me.  It should have.  The lightning rods on the Old House were not grounded.  Lightning would hit the rods, run down the cable, and then arc into the ground.  I thought it was cool.  I remember the thunder shaking that frame house built by my great-grandfather.

At night, we could see storms dozens of miles away.  We watched the lightning arc across the sky and then stab at the earth.  The light show was better than the snowy picture on the TV. 

The Old House had a tin roof and no insulation.  Fat raindrops would beat against the roof, accelerating into sheets of rain sweeping across the house.  The best rain came at bedtime.  If you have never fallen asleep to the sound of heavy rain on a tin roof, you have never known true deep sleep.

Losing power was common.  We were literally at the end of the line.  There was no such thing as home generators in those days.  We had flashlights and candles.  If we lost power before bedtime, we’d play cards by candlelight.  I learned the basics of gin rummy by age five.  No power meant no water because we were on a well.  That meant we used the bathroom sparingly.  My brother and I had to stand on the back steps and … well, you know. 

I learned there was power in the storms.  After strong storms, we had to pick up limbs and pinecones.  Thankfully, God engineered oranges and cows to be able to withstand most thunderstorms.  Cows turn their backs to the wind.  Oranges stay on the tree until the wind gets over about fifty miles an hour.  Then you lose fruit.

One day, I was patching the fence.  I could see a storm coming about a mile away.  I was trying to finish when lightning struck about half a mile away.  I was holding onto the barbed wire, which caught the charge and traveled down the wire.  I was grounded, but the tingle that passed through me made my hair stand up.  I am convinced my hair loss began that day.

To this day, when a storm comes, I love to sit on the porch, feel the wind, and see the rain.  There is unexplained power in the storm.  I confess I envy Jim Cantore of the Weather Channel, standing out in the hurricanes.

Psalm 18 describes God coming to David’s rescue, riding on the storm.  He parted the heavens, dark clouds under his feet.  The dark rain clouds covered the sky around him.  Hail and lightning announced his presence.  God thunders from heaven and great bolts of lightning scatter David’s enemies.

David saw all God had done for him and knew there was an unexplainable power at work on his behalf.  He saw the storm served God; God did not serve the storm.  Maybe that is why Jesus was able to sleep through the violent storm on the lake that night.

 Job demanded to see God, and God appeared in the storm.  Have you ever heard how loud a storm can be?  God thunders out a reply to Job in the storm.  Job heard the voice of God, but more, he felt the power of the wind, the sting of the rain.  He felt the power and presence of God.  When the storm was over, he said, “I have heard of you with the hearing of the ear, but now I see you.”  You can’t explain a storm to someone who has never seen one.  You can’t explain God completely, but when you experience him, it changes your life.

Maybe that’s why I love storms.  It is the fresh wind of God, reminding me he has the power to do what I cannot do.  He is the powerful one, not me.  To see the storm is to marvel, praise, and respect him. 

Next time the wind blows, the thunder rolls, and the lightning strikes, pause.  Praise the God whose power cannot be explained.