Friday, October 13, 2017

40 Years Later

On October 8, 1977, way back in the last century, Dayna Vanderpool became Dayna McCallum, I and became a blessed man.  Two children and seven grandchildren later, I’m still a blessed man.  Forty years is a long time—a lot of joy, plenty of sorrow, victories, defeats, seasons when the love is strong, seasons when it’s not.  But 40 years later, we’re still making a life together. 

If a person is paying attention, he or she can learn some things in 40 years.  Here is some of what I’ve learned …

A large part of a long-term marriage is just showing up every day—good days, bad days, hard days, fun days.  Just keep showing up bringing whatever you can of yourself to your marriage that day.

Keeping Christ at the center of the marriage is the rock that never crumbles, the glue that never loses its stick, the peace that finds a way to prevail, and the promise that our entwined lives have a kingdom impact far beyond our address and our years.

Having a lot in common helps but it is not necessary.  Dayna and I don’t have a lot of common interests.  We don’t have much in common recreationally or even when it comes to the kinds of TV shows and movies we prefer.  She’s a night owl.  I’m an early bird.  Lots of differences.  But what we do hold in common is strong: faith in God, love for one another and our family, love for the church, and dogged commitment that marriage is for a lifetime.

Love grows.  Married love looks different 40 years later than it did on that October day in 1977.  There’s a maturity and a comfort to it that can only be shaped by years of living together.  Love grows wider and higher and deeper over time.

Marriage will make a Christian out of you.  You can’t have a 40-year marriage without practicing patience, forgiveness, compassion, service, mercy, perseverance, and sacrificial love.

Sometimes it only takes one.  Ideally, marriages take two to make them work—ideally.  But in the whirlwind that is a sinner married to a sinner trying to make a marriage in a broken, sinful world, sometimes it only takes one—one to hold the rope, one to keep the faith, one to stay emotionally invested.  Two is always better.  But sometimes it only takes one.  Dayna has usually been that one in those seasons of our marriage.

Words matter.  Words carry the power of life and death.  Hurtful words stick with the recipient a long time, corroding the soul like a slow-working acid.  Life words renew, build confidence, and bring joy.  Words matter.  Season them with grace.

Actions matter maybe a little bit more.  Over time, words without actions ring hollow.  They lose their meaning.  A spouse quits listening.  Actions matter.  Do for the other.

Promises are worth keeping.  Because of childhood issues, I brought more baggage into our marriage than a diva on a two-week trip to the South of France.  I had no dad to provide a model.  I had to make it up as we went along.  Dayna could have done better.  Certainly, she could have had it easier.  But she hung in there with patience and mercy.  She was determined to keep her promise.  So was I.  By keeping our promises in a Christian marriage we bear witness to a faithful Savior who keeps his promises to the church.  We bring him glory in spite of our imperfect marriage.  Promises are worth keeping.

There you go—some of what I’ve learned in 40 years of marriage.  I wish I had learned these things sooner.  I wish I had learned them better.  But I couldn’t wish for a better partner in the process than my wife Dayna.

In his poem “Stopping by Woods on a Snowy Evening,” Robert Frost wrote these memorable lines:

The woods are lovely, dark and deep,   
But I have promises to keep,   
And miles to go before I sleep,   
And miles to go before I sleep.

I don’t know how many miles or years we have to go in our marriage—certainly way less than we did 40 years ago—but this I know, we will continue to keep our promises for the glory of the one who keeps all his promises to us.  Happy Anniversary, Dayna.  I love you.

Wednesday, September 20, 2017

Pam Bland: Difference-Maker

Hot Springs said goodbye to Pam Bland today.  For 34 years Pam Bland gave direction to First Step, Inc.  First Step develops resources and provides care and opportunities for special needs individuals from birth through adulthood.  When Pam started her job First Step had 11 employees and a handful of clients.  When she retired a year ago, First Step had 1100 employees a couple of thousand clients and has spread to other counties in Arkansas.  Four of her friends and colleagues spoke at her funeral and described something of the incredible person Pam was.  By all means, Pam was a difference-maker.  I want you to know her too, so I’m attaching some of my comments from the funeral service.

