Life at the Altar

I Love the Church

2012-01-23T10:46:00.006-06:00

During the month of January I’ve been preaching a series of sermons called Loving Well. In the second of those sermons, I preached on loving the church well. The church is not in good report with many in our day, even many who claim to follow Jesus. “I love Jesus,” some say, “but I can’t stand the church.” If, as the New Testament teaches, the church is both the body and bride of Christ, how a person can love Jesus and refuse to be part of the church. Can an arm say to the body, “I don’t need you; I’ll go it on my own”? And that arm would go on its own to its death. Would a wife say to her husband just before they’re married, “Okay, here’s the deal: I want to marry you, but I want to live my own life. I want to be free to date around and only come home when I feel like it.” Ridiculous! And yet some Christians say such things to the church.

I know the church has problems. It’s far from perfect and never will be this side of heaven. But I can’t help it—I love the church. And I stated so in my sermon on loving the church well. I had enough folks comment on it that I thought I’d post that testimony in my blog. Here it is:

______________

And can I just go on record this morning by saying that I love the church—the church in general and this church in particular. The church has always been a part of my life. I can’t remember when I was not connected to the church—worship, Sunday School, Bible School, pot-luck suppers, choir, youth group, college group, camps and retreats. As a kid I didn’t always find it interesting and I haven’t always loved every minute I’ve been involved, but I always knew I was loved, I knew I belonged there among that particular group of people at that particular time.

I love the church. It was the church that introduced me to the exploits of these larger than life characters named Abraham and Moses and David and Elijah and Peter and Paul. They told me that somehow they were in my family tree. It was the church that taught me that I was part of something larger than myself and my town and my country; I was a citizen in the kingdom of God that stretches around the whole wide world and from here to eternity.

I love the church. That’s where I first saw a cross and learned about a Savior who loved me and died for me and rose from the dead for me too. That’s the one place I could be assured that even if I hadn’t given God much thought on Monday through Saturday, my attention would be brought back to Him on Sunday with words as simple as “Let’s pray … open your Bible … hear the Word of the Lord.”

I love the church. It was the church that gave me my song and taught me to sing it:

Amazing grace, how sweet the sound / that saved a wretch like me
Holy, holy, holy, Lord God Almighty / God in three persons, blessed Trinity
A mighty fortress is our God / a bulwark never failing
Fairest Lord Jesus, ruler of all nations / Son of God and Son of Man
All the way my Savior leads me / what have I to ask beside / Can I doubt his tender mercy who through life has been my guide?
We are one in the Spirit, we are one in the Lord / And they'll know we are Christians by our love, by our love
Blessed assurance, Jesus is mine
At the cross, at the cross / where I first saw the light
Up from the grave he arose / with a mighty triumph o'er his foes
When we all get to heaven / what a day of rejoicing that will be

How many times have the songs I learned from the church gave voice to my praise, words to my sorrow, hope to my fear, faith to my doubts, and carried me when I was weak!

I love the church. The church has helped me see the world—and not to see it with the eyes of a tourist, but with the eyes of God: eyes of compassion and love, eyes of concern for the lost and the poor and the people on the edges. And the church has helped me do my part in sharing God's love with the nations.

I love the church. When my family fell apart, the church was there. When I went off to college, the church was there. When my kids were born, the church was there. When there’s been sickness or surgery, the church was there. When my parents died, the church was there. In good times and bad, in times of rejoicing and times of grief, the church has been there for me. Ecclesiastes tells us that there is a time for everything and a season for everything under the sun, and the church has been there for me in every time and every season.

I love the church. That’s not to say that the church hasn’t broken my heart along the way, that the church has never let me down, or that the church has always lived up to my expectations. But that’s okay: I don’t love a perfect church and never have. I don’t love the church as I wish her to be; I love the church as she is—with her warts and her wrinkles, with her saints and her sinners, with her allies and her critics. I love the church when she’s swung and missed and when she’s knocked it out of the park, when she’s soared like an eagle and when she’s limped like a cripple. Someone once likened the church to Noah's ark: if it weren’t for the storm without, you could never stand the smell within. But in spite of the fact that the church stinks it up from time to time, I love the church.

I love the church because the church has always love me and because Christ has loved me through His church. Christ has always loved me enough to challenge me and forgive me and encourage me and stick with me no matter what. And Christ does just that through His church. I love the church.

_____________

Do you love the church? If not, let me encourage you to give her a first try or another try if she somehow hurt you in the past. Like it or not, Jesus dwells in the midst of His church. I encourage you to meet Him there.

1 Man Against the Machine

2012-01-16T10:57:00.002-06:00

On this 2012 Martin Luther King, Jr. Day, I want to tell the story I first heard just a few months ago of one man against the machine. I’m not talking about Martin Luther King, Jr.; I’m talking about a man King inspired. His name is Darrell Brown from the little town of Horatio in southwest Arkansas. Darrell is a black man, and in the fall of 1965 he headed up Highway 71 to Fayetteville and the University of Arkansas. There were only a few black students on campus in those days, and there were zero black students in the university’s athletic programs. (I’m not picking on the University here. You know how I love my alma mater. But what was true of Arkansas at the time was true of the entire Southwest Conference, Southeast Conference, and Atlantic Coast Conference. Blacks were not welcome in those athletic programs. That was the reality of that era of our history.) And Brown, who had heard Martin Luther King encourage black folks in the south to do their part, decided that his part would be to break the racial barrier in the Razorback football program—to be one man against the machine.

Having attended a poor black-only school near Horatio, Brown had never played organized football in school. But he had the body for it: 5’11” and 190 pounds—which was pretty good size for college football players in that era. So when it was time for walk-ons to report, Brown showed up to get his uniform. The equipment manager didn’t know what to do when Brown stood before him, so he told Brown to come back the next day. Brown did and got a uniform. But that’s about all he got. He got no playbook and he got no respect. And other than getting an earful of racial slurs, he was given the silent treatment by the team. A couple of assistant coaches showed minor support, but the head coach never met Brown or said one word to him.

On the first day of practice, the coach sent Brown back to return a kickoff, and it didn’t dawn on Brown until the ball was in the air that he had no blockers. It was less like football and more like the playground game called kill the man with ball. And that’s what the eleven did. “They were good at gang-tackling,” said Brown. This happened over and over. Brown felt like he was essentially a tackling dummy on the team. It was obvious that his coaches and teammates were trying to wear him out and run him off. But Brown followed the encouragement of his hero, Martin Luther King, Jr., and hung in there, taking a beating nearly every day. In those days, freshman were ineligible to play for the varsity, and in spite of having no playbook, Brown did play a few plays in the freshman games—which is pretty amazing in its own right.

He endured the season and though no one told him when the reporting day was for the next season, Brown showed up. Aside from finding a friend or two, Brown was treated the same in season two that he had been in season one. During practice in season two, Brown sustained serious hand and knee injuries for which he was offered no attention from the trainers or medical staff. He had to limp off the field by himself and drag himself to the student infirmary to receive care. That was that for Brown’s football playing days at the University of Arkansas. But it was his injuries, not his guts or a lack of determination, that kept him from returning to the field. Brown’s attempt to be a one-man integration movement for southern college football was over.

Brown didn’t give up on his studies, however. He graduated from the University and also completed law school. He served as a lawyer until his retirement a few years ago. After the treatment Brown received during his days at the University, he held a grudge for a very long time. During football season he couldn’t even root for his home state team and alma mater. But that has mellowed over the years, in part because his daughter received a track scholarship and his son attended law school there. Brown witnessed the changes across the years at the University that created widening opportunities for blacks. And something else factored into his change of heart: “You know where the Bible says, ‘Love your enemy” or ‘Pray for your enemy’?” Brown says. “It took me a long time to understand what that meant. You don’t have to love them. You do have to appreciate God’s creation. And you can pray their ways can change because you impacted them. So my hatred took a back seat to that.” Brown began to forgive and he started reconnecting with the University once again. In fact, this past October, Darrell Brown was honored in the center of Razorback Stadium (the scene of so much previous abuse) during halftime of the Auburn game when he was named the University of Arkansas Football Trailblazer.

In 1970, Jon Richardson from Little Rock was the first black Razorback recruit in the school’s history. I remember that very well, and that’s a distinction that belongs only to Richardson. But Darrell Brown was the first black man to wear the uniform.

And on this Martin Luther King, Jr. Day, I want you to hear his story and give thanks for the opportunities created and progress made for blacks and other minorities in our society. And I also want to remind you that those opportunities and progress sadly came at the great cost of heroic pioneers like the famous Martin Luther King, Jr. and a young man you’ve never heard of named Darrell Brown from tiny Horatio, Arkansas, who dared to be one man against the machine.

If you want to read much more about Brown’s story, you can find it her in a story by Dan Wetzel on Yahoo Sports: http://rivals.yahoo.com/ncaa/football/news?slug=dw-wetzel_brown_arkansas_football_trailblazer100711

Another Good-bye … For Now

2012-01-06T11:44:00.003-06:00

Can I just go on record and say it: I hate cancer. Hate it, hate it, hate it! I hate what it does to my friends. I hate what it did to my parents. I hate what it may one day do me. Can God use cancer to do good things, deeper things, spiritual things in people’s lives? Yes. I’ve seen God do that more times than I can count, and I’m grateful for God’s redeeming grace. But I still hate cancer.

Maybe I feel so strongly right now because yesterday I buried another friend. His name is Ralph and he died of colon cancer. And oddly enough I buried him on what would have been my dad’s 98th birthday had he not died of colon cancer himself at age 73. Did I mention that I hate cancer?

It’s been more than a year since Ralph got his diagnosis and the doctor told him he had maybe a couple of months to live. Death got the word and set up camp outside Ralph’s door. And it didn’t take long for Death to realize he should have packed a bigger suitcase. Ralph blew past those first two months and kept on going—not “going” as in laying around in a bed waiting to die, but “going” as in on with his life—family and work and having fun. Treatments knocked him down, but he always got back up.

I was on my way to see my daughter’s family in Texas the first of July when I got a call from Ralph. “The doctor told me my liver is failing and I’ll be lucky to live the rest of the week,” he said. Well, he made it through that week and about fourteen more on top of that. It wasn’t easy. He was sick a lot, had to be in the hospital off and on for one procedure or another. But he didn’t give up and he didn’t give in.

I’ve walked through the land of cancer with a lot people over more than thirty years of ministry, and some of them were real fighters. But I’m not sure I’ve ever seen anyone fight cancer with the courage, faith, and ferocity of Ralph Brewer. On his last doctor’s visit, the doctor said, “Ralph, we can’t give you anymore treatments. We all agree it will make things worse instead of better. It’s like trying to knock down a concrete wall with a baseball bat.” Ralph looked at the doctor and said, “You’d be surprised what I can knock down with a baseball bat.” And they gave him one more treatment. Ralph was one tough fighter. The colorful evangelist Billy Sunday once said this about sin: “I’m against sin. I’ll kick it as long as I have a foot. I’ll fight it as long as I have a fist. I’ll butt it as long as I have a head. I’ll bite it as long as I’ve got a tooth. And when I’m old and fistless and footless and toothless, I’ll gum it till I go home to Glory and it goes home to perdition.” That’s the way Ralph fought cancer. And when Ralph breathed his last on Saturday morning, I don’t know who was more exhausted: Ralph or his cancer.

There was a big crowd at the funeral. Ralph had lots of friends. One of the things I loved most about Ralph is that Ralph was Ralph—and he was that all the time. He didn’t try to be somebody else. He didn’t try to be one person in front of this group, and somebody else in front of that group. He was just Ralph—unvarnished, honest, funny, a good insurance man, hard-working, hard-playing, hard-headed, a devoted friend, a devoted dad, authentic, 100% Ralph. And Ralph was a Christian too. He wasn’t the greatest Christian that ever lived. But he loved Jesus. He leaned on Jesus’ mercy and grace for his sins—of which he was deeply aware—and he grew closer and closer to Jesus in the past year (which as his pastor was a real joy to watch.) When I think of Ralph an old Bruce Carroll song comes to mind:

I am wise, I am a fool,
A servant with a yearn to rule,
Good intentions and selfish schemes
A saint who soars on broken wings.

I am shadow, I am light
I am wrong and I am right,
Sometimes shining oh so bright,
Sometimes fading into night.
Lord, you walk with me through shadow and light.