***********

At the 2013 commencement speech at MIT, Drew Houston, the founder of Dropbox said:

When I think about it, the happiest and most successful people I know don't just love what they do, they're obsessed with solving an important problem, something that matters to them.  They remind me of a dog chasing a tennis ball:  Their eyes go a little crazy, the leash snaps and they go bounding off, plowing through whatever gets in the way …  So it's not about pushing yourself; it's about finding your tennis ball, the thing that pulls you.

Pam found her tennis ball.  And if she hadn’t been willing to snap the leash and chase it down relentlessly, if she hadn’t been that bulldog that grabs hold of your pant-cuff and won’t let go till you noticed her and heard her out, the lives of so many people and our whole community would be diminished.  She saw a need.  She felt it on a visceral level, and she took it on with the ferocity of a mama-lion protecting her cubs.  There’s just something about people like that, isn’t there?  There’s something that causes us to take note of what they are doing.  I read about a small town church burning to the ground one night.  Most of the community were there watching it burn, watching the volunteer fireman do their best to save the foundation.  A prominent church member noticed his neighbor next to him, sort of looked down his nose, and said, “Hmm.  First time I’ve ever seen you at this church.”  The neighbor replied, “First time I’ve ever seen it on fire.”  Pam was a woman on fire for the disabled.  A lot of us watched her burn for a long time.  And her passion set fire to many of you for the same cause.

And here’s the deal: Pam didn’t just see the cause; she saw the individual.  She saw the individual that many would rather ignore.  These people matter.  These people are not accidents, not mistakes, not rejects or factory-seconds.  Our disabled brothers and sisters are people of worth, created in the image of God, with all the dignity and meaning that goes with it.  God gives them to us to bless and to be a blessing.  That’s why Pam always steered First Step away from only taking care of the disabled to providing them the training, the resources, and the tools to take care of themselves to the upper limit of their capacities.

Pam saw the disabled as Jesus sees them.  In Jesus’ story of the judgment in Matthew 25, he describes the hungry, the thirsty, the inmate, the impoverished, the stranger, the sick, as “the least of these brothers and sisters of mine.”  Not the least in Jesus’ eyes but the least in the eyes of most of us.  Many of us view such needy people as helpless and even a burden.  In Dickens’ A Christmas Carol, Ebenezer Scrooge is asked for a donation to help the poor at Christmas.  “Don’t we have poor houses for such people?” asks Scrooge. The solicitors reply, "Those who are badly off must go there.  Many can't go there; and many would rather die."  To which Scrooge declared, "If they would rather die, they had better do it, and decrease the surplus population."  Though most would never say it, that’s the way many look at the poor, the needy, and the disabled.  We are too quick to evaluate people not in terms of being but in terms of doing.  That’s not the way Jesus looks at the them.  They are his little brothers and sisters.  And Jesus said in that parable, “When you love and help them, you love and help me.”  Whether she thought about it consciously or not, Pam saw Jesus in those she served.  And every time she served them, she served Jesus.

Pam has set a wonderful example for us all.  My prayer is that all of us will look at the needy and the disabled through Jesus’ eyes, through Pam’s eyes.  And maybe we could be difference-makers too.

Friday, August 25, 2017

The Wall Came Tumbling Down

On Saturday, August 19, three protest groups descended upon Hot Springs.  Putting these groups together is like making a bomb.  Thanks to much prayer, God's mercies, and excellent law enforcement, no violence erupted.  I attended a couple of prayer gatherings that morning, and during those gatherings, the Holy Spirit nudged me to address racism in my sermon the next morning.  It was a Communion Sunday, so we were coming to the Lord's Table.  This is where the Spirit led me.  This is longer than my typical blog, but a number of people encouraged me to get this out there where more could read it.  I did not print the biblical text, but I encourage you to read it before you read this sermon.  The fact that this is almost a week later shows my hesitation, but here it is.  I hope it helps those who take time to read it.


********

I had planned to go a different direction today as we prepare to come to the Lord’s Table.  But in light of Charlottesville, the event that happened in our own city yesterday, and a couple of prayer meetings I attended on Saturday morning, the Lord changed my direction.  I invite you to open your Bible this morning to Ephesians 2:11-21.          