That was pretty much Ralph, and the Lord did walk with Ralph through shadow and through light.

But now the shadows are all gone. Don’t think for a minute that cancer won that battle. Yesterday, Ralph’s cancer was buried in the ground for good—it’s done, it’s over, it can’t do him anymore harm. And what about Ralph? Well, you remember what Jesus said to Martha as they stood next to Lazarus’ grave? “I am the resurrection and the life. He that believes in me, though he were dead yet shall he live. He that lives and believes in me will never die.” Ralph lived and believed in the Lord, and that means that Ralph is alive and well with the Lord today. It may not look like it on the surface, and it doesn’t much feel like right now in our hearts, but Ralph won that battle with cancer, and he’s taking his victory lap in heaven even now. You know, heaven—that place where cancer can never find its way in.

But that still doesn’t change the fact that I hate cancer. Because of cancer a father had to say goodbye to his son, kids had to say goodbye to their dad, and I and many others had to say goodbye to yet another friend. So go to hell where you belong, Cancer. You might have got your pound of flesh, but Ralph got a ton of life—eternal life. And because God wants to spend eternity with His children, cancer loses, God’s children win, and our good-byes are just for now.

If Only It Was That Easy

2011-12-30T13:54:00.004-06:00

According to an AP story from December 28, 2009, scores of New Yorkers and tourists seeking a fresh start for the new year gathered in Times Square to put their bad memories through the shredder at the third annual Good Riddance Day. Participants lined up near the booth where discount theater tickets are sold and pitched their bad memories into an industrial-sized shredder. According the Karen Matthews, people shredded about everything you could imagine: the box score to a losing football game which knocked the New York Giants out of the playoffs, the memory of a counselor on a school field trip who was later featured on America’s Most Wanted, bills, correspondence, memories of ex-boyfriends and ex-girlfriends, and much, much more. But not to worry. If someone brought something which could not be shredded—say a computer or a tin of fattening snacks—a dumpster and a sledgehammer were available them.

People come from near and far for this annual event. The turnout says something about the hunger people have to rid themselves of past mistakes, sins, bad memories, broken hearts, and hurtful relationships. Just smash ‘em with a sledgehammer or put ‘em through a shredder. There! All gone!

If only it was this easy. But it’s not. While there’s much symbolic value in Good Riddance Day, and while it surely feels good for a while, the hurt, the scars, the tough consequences, don’t go away with the swing of a hammer or the push of a button. They linger. They gnaw. They suck the life out of you and steal your joy.

It’s not just what we get rid of that matters; it’s what we embrace in their place that matters more. Jesus told a story about a man that had seven demons living in his heart. What a torment those demons were to this poor man! By good, however, fortune the man was able finally to sweep those demons clean—to run them off, to shoo them away, to send them scampering away from his heart. He sure felt better … for a season. But because the man didn’t replace those demons with anything else, the demons came back home to the man’s heart, brought along some company, and the man was worse in the end than he was in the beginning. See what I mean? It’s not just what we get rid of that matter, it’s what we embrace in their place that matters more.

Could I encourage you on the threshold of a new year to embrace Jesus? He loves you. He forgives you. And He can set up residence in your heart that makes it possible to get rid of your heart-junk once and for all. It’s a process. Jesus does His work over time, but He can fill the void left by the sins, mistakes, and bad decisions that have haunted you for so long. When those demons try to come home, let Jesus answer the door. They won’t stick around for very long.

Getting rid of the junk that weighs you down is never as easy as it seems, but Jesus is the long-term cure. No one does true forgiveness and new beginning better than Jesus. Receive Him. Embrace Him. Trust Him. And this new year could be the best one you’ve ever enjoyed.

Remember the Manger

2011-12-21T07:12:00.004-06:00

A couple of years ago, at the end of November, I was driving up Higdon Ferry back to the church and I noticed the message on the sign at Roland’s Barbecue. I wasn’t sure what it meant. So the next time I was in there, I asked the two people behind the counter, “What’s up with the manager?”

“What?” she asked.

“The manager—is everything okay?”

“You want to see the manager?”

“No, I just was concerned that something was wrong because of your sign.”

“Our sign?”

“Yes, your sign. You know, it says ‘Remember the Manager.’ So I just figured the manager needed prayer or something.”

“Our sign doesn’t say ‘Remember the Manager.’ It says ‘Remember the Manger.’”

No wonder they looked at me like I had two heads. It’s not “Remember the Manager.” It’s “Remember the Manger.” You’d think if anyone would be able to read that sign it would be a pastor. Trust me, my antennae are usually pretty honed in to anything of a spiritual nature I see in our secular world. But boy did I miss that one.

Well, here it is Christmas week, and I’m not going to miss it this time. It’s time to remember the manger. In fact, that’s not a bad rallying cry for all believers as we approach that holy night. Remember the Manger! A cry like that rallied all of Texas toward independence as the cry rang out across the plain, “Remember the Alamo!” A cry like that rallied all of America as the cry rang out from sea to shining sea, “Remember Pearl Harbor.”

But the cry “Remember the Manger” is not a call to arms, not a call to make war. It’s a call to peace.

It’s a call to peace with God—a call to receive the gift of salvation and life God has given us in Jesus. Jesus said he came to give life (Jn. 10:10). He can do this because of his death on the cross and his resurrection from the dead. He is a living Savior. So receive this life already and find peace with God. Remember the manger! It’s a call to peace with God.

And it’s a call to peace with one another. This baby in a manger taught us to love one another. At His birth the angel choir sang a chorus of “peace on earth.” And when Jesus became a man He said this peace with one another looks like mercy and forgiveness and encouragement and patience with one another. He said it was by our love for one another that we prove that we love God. By sending Jesus through the virgin’s womb and to the cross when he became a man, God made clear that He was willing to forgive us and set us at peace with Him. If God will love us even though we don’t deserve it and cannot earn it, how much more should we love one another. How much more should we live at peace with one another. Wouldn’t Christmas be a good time to let go of old hurts and old grudges and give the gift of forgiveness to someone who has hurt you?