Grace Thomas grew up in Birmingham, married in the 1930s, and moved to Georgia.  She was an office worker for state government but decided she wanted more.  She took night classes and got a law degree.  And then, in 1954, she had the nerve to run for governor.  Unlike the other eight candidates, Grace argued that the just rendered verdict in the Supreme Court case Brown vs. Board of Education was a just ruling.  That desegregation and equality in education opportunities for black children was a good thing.  On election day, she came in dead last.  Her family hoped she got that out of her system.

She didn’t.  She decided to run for governor again in 1962 as the Civil Rights Movement was heating up.  One day in that campaign, Grace made an appearance in the small town of Louisville, Georgia. In those days, the centerpiece of the town square in Louisville was not a courthouse or a war memorial but an old slave market, a tragic and evil place where human beings had once been bought and sold like cattle or cotton or any other commodity. Grace chose the slave market as the site for her campaign speech.  As she stood on the very spot where slaves had been auctioned, a hostile crowd of storekeepers and farmers gathered to hear what she would say. “The old has passed away,” she began, “and the new has come." Gesturing to the market, she said, “This place represents all about our past over which we must repent.  A new day is here, a day when Georgians white and black can join hands to work together.”

This was provocative talk in 1962 Georgia.  Her talk riled the crowd.  “Are you a communist?” a heckler shouted at her.

Grace paused in midsentence. “No,” she said softly, “I am not.”

“Well, then, where’d you get those blankety-blank ideas?”

Grace thought for a minute, and then she pointed to the steeple of a nearby church. “I got them over there,” she said, “in Sunday school.”[1]

Apparently, these ideas haven’t been taught in enough Sunday Schools and churches.  Even though it’s always been at least under the surface, racism is making a comeback in our culture—even among some who claim to be racist in the name of Jesus.  In case you’re not sure what Jesus and the Bible teach about these things, let’s briefly review this morning before we come to the Lord’s Table.  Hear the word of the Lord … (read the text).


I

Paul was dealing with a kind of racism in his day.  It wasn’t a black-white thing; it was a Jew-Gentile thing.  When Paul planted the church in Ephesus, the church began with a mixture of Jews and Gentiles.  But like most churches in the Empire, the Ephesian church was predominantly Gentile.  Jews referred to themselves as "the circumcision," and, in an ethnic putdown, referred to the Gentiles as "the uncircumcised."—probably employed in the same spirit of today's racial slurs.  It was not a descriptive term, it was an insult.  It was name-calling.  It was a putdown spoken from one who thinks he’s superior to one he considers inferior.  “We’re the circumcised.  They’re the uncircumcised.”  You have to look down your nose to say it just right.  Paul felt the need to address this barrier to fellowship in the church—this barrier, this wall between Jew and Gentile Christians who both claimed Christ as Savior and Lord.  The animosity worked both ways.

The Jews considered the Gentiles to be pagans.  Gentiles would bow down to anything as a god.  Gentiles lived by a very loose moral standard in areas of sexual conduct.  Gentiles had little concern over all the cleanliness issues that were important to Jews.  The Jews looked down their noses at Gentiles.  They believed the Gentiles were an inferior race.  That didn’t go away when Jews became Christian.  One of the earliest questions the newly birthed church had to resolve when God started adding Gentiles to the church was this: Does a Gentile have to become a Jew before He can become a Christian?  An entire chapter of Acts is devoted to a conference designed to answer that question.  Of course, the answer was no.  But many Jewish believers still considered Gentiles their inferiors in matters of religion and culture.  It had been bred into them.  That’s the Jews.

On the other hand, Gentiles viewed the Jews as weird, odd, bizarre even.  Jews worshipped a God they couldn't see and couldn't reproduce in the form of an idol.  They were morally strict.  They were very picky about what they would eat.  They carried a religious chip on their shoulders.  Who are these people?

There was an “us against them” mentality on the part of both Jews and Gentiles.  Racism had them by the heart.  A huge wall stood between them—a wall built by a sense of racial superiority and racial hatred.  That’s the way they were.  Those are the attitudes they brought with them when they came to Christ and the church. 