Remember the Manger! It’s a call to peace with God and to peace with one another. So this Christmas I call you to you peace. I call you to forsake your sins and your grudges and your anger and your bitterness and your ill will toward God and toward others. “Remember the Manger!” Remember the Jesus who was laid there just after His birth. And give thanks. Give thanks that God sent Him. Give thanks for the salvation that He brings us. And give thanks for His peace.

Merry Christmas!

Away in a Casket

2011-12-13T12:27:00.004-06:00

Here it is just a few days till Christmas—the story of the most important birth in history—and I’m up to neck in death. This is not unusual. As often as not I spend December doing funerals. I've done two already and another member of our church died yesterday. Away in a manger—yes. Away in a casket—that too.

At least for me death and Christmas are irrevocably linked. My father died the day after Christmas in 1987; my mother died on Christmas Eve 2009; and I do as many funerals in December as I do any other month of the year. Death and Christmas are linked together for me. Do I like it? Not particularly. But that is my reality.

Actually, it’s the reality of all those who love and follow Christ. Even though Christmas is a birth story, Jesus was born to die. Had it not been for the cross and the resurrection, we’d know nothing more of Jesus’ birth than we know of any other child born to peasants in first-century Israel. It was the cross and resurrection that caused Matthew and Luke to learn more about the circumstances of Jesus’ birth. Aside from Mary, Joseph, and a handful of no-account shepherds, no one was the wiser as to Jesus’ identity at the first Christmas. Can’t you hear the conversation in the local beauty parlor a few days later? “I heard there was some commotion around your place the other night, Martha?” And Martha says, “Yes, some poor young couple, pilgrims from Nazareth, used our stable for a maternity ward. I think they had a little boy. But enough of that; what’s the latest with your kids?” No one in Bethlehem had a clue as the identity of that baby born in the stable.

But that’s okay. Jesus wasn’t born to create a holiday centuries later; Jesus was born to die. The birth was important—the eternal Word had to become flesh, had to live life as a man, had to be tempted in the same ways we are and yet never sin, had to reveal God to us in his teachings and his miracles. And when the time was right, Jesus had to die for the forgiveness of our sins. Jesus did that. And on the third day he rose from the dead victorious over sin and death and the grave. The apostle Paul put it this way: “Death has been swallowed up in victory. O death, where is your victory? O grave, where is your sting? But thanks be to God! He gives us the victory through our Lord Jesus Christ” (1 Cor. 15:55-57). Away in a manger—a peaceful lullaby. Away in a casket—there’s peace to be found there too.

I hope that’s encouraging to you if you’re dealing with death and grief this time of year. Grieving is usually more painful at Christmas—the empty chair at the Christmas table, one less stocking on the fireplace, deep sadness in what is supposed to be a happy time, and uncertainty how to celebrate the season or whether to celebrate it at all. When “Away in a Manger” becomes “Away in a Casket” what do we do then?

Let me tell you a story. It’s one of my favorite Christmas stories. I read it in Walter Wangerin’s book, The Manger Is Empty. Walter is a Lutheran pastor and writer. The story grew out of his pastorate of the Grace Lutheran Church in Evansville, Indiana, and involves his daughter Mary, Miz Odessa Williams, and a funeral on Christmas Eve.

On the Sunday night before Christmas the people of the church attended to their annual custom of Christmas caroling in their neighborhood and local hospital. Once in the hospital, a group of children, including Mary, went with Wangarin and found their way to the room of one of their church members, Miz Odessa Williams, an old black lady on her deathbed. She was very weak, but as the children lifted their voices to sing the birth of Jesus, Miz Williams was stirred. Lying on her back, she began to direct the music. She lifted her thin and trembling arm and began to mark the beat with precision. Her thin face frowned with a painful pleasure as she found herself lost in the music.

The children sang for her, yet she caught them—drawing them near to her, their eyes fixed on old Miz Williams. After they finished, Miz Williams drew them still closer and said to them in a weak and husky voice: "Oh children, you my choir. Oh choir, you my children for sure, every las' one of you. And listen me," she said, catching all of them one by one and eye to eye. "Ain' no one stand in front of you, for goodness, no! You the bes', babies, you the final bes'."

The children were fascinated, listening to her as though she spoke with the voice of God. Miz Williams went on: "Now listen me, when you sing, no matter where you be, I be there with ya. And how can I say such a mackulous thing?" She lowered her voice, drooped her eyelids a bit and said, "Why 'cause we be in Jesus. Babies, babies, we be in Jesus, old ones, young ones, us and you together. Jesus keep us in his bosom, and Jesus, no, he don't never let us go. Never. Never. Not ever."

So spoke Odessa in the thin, long light, so spoke Odessa Williams with such love and conviction that the children wept and were not ashamed. The lady won Mary in those moments.

But the tears Mary shed that night were of a different type than the ones she shed on Christmas Eve. For three days before Christmas, Odessa Williams died. It was a long tome coming, but quick when it finally came. And because of the way the days fell, the funeral was set for Christmas Eve morning.

Wangarin broke the news to his family rather hastily over lunch. Mary barely ceased eating. But as Wangarin was leaving for the office, Mary stopped him at the door and said, "I want to go to the funeral." Wangarin nodded in agreement and left.

Christmas Eve morning came. The casket containing Odessa's body was in the church, and people came and viewed the body before the service. At about ten minutes till service time, Mary came in. Wangarin met her at the door. "Dad," she said, "it's snowing." It was. A light powder was falling. "Dad," she said in a more grievous voice, "it's snowing."

"I know, Mary. Are you coming in? It's about time to start."

Mary walked with Wangarin up to the casket and looked at Odessa's face. She reached out and touched Odessa's long fingers. "Oh no," she whispered. She touched them again – this time with her cheek. Then she stood straight up and said, "Oh no, Dad, Miz Williams is so cold. And it's snowing outside – it's snowing in Miz Willliams' grave." And Mary plunged her head into her Daddy's chest and wept. "Dad," she sobbed, "Dad, Dad, it's Christmas Eve."

Wangarin had no answers for her, so Mary wept and went to take a seat. What could Wangarin say to those tears? His Mary had met death on what was supposed to be a happy day. So the funeral and the graveside and a silent, broken Mary.

But it was Christmas Eve, and that night was the children's program at church. Mary was to portray Mary, the mother of Jesus. Wangarin told her she didn't have to if she didn't feel like it. But Mary said she would.