II

But Jesus changes things.  Jesus knocks down the wall that divides the races.  He pushes against that wicked wall with those nail-scarred hands until it fractures and comes tumbling down.  Paul is writing to a church where racial tension was palpable.  And according to Paul, Jesus says, “Not in my house!  No racial walls in my house.”

People who don’t know Christ, those who are still dead in their sins and slave to their sins, some of them may well be racist and think little of it.  Usually it’s passed down from their parents.  They are blinded by their bigotry.  They are too blind to see that all of us are made in the image of God, too blind to see that basic human kindness and decency trumps racism.  They don’t know Christ.  The wall of racism may still stand firm in their hearts.

But when we are in Christ, the wall comes tumbling down.  It must.  There is no other option.  Jesus demands it.  Jesus won’t stand for racism among his people.  It’s a sin against God, a sin against one another, and a sin against love.  If you are in Christ and you harbor racial hatred in your heart, you need to repent.  Why would you want to rebuild a wall that Jesus has destroyed?  Why would you want to work against the very Savior you profess to believe and love and follow?

Don’t you realize that we human beings are more alike than different, that we all share a common made-in-the-image-of God-humanity?  And among the things we have in common, two are central.

We are all sinners.  There is no racial supremacy or superiority.  Every race is comprised of sinners.  History makes that clear.  From unspeakable atrocities to intentional discrimination to arrogant smugness, every race has done their part to build walls and hurt others.  No race gets a pass. No race is better than another.  We are all sinners.  We all hold that in common.    

And we all hold this in common too: Jesus saves us all the same way.  He saves Jews and Gentiles the same way.  He saves black people and white people the same way.  He saves Hispanics and Asians the same way.  We are saved through the blood of Jesus Christ.  There is no black Savior, no Hispanic Savior, no white Savior.  There’s just one Savior.  His name is Jesus, and he loves us all the same and gave himself for us all.  Do you think it takes more of Jesus’ blood to save people from other races than it takes to save you?

Jesus came to tear down the dividing wall.  Don’t try to rebuild something that Jesus tore down.


III

Do this instead: do what you can to love all people like Jesus loves people.  Be kind.  Build friendships.  Serve one another.

Around 1910 or 1911 a tornado swept through Union Church, Mississippi, where my grandfather was managing his father’s farm.  The twister damaged some of the farm buildings.  And when the storm was over my grandfather, Samuel Tucker McCallum, went to check on the black families who lived on the place.  When he arrived at one of the houses, a mother was wailing in grief. “My baby’s gone! My baby’s gone! The storm blew my baby away,” she cried.  Granddaddy did his best to comfort her.  He tried to give her hope by telling her that he had heard stories of children who had survived such things, and that he would go make careful search for the child.

And sure enough, he found the baby about fifty yards from the house.  He was under a small tree, laying on his back in a puddle of water, crying to beat the band, trembling and scared, but apparently unhurt.  My granddaddy scooped that baby up in his strong arms, carried him back to his mama as quickly as he could, and turned her tears into an ear to ear grin.  Mourning was turned to dancing.  And that boy’s mama was so thrilled and so grateful to get her baby back alive that she changed the baby’s name right there on the spot.  She said, “From now on this baby’s name is Sam.”  Get it?  That's my grandfather's name.  And from that time forward and until his death, that boy was known by all as ‘Cyclone Sam.’

Cyclone Sam grew up to be a farmer in the area. He lived to a ripe old age and used to bring vegetables to some of my grandfather’s cousins who lived in Jackson.  He never forgot what my grandfather did for him and his family.  Once he even made a trip to Jackson when he heard my Aunt Martha would be there so he could greet her and personally thank her for what her father, Sam McCallum, had done for him so many years ago.  When Cyclone Sam died, my Aunt Martha and Aunt Nettie went his funeral.  When the ushers heard their names, they were seated with Cyclone Sam's family and enjoyed a wonderful meal and visit with them after the service.  No wonder my dad, a southern man raised in Mississippi and Lake Village, Arkansas, taught his sons that since everybody is equal in God’s eyes, they ought to be equal in ours.  That’s what his daddy taught him.