Wangarin watched Mary as she played her part. She was quiet and in grief. So the program unfolded. The angels came, giggled, and left. Mary and Joseph sat at the manger. Mary looked down at the manger and began to frown. She looked as if she was about to burst into tears, but she didn't. She just frowned hard, looking at the doll in the manger. And then quietly, suddenly, Mary reached for the doll and began to play a part not written in the script. She took the doll, walked down the aisle, and out of the sanctuary. Nobody knew quite what to do. People sat in stunned silence. But in a moment, Mary emerged without the doll. She knelt by the crib, her face now radiant and full of adoration. The angels sang, "Glory to God in the highest." And the pageant was over.

Wangarin drove the family home that snowy night wondering what Mary had learned. "Dad," said Mary, "Jesus wasn't in that manger. It was a doll." Wangarin winced at the loss of his daughter's innocence. But Mary went on: "Dad, Jesus doesn't have to be in the manger, does He? He goes back and forth, doesn't He? He came from heaven and was borned here. But when He was done, He went back to heaven again. And because He came and went He can be coming and going all the time, can't He?"

"Right," whispered Wangarin.

"The manger is empty," Mary said. "And Dad, Miz Williams' box is empty too. We don't have to worry about the snow. It's only a doll in her box. It's like a big doll, Dad, and we put it away today. And if Jesus can cross, if Jesus can go across, then Miz Williams, she crossed the same way too with Jesus."

Choking back the tears, Wangerin recalled Miz Williams words to the children at the nursing home: "Babies, we be in Jesus, old ones, young ones, us and you together. Jesus keep us in His bosom, and Jesus, He don't never let us go. Never, never, not ever."

Not in life. Not in death. Not in grief. Not ever.

The Advent hymn-writer caught a glimpse of the very same hope:

O come, thou Dayspring, come and cheer
Our spirits by thine advent here.
Disperse the gloomy clouds of night,
And death’s dark shadows put to flight.

Rejoice! Rejoice!
Immanuel shall come to thee, O Israel.
Rejoice!

Of Gifts and the Gift

2011-12-06T13:46:00.002-06:00

We’ve pretty much made Christmas all about the gifts. And we have no one to blame but ourselves. Some want to blame the Magi: “They started it with those gifts to the toddler Jesus.” And their gifts were no dollar store trinkets or stocking stuffers either. They gave the Christ-child gold, frankincense, and myrrh—expensive gifts, elaborate gifts. So, some want to blame the Magi for our Christmas gift-giving madness. “That’s what happens when you get pagans involved. All Mary and Joseph brought to Christmas were their obedience and faith. All the shepherds brought were praise and wonder. Leave it to those pagan Easterners, those Yankee Gentile materialists to clutter up Christmas with a bunch of presents.”

But I’m not buying that, are you? There’s one huge difference in their Christmas gift-giving compared to ours: they give their gifts to Jesus; we give our gifts to one another. And that’s really kind of weird when you think about it. Last Saturday, my granddaughter Reece turned seven years old last Saturday. And when Dayna and I were working on our gift list for her birthday, she was the only one on the list. We didn’t take a gift to her father or her mother or her brother. And Dayna and I didn’t give gifts to one another to celebrate Reece’s birthday. We just gave our gifts to Reece, and nobody found that strange. When we gave our gifts to Reece, her dad didn’t say, “Hey! Where’s my gift?” It wasn’t his birthday; it was her birthday.

What if we who follow Jesus decided that since Christmas is Jesus’ birthday, we’ll give our gifts to Him instead of one another? A few years ago, a couple of pastors broached that idea with their congregations. They call it the Christmas Conspiracy—make Christmas giving about Jesus instead of about ourselves. What if we adopted that idea? Retailers wouldn’t like it, and who could blame them? They need a big Christmas to make a profit for the year. Children wouldn’t like it. There would be tears and anger and maybe they’d go on strike or something. And some of us wouldn’t like it either because we very much enjoy the give and take of Christmas.

So I’m not proposing any of us adopt this idea cold turkey—there would be too many painful withdrawals. But what if we scaled way back on one another and raised the bar on our gifts to Jesus? It’s a teachable moment for kids and a way to build new traditions for them and for their kids someday.

But what do we give to Jesus? Talk about trying to find a gift for a person who has everything! But really, Jesus is easy to give to. You give Him the things that are close to His heart: gifts to mission is close to the heart of Him who came to seek and to save the lost. A gift to any charity that cares for the poor and the homeless or the sick and the troubled and the orphan is a gift close to the heart of Him who loves those people and wants to lift them up. But what if you have no money? What can you give Jesus then? How about your heart? How about giving some time to the church or to charitable organizations that do Jesus-work in your community? I’m not saying don’t give gifts to people you love at Christmas, but what if you gave a little less to them and a little more Jesus? It’s Jesus’ birthday, after all, not ours.

And besides, Christmas isn’t so much about our gifts as it is about God’s gift—the gift of His Son Jesus who lived for us and died for us and was raised from the dead for us too. Jesus didn’t leave heaven and come to earth so we could have this big party every December. Jesus came not for Christmas but for Good Friday, not for the cradle but for the cross. Jesus came to give us life. To do that, He had to die for us on the cross. That’s how God can forgive our sins and still be true to himself and His holy, loving character. Jesus was born to die. The crude timber of the manger foreshadows the crude timber of the cross. And please don't be put off by that because that’s where Christmas was heading all the time.

So give your gifts this Christmas. Give to those you love; give gifts to Jesus too. But in all that giving, remember this: Christmas is not really about our gifts; it’s about God’s Gift. And when you can get your heart and mind around that truth, it will change your Christmas … and it just might change your life.

Chasing the Perfect Christmas

2011-12-01T16:04:00.004-06:00

I read an article on Cracked.com last year that made this startling claim: Christmas day is better than any other at murdering us.

Between 1973 and 2001, Christmas Day netted 53 million deaths, making it the #1 killer on the calendar. And when you look at its weapons of choice, it's almost as though the entire tradition was intentionally calibrated to snuff you out with a quiet efficiency.

Picture a perfect Norman Rockwell Christmas morning—family around a crackling fireplace, including Grandma and all the relatives. Mom fixes dad an eggnog while preparing the Christmas ham, just two of the many traditional holiday foods known outside of December as "the worst things you can put in your body that aren't a live hand grenade." You've got the Christmas presents under the tree that Dad spent all night putting together, and that Mom spent the past month freaking out about buying. We’re talking stress on top of stress, and that along with exhaustion is a great way to kill your heart.

Which brings us to the crackling fire, or as your heart calls it, "my chance to test drive the body of a pack a day smoker." According to a 1999 report on what cardiologists call “the holiday effect"—"pollutants from wood-burning fireplaces trigger cardiovascular irregularities."

So according to science, you might be the only thing in your living room that's not trying to kill you this Christmas.

And yet more of us than not will be chasing a perfect Christmas once again this year. I’ve never understood the yearning for a perfect Christmas, especially since I’ve never seen one and especially since the original Christmas was anything but perfect, at least according to human standards: an unwed pregnancy, a nine-day overland journey for a woman up against her due date; a birth in a musty stable amid dusty straw, steaming animal dung, and the mother away from home and mom and everything familiar and comfortable. Just perfect, huh? Hardly.

Yet many of us still chase that perfect Christmas. How long will it take us to learn that the perfect Christmas is an illusion; it’s fool’s gold, it’s a chasing of the wind? All it does is set us up for disappointment and a post-Christmas depression—over the child who didn’t make it home or over Uncle Frank who did, or the failure to give or get the perfect gift, or the decorations that didn’t quite stack up to your neighbors, or a Christmas with no snow yet again. And the truth of the matter is that the more we chase the perfect Christmas, the farther we run away from the perfect Christ.

Why don’t you quit chasing the perfect Christmas and start chasing the perfect Christ? He is not so hard to find, you know. You might find him at work, at school, at church. You may see him in a neighbor or in the lady ringing the bell at a Salvation Army bucket. You might find Jesus in the homeless man you pass on the city street or the checker at the store. Keep your eyes peeled, your antennae up, and your heart open to see the living Christ this season. You will find him for sure.

And as you chase Christ you’ll finds something even better: you’ll find that Christ is chasing you. Isn’t that the Christmas mission after all? Jesus come to earth to save the likes of us, to grace us and forgive us and set us right with God and one another. Didn’t Jesus say to that scoundrel tax collector Zacchaeus, “The Son of Man has come to seek and to save the lost”? So quit chasing the perfect Christmas. It could flat out kill you. Here’s a better idea, a Christian idea: chase the perfect Christ who is chasing after you. That chase ends in salvation. That chase ends in life.

Advent is upon us once again. Decoration boxes have been pulled from the attic or the garage. Christmas lists are being made. Some of you have already lost a night’s sleep doing Black Friday shopping. Some of you have already waded into debt buying things you can’t afford, and others of you will soon join them. You’re fretting over getting out your Christmas cards on time. Your calendar is full of parties to attend and year-end work to be done. Your stress level is heading to the danger zone, and your blood pressure is not far behind. The Christmas hype is upon us, and the chase for the perfect Christmas has begun as if Christmas won’t come if you don’t get all that stuff done. It’s like a mission. And for what? I mean really, for what?

Would you just cool it? If you are a disciple of Jesus Christ, here’s your mission in this season: chase the Christ who’s chasing you. Or to put it another way: worship Christ, not Christmas.

Heart-Deep Thanksgiving

2011-11-21T15:41:00.003-06:00

Psalm 136:1 reads, “O give thanks to the Lord for he is good, and his steadfast love endures forever.” Sounds simple enough, but is it as simple as it sounds.

You ever seen the movie Shenandoah? Jimmy Stewart plays the lead—the head of a farm family torn by the tensions of the Civil War, a war creeping ever closer to their farm. It’s a fine film. And one of my favorite scenes is Jimmy Stewart’s blessing over a family meal. Gathered round the table the family bows to pray and Jimmy Stewart gives thanks … sort of:

"Lord, we cleared this land, we plowed it, sowed it, and harvested. We cooked the harvest. It wouldn't be here, we wouldn't be eatin' it if we hadn't done it all ourselves. We worked dog-bone hard for every crumb and morsel, but we thank you just the same anyway, Lord, for this food we're about to eat. Amen."

Huh? You’ve got to work pretty hard to find the thanksgiving in that prayer. Sometimes you have to work hard to find the thanksgiving in our prayers too. There’s a part of us that has a hard time saying thank you to God and really mean it. There’s “Thank you, God … but why didn’t I get more?” There’s “Thank you, God … but why didn’t I get something better?” And there’s “Thank you, God, but what took you so long?” See what I mean? Our thanks to God—and even others—is not always heart-deep.

Perhaps we could learn something about giving thanks from the Japanese. In an article entitled “The Parent of All Virtues,” Mollie Hemmingway writes, “The Japanese sometimes accept gifts by saying, ‘I’m sorry.’ The subtext is, ‘I’m fully aware of my debt to you. I can never repay it.’” Wow. That’s gratitude—a deep awareness of debt, a realization that payback is neither necessary nor possible.

Are we not all debtors to God and his grace? How do we pay back salvation? We can’t climb up on the cross ourselves. How do we pay back that grace that is sufficient for every need, that strength made perfect in your weakness, that peace that passes understanding when everything around you says, “Panic!” We can’t pay it back. Such mercies are pure gifts of God given freely out of the vast storehouse of his abiding love for you and me. I know it’s hard to believe. I know it sounds almost too good to be true. But the Bible bears it out. All you can do—all any of us can do—is just say, “Thank you.” Giving thanks without equivocation, without reservation, without qualification, is really the only way to give thanks to God.

So in this season of Thanksgiving, count your blessings, and give God thanks—heart-deep thanks—for the many blessings you can’t earn, don’t deserve, and could never repay. You don’t need to do somersaults and cartwheels. You don’t need to recite God a poem or sing him a song. A “thank you” is really all God’s looking for—a thank you from the heart.