And this truth wasn’t taught through protests and demonstrations.  It was taught by word and example.  Good old Cyclone Sam.  It’s amazing how simple acts of compassion, love, and friendship open doors of relationship that transcend the color of one’s skin or ethnicity.  And what my granddaddy did on a small scale …


IV

Jesus did on a cosmic scale.  And I pray he keeps on doing it.  A cyclone of racism is sweeping through our land again.  It’s tearing apart lives and families and our nation.  God hears the cries of his people.  And he sends a Jewish Messiah named Jesus to find us and save us and get us home.  Jesus came.  He ministered to anybody and everybody—Jew and Gentile and Samaritan, every outcast, sinner, and tax collector.  He loved them all and he loved them the same.  But in order to complete his salvation mission, he had to express his love in more than healing and teaching and kindness; he had to die.  And all the powers that be got into the act of killing him.  The Jewish leadership pushed for crucifixion.  The Gentile Romans pounded the nails through his hands and feet, all in the Passover presence of people from all over the known world of the day: many colors, many languages.  You may be thinking, “How could they kill Jesus?”  They?  Just because we weren’t in Jerusalem that day, we all took part in the lynching and the killing.  Our sins killed him.  Jesus was no victim here.  He could have said no to the cross at any point.  But he didn’t.  Our need is too great.  His love is too strong.  The cross was the only way to save us.  Jesus had to die—to die for our sins by taking our sins, including racism, on himself, bear their penalty, and break their power.

At the end of that dark Friday, it looked like sin won.  On Saturday, it looked like sin won.  But on Sunday, Jesus rose from the dead.  The penalty and power of sin was finished.  The walls that separate us came tumbling down.  Jesus won.  Truth won.  Love won.  And when Jesus comes again even the presence of sin will be banished forever, and as brothers and sisters in one big happy family, every nation, tribe, and tongue will sing Christ’s praise around his throne: “Worthy, worthy is the Lamb who was slain to save us all!”

Until that day, Jesus is still moving about the earth, finding lost children and bringing them home to a Father who changes their name: from dead in sin to alive in Christ; from lost and condemned to saved and justified; from sinner to saint; from wall-builder to bridge-builder; from racist to one who loves like Christ.  He changes our name to Christian—little Christ.


IV

That’s why we come not to the Lord’s wall but to the Lord’s Table.  Walls divide.  Tables bring us together.  Walls say, “You belong on one side, I belong on the other.”  The Lord’s Table says, “There is a place for everyone at the same table.”  That’s right.  There is no Jewish Table, no Gentile table.  There is no black table, no table just for white people.  There is only one table for us all—the Lord’s Table.  And regardless of your skin color or your heritage, if Jesus has changed your name to Christian, there is a place at the Table for you.



[1]As told by Thomas G. Long, Preaching from Memory to Hope (Louisville: Westminster John Knox, 2009), 19-20. 

Thursday, July 13, 2017

All He Ever Knew Was Love

Cayden Hughes Buttram was born along with his twin brother Cooper Andrew Buttrum on Monday night, July 10.  Cayden died on Wednesday, July 12.  Cayden’s parents, Lauren and Brad, knew he had an uphill battle.  A problem pregnancy, in utero issues that denied him needed nutrients, a premature birth at only 2 lbs, 13 oz, and the quick onset of an infection spelled trouble for Cayden.  His brother Cooper was a little bigger, had the necessary nutrients all along, and he is doing well.  But Cayden didn’t make it.

I don’t understand these things any more than you do.  Why does one twin live and the other die?  We know God knits us together in our mother’s womb.  We know we are fearfully and wonderfully made.  We know Jesus loves children … and then this.  As a pastor I’ve grieved with parishioners over a miscarriage and buried my share of babies.  Some, like Cayden, didn’t last long out of the womb.  Some fell victim to SIDS a year or two into life.  It’s all hard.  It all hurts.  It all leaves us with more questions than answers.

I woke up in the middle of the night with the Buttrums on my mind.  As I was laying there praying for the family, the Lord put a thought in my head about Cayden: “All he ever knew was love.”
                                                                                                                   
Since the pregnancy test came back positive, Cayden was loved—parents and doctors doing all the right things.