Swimming Against the Tide

2011-11-15T15:51:00.003-06:00

I’m not one to wear my faith on my shirt or stick it on my bumper. T-shirt and bumper sticker theology leave so very much to be desired. I mean, really, has the Great Commission come to that? But I did see a T-shirt once that sent a message with which I quickly concurred. The caption was simple: “The Christian life.” The picture was a shirt full of fish swimming in one direction, and a single fish swimming in the other—“The Christian life.” What serious follower of Jesus has not felt like that single fish on the T-shirt—swimming against the tide, going against the flow, feeling so very alone in living one’s faith in Jesus Christ? The woman at the office, the man at the Country Club, the kid at school—swimming against the tide. Even in our so-called “Christian nation” it’s not easy to follow Christ against a flow of thinking and talking and living that creates such a strong tide of resistance.

You think you’ve got it bad? Let me introduce you to one of my new heroes. His name is Abdou Diallo. I met Abdou while spending a few days in Senegal. For the last several years teams from our church have invested ourselves in a wonderful little village in northeast Senegal. Though getting there makes it seem like it’s about twenty miles past the Great Commission, God told us to adopt that village and invest our lives and His love there. The people are friendly, kind, and hospitable to a fault. They are also Muslim. We consider them our family and friends. They consider us to be family and friends as well. Our main contact through the village is a man named Ameth, and he is an absolute jewel: so helpful, so kind to us, such a servant to our needs when we are there. We love him greatly. We love the village too. There’s one big problem though: they speak a lot of Wolof, some Pulaar, and some French, and handful of them (like Ameth) speak a little English. Being Americans, however, about all we speak is English (and a few Wolof greetings we tend to butcher beyond recognition).

Enter Abdou Diallo. On our four trips to the village, we have had different interpreters. This time we had Abdou. He lives in Dakar and speaks Wolof, Pulaar, French, and English—amazing. On the way out to the village, I asked him if he was Muslim or Christian. And that’s when he told me his story. Like most West Africans, Abdou was raised Muslim. Yet he had no peace in his life. At a very low point in his young life, he had a dream or a vision in which a person appeared to him and told him that the grace and the truth are in Jesus. Being a Muslim, he already had great respect for Jesus, but he considered Jesus to be a prophet and not the Son of God. That vision changed his thinking. When he found those verses in the Gospel of John that described Jesus as being full of grace and truth, Abdou gave his heart to Jesus. “Jesus changed my life,” he said. And it cost him too. Aside from his mother (who remains Muslim) and a brother who has since also become a follower of Jesus, Abdou has been largely disowned from his family, including the loss of his family inheritance. And since Jesus-followers compose only about 1% of the population of Senegal, he often feels very much alone. He did find a church in which he actively participates. And he continues to grow in his faith—learning more of Jesus and sharing Jesus at every opportunity. This is a bare sketch of his testimony, but you get the idea. You remember that T-shirt with a school of fish swimming one way and a single fish swimming the other? That single fish is Abdou. Yet he swims against the tide without complaint, without bitterness, and without fear. As you can imagine, our team got very attached to him on our trip.

So I wanted to share a bit of his story with you. Would you pray for Abdou? Would you pray that God would meet the needs of his life as he swims against the tide? Would you pray that Jesus would give him courage, peace, and opportunities to quietly share Jesus with his many Muslim friends and neighbors?

Oh, and would you do something else? Would you ask God to give you the grace to swim against the tides in our own culture that would so subtly and quickly sweep you away from Christ? Yes, it might cost you something. No, it’s not easy and it’s not the path of least resistance. But this is what Jesus calls us to do: “If anyone would come after me he must deny himself, take up his cross daily, and follow me.” Following Jesus means swimming against the tide. And if God can give Abdou what he needs to make that swim, God can surely do the same for us.

Dive on in … though a bit swift in the wrong direction, the water’s fine.

Learning from a Foreigner

2011-10-24T11:41:00.003-05:00

We Americans think we’re so smart. While non-Americans often love the idea of America, they’re not so wild about Americans. They consider us loud and arrogant. You know why? Because Americans tend to be loud and arrogant. God has blessed me with the opportunity to see various places in the world. It’s usually easy to pick out the Americans that are there. They’re the loud ones. They’re the ones who seem to carry a sense of entitlement to whatever they want: attention, service, a better bargain, respect, deferential treatment, an expectation that the whole world should speak English. Nothing personal here, but compared to others in the world, Americans do tend to be loud and arrogant.

And that’s a shame because there is so much we could learn if we’d shut the heck up and listen to those outside of our culture and our country. Travel to Latin America or Africa, and if you’re paying attention you’ll learn that time should be our servant rather than our master. That’s a hard lesson to learn for those of us who live by the clock, on the clock, and with a clock on our wrist when we’re awake and by our bed when we’re asleep. But instead of learning such a helpful truth, we Americans tend to categorize the non-time-conscious as lazy or unfocused or ignorant. And we arrogantly pronounce that judgment as we pop a couple of heart pills and swig our ulcer medicine. We can learn a thing or two from foreigners.

Just yesterday, one of my Russian friends preached in the church that I serve. His name is Pavel Ruseev. He’s really good at Russian but barely speaks a lick of English. He’s a pastor in Russia with a great vision to plant churches in a nation that doesn’t have a church on every corner or even in every town. I met him a couple of years ago in Russia and bonded with him immediately. He’s young, he’s passionate, he’s entrepreneurial, and he’s trying to do God’s work in a culture that’s blowing a 100 mph wind in his face no matter which direction he turns. I don’t see how he does this and keeps his sanity at the same time. Must be God’s grace. Anyway, he preached a very fine sermon yesterday on Jesus’ great commandment to love God and love others. But I don’t want to talk about his sermon; I want to talk about the three things he said that have stood out to him about American culture in the month or so he’s been here.

Pavel said he is amazed at the size of food portions in our restaurants. In Russia, a little dab will do you. In America, load up the plate—“Can you use a bigger serving spoon, please?” “Super-size that for me, would you?” My first thought was that he wouldn’t be quite so surprised about the size of food portions in America if he would just look at the size of so many Americans. We don’t miss many meals and we usually go back for seconds. Geez … who knows what Pavel might have thought had he visited an all-you-can-eat buffet! So many in the world are hungry, and we keep piling it on the plate. Pavel didn’t seem offended by this, more amazed really. But it kind of offended me. We Americans could do better, you know. I could do better. Eat a little less, share a little more, care about the hungry and find ways to help.