Upon his birth into this world on Monday, Cayden was loved.  Incubation, intubation, and IVs may not feel or look like love, but that’s what it is—love that fights for life and health and well-being.  There’s not a lot Mom, Dad, and family can do in this situation except pray and touch and speak life and love over the child.  That’s what they did.

And when Cayden shut his eyes in death on Wednesday, he was swept up into the arms of Jesus who loves him best of all.  I don’t know how all this works in heaven, but I do believe this: Cayden is experiencing the love of His Savior and the love of believing family that preceded him in death.  It is well with his soul.  And on the last day, his tiny body will be resurrected just like yours and mine.

In just two short days of life on this earth, all he ever knew as love.  He never experienced abuse of any kind.  He never dealt with the betrayal of a friend.  He never felt the sting of guilt over his sins.  Nobody ever broke his heart.  He never stood over the grave of a loved one who meant the world to him.  He never wrestled with feelings of failure.  I realize, as do you, that such things are all part of life, that they shape us into the persons we become, that wounds and scars hurt in the moment but can reap the benefits of maturity and a closer walk with Jesus.  Like his family, I wish Cayden could have lived a long full life.  But if you only get 28 weeks in the womb and two days in the world, and all you ever know is love, and the only memories people have of you will be cherished ones, well … you’ve lived a pretty wonderful life.

Cayden, I can’t wait to meet you on the other side.

Monday, July 3, 2017

There's No Place Like Home

Well, we’re in.  Still unpacking boxes and deciding what goes where, but we’re in.  And, man, does it feel weird.  After 22 years in the same house, you know every creak and crack in the place.  You can practically move around with your eyes closed and still get where you’re going.  In the new place, I better keep my eyes open or I’ll run into walls and bump into stuff.  It’s going to take some time to get my bearings.

We loved our last home.  (Well, I had a love/hate relationship with it when I had to take care of the pool.)  We lived in that place for more than a third of our lives and more than half of our marriage.  We (that means Dayna) kept it in great.  It pays to have a wife who watches a lot of HGTV.  She always had some idea to make it better.

But a home is not so much about the floors and the roof and the curb appeal.  A home is about what goes on inside.  It’s about the memories.  And do we ever have memories associated with that place.  That’s the house where we celebrated high school and college graduations, the house where we celebrated the weddings of our children.  That’s the only house our seven grandkids know as Papa and Grammy’s house.  That’s the house where we spent 22 Christmases.  That’s the house where we prayed a lot of prayers, cried a lot of tears, and laughed more times than we can count.  That’s the house where our teenage kids brought their friends.  That’s the house where we watched a lot of Razorback and Cowboys and Orioles games.  That’s the house where we loved one cat and two dogs.  That’s the house where we spent five days without power during the great post-Christmas ice storm of 2000.  That’s the house where we always tried to keep Jesus at the center.  It’s been a good house.  It’s been our house.  I think it was Miranda Lambert who sang a song about “the house that built me.”  Well, this house didn’t build us, but our lives were shaped in numerous ways during our years there.

On Father’s Day weekend our whole family was together.  The kids wanted to say good-bye to the house.  We talked about some of our favorite memories in that house over the years.  The kids took a last look at their teenage rooms.  Everybody enjoyed the pool one more time.  It was more emotional than I thought it would be.

But now it’s time to move on, time to get a little better arranged space to accommodate our family of 13 when they are home.  It’s time to quit messing with a swimming pool loved by my wife, my kids, and my grandkids but not loved so much by me.  I don’t know how long we’ll live here.  I doubt it will be anywhere near 22 years.  In 22 years I’ll be 82 and my wife will be 80.  For all I know I’ll be dead.  We’ll make some memories in this new house, but it won’t be like the house in which you raise your kids.  My daughter summed it up pretty well before she left our house for the last time: “Every time I’ve come home since I left for college in 2000, I’ve always felt like I was coming to my house.  Now, I’ll feel like I’m coming to my parents’ house.”

And that’s where we are now: in her parents’ house.  Dayna is excited to make this house a home.  And she’ll get it done for sure.  I’m still a little depressed about the change.  But I’ll be okay.  Whether our address is Meadowmere Terrace or Blue Bell Court, as long as Dayna and Jesus are here it will be home.  That’s been good enough for almost 40 years.  It will be good enough till Jesus calls one of us to the home that’s really home, the home from which we will never move again.   

Wednesday, June 14, 2017

She's a Grand Old Flag

On June 14, 1777, the Continental Congress of the United States adopted the stars and stripes as our national flag.  That why we call June 14 Flag Day.  I usually let this day pass without much thought of our flag.  Sometimes I don’t even realize it’s Flag Day till the day is past.  Not this year.  I decided to pause for a few minutes in a busy and reflect on my memories of the United States flag.

Standing in my first grade class room, facing the flag in the corner, hand over my heart, saying “The Pledge of Allegiance” with my class.

The flag at Meadowcliff Elementary School flying at half-mast in the days after President Kennedy was assassinated in November, 1963.  That’s the first time I saw a flag at half-mast—but sadly, not the last.

Images of the flag-raisers on Iwo Jima after our brave Marines wrestled Mt. Suribachi away from the Japanese at the cost of much blood and death.

Taking my turn in fifth or sixth grade raising and lowering the flag at Branson Elementary School and learning how to fold it properly.

Watching fuzzy black-and-white images of Neil Armstrong and Buzz Aldrin staking our flag on the moon in 1969.  I understand it’s still there today.

Watching the USA Hockey Team in the 1980 Olympics waving our flag after their improbably gold medal.  “Do you believe in miracles?” Al Michaels uttered after we beat the Soviets in the semifinals.

The Lee’s Summit, Missouri, High School Band belting out “Stars and Stripes Forever” at their annual spring concert.  It always brought everyone to their feet.

The uncountable numbers of little flags attached to trucks and cars in the days after September 11, 2001.

A display in the Smithsonian of the tattered flag that flew over Fort McKinley—the very flag that inspired Francis Scott Key to write our national anthem during the War of 1812.

Numerous flag draped caskets at the graveside services of veterans—including the flag that draped my father’s casket, now folded into a crisp triangle that we keep in our home.

The presentation of the colors at numerous ballgames and thousands of voices singing The Star Spangled Banner.

Those are some of my memories. Not everything done under our flag has been good and right.  But on balance, our flag has represented some of the noblest, highest ideals in human history.  We are blessed to live in the good old U.S.A.  Our freedom has been bought with the price of other’s blood.  I encourage you on this Flag Day 2017 to take a moment, remember, and give thanks.




Tuesday, June 13, 2017

I'm Finally Above-Average at Something

Hooray!  I learned this week that I am finally above average at something.  For a guy who’s spent his life hovering around average this is really encouraging news!  I’m average size.  I’ve always been an average athlete.  I’m an average husband, an average father, grandfather, golfer, and singer.  My birth certificate says my middle name is Scott.  I’m surprised my middle name is not Average.  It could have been.  Hi, I’m John Average McCallum II.  I guess that means I’m average twice-over.  Average.  That’s not so bad.  Most everybody is average or they wouldn’t be considered … average.

Ok, I’ll confess that I do have some bright spots.  I have always been a slightly above-average student.  And while I’m not trying to be prideful, I’ve always thought I’m a slightly above-average pastor.  Now I know I am.  In fact, it’s been scientifically confirmed.  According to a March 1, 2017, report on Barna.com the average age of American pastors is 54.  Hey, I’m 60!  Boom goes the dynamite—I’m six points higher than average.  (I wonder if I should ask for a raise.)

What’s good news for me may not be such good news for the church.  On the one hand it could mean that America’s churches are being led mostly by seasoned, experienced veterans who bring a lifetime’s wisdom to bear on the work.  But on the other hand, it could mean that America’s churches are being led mostly by a bunch of crotchety old fogies.  Each church with an above-average pastor will have to figure that out for itself.

The sad thing about this report is that while the median age of pastors in 1992 was 44, only one in seven pastors today is under 40.  Yikes!  We need some younger pastors.  Pray, please, that God will call more young people into pastoral ministry.

But in the meantime, I’ll try not to gloat about being an above-average pastor.  Gloating is not in order anyway unless my gloating is in Christ.  I may be a C+ person and a B- pastor, but Jesus is an A+ Savior who can take even below average people and do extraordinary things through their lives.  And that doesn't just go for pastors, that goes for us all.