Here’s a second thing that stood out to Pavel: Americans do so much of life without having to get out of the car. He said, “You go to a restaurant, and you don’t have to get out of your car to get your food. You go to the bank, and you don’t have to get out of the car to do your business. In Fayetteville, I went to a movie and didn’t have to get out of the car to see it. I was in Arkansas a week-and-a-half before I took my first walk.” I didn’t have the heart to tell him that there are a few places in America he could even go to church without getting out of the car. Pavel’s right, you know. He lives in a culture that relies on public transportation and shoe leather. Only the more well-to-do can afford a personal car; everybody else walks or takes the bus. And if you take a bus you’ve still got to walk some distance to the bus stop. He talked about his grandmother who used to walk to the nearest church every weekend. It was 45 miles away. She left on Saturday and returned home late Sunday evening. “You do everything from your car,” he said. I’m just glad he didn’t ride with somebody who drove around a Walmart parking lot for ten minutes just trying to get the spot closest to the door. Even though getting plenty of exercise is not a problem for me, his comments made me want to use my body more and my machine less.

Pavel then said that the third thing that stuck out to him about American culture is this: so many, many churches. He had no idea. Oh, he knew America was far more churched than Russia, but he had no idea that there really was a church on almost every corner. This observation struck me at a deep level. On the one hand, I was grieved for Russia and the need for more gospel witness, more churches, more communities of faith for a people so in need of Christ. On the other hand, I was grieved for America: so many churches, so little gospel witness; so many churches, so few devoted disciples of Jesus; so many churches, so little impact on our culture, so little assistance to the poor and those in need—and why? Maybe it’s because we’re more about glitz than God’s glory, more about entertainment than worship, more about self than others, more about “our church” than God’s kingdom. Most American Christians see the church as an organization they can use to make their life a little better rather than as the bride and body of Christ which forms me as a disciple of Jesus and sends me into the world in His name and for His glory. How else can you explain the disparity between the number of churches and the lack of influence? Pavel’s words stirred in me a desire to be a better pastor, to love and serve Christ’s church more deeply and encourage others to do the same.

So forgive me, God, for being an arrogant American who thinks I know more than folks from other cultures. And thank you, Pavel, for teaching me a thing or two about my own culture. I’ve always wanted to be a lifelong learner—even when that learning comes through a foreigner.

Courageous?

2011-10-14T15:01:00.003-05:00

So Dayna and I went to see the new Christian film, Courageous. It’s produced by a church in Georgia that has produced other films like Facing the Giants and Fireproof. Courageous is a compelling film for families and especially for fathers. If you’re inclined to cry at movies, take some Kleenex. If you’re not inclined to cry at movies, take some Kleenex.

Courageous is a film about fathering, and it stirred me to think about the way I fathered my kids. Of course, with kids who are 31 and 29, my fathering is pretty much past tense. “I’m feeling a little guilty,” I said to Dayna as we were driving home from the theater. “I could have done better with the kids.” I don’t think I was courageous.

Having been raised in a home without a father, I was ill-equipped to be one. I didn’t read any books on the subject; I just sort of followed my gut. Sometimes that worked out pretty well. Sometimes it didn’t. Like the Saturday I was supposed to watch the kids (who were about 4 and 2 at the time). I put them down for a nap about the time the Razorback game was supposed to start. Nathan, the oldest, refused to go to sleep. He kept asking for one thing or another, kept bugging me like a mosquito in a tent, kept me from being able to watch my game. Exercising zero maturity, I didn’t deal with the issue, I got into a back and forth exchange with him—my line usually being, “Don’t make me come in there.” Being a mouthy kid, he wouldn’t shut up, so (during a game timeout) I pulled him out of his room and took him to the kitchen sink. He wants to be mouthy; I’ll deal with his mouth. I’ll wash that boy’s mouth out with soap. But dang! There wasn’t any bar soap at the sink, so I grabbed the next best thing available: dishwashing liquid. (Before you judge me you must realize that I was in a hurry; the game was about ready to start again.) He was crying. I was mad. And I was going to win. So I smeared some of that blue soapy liquid on my finger and rubbed it in his mouth. And do you know what he did? He looked up at me with tears rolling down his pudgy cheeks and blew the biggest soap bubble you ever saw! Hysterical. I got to laughing and he got to laughing and I hugged to my chest the one I was ready to exile to Siberia just moments before. Not very courageous, huh?

I wasn’t much better with my daughter. Having been raised with two brothers, I had no concept on how to raise a girl. As demonstrated in the previous paragraph, I knew all about boys (yeah, right). I knew about wrestling and playing ball, about getting dirty and eating like a pig, about bodily functions and acting crude. And I knew how to discipline a boy too. They take a spanking pretty good. I could yell at a boy when I needed too. But how do you discipline a girl? From the first time I saw her, I wasn’t sure I had it in me to yell at her. And I wasn’t sure I could spank her either. So I was kind of nervous about having a girl. Could I discipline her when needed? Could I find a way to enter her world? Other than the GI Joe I played with in the mid-60s, I’d never been around dolls in my life. And even then GI Joe was no girl doll. He was always shooting the enemy and blowing stuff up. He’d have had no trouble wiping out Barbie if he thought she was a Communist. He was one bad dude. But this girl world was different—dolls and tea parties, Kaboodles and My Little Ponies, jewelry and makeup, dresses and ribbons and lace. I was glad she liked sports—we made some connection there. But on the whole, I was out of my element and would be the whole time she was growing up. But I loved her, how I loved her and love her still! Yet what’s so courageous about that? She was easy to love.

So if I was grading myself on my daddy-work I’d have to give myself a B. I think I was generally better than average but certainly not exceptional and certainly not courageous. Truth is: both of our kids were easy to raise and both turned out well. They love God, serve Him in their churches, live responsibly, and are raising their own kids to do the same. I credit this end-product to many prayers, Dayna’s influence, and two good churches we’ve been a part of. We did do our best to show them Christ, keep them in the Scripture, and keep them in the church. We did love them unconditionally. We laughed a lot—a whole lot. And we never for a moment forgot that these two kids belong to God and are only on loan to us. The bottom line is that God was merciful, and God shaped these kids into the adults they are today—in part because of us, in part in spite of us, especially in spite of me.

I can see it now: “Let’s make a movie about John’s fathering.”

“Ok, but what will we call it?”

“How about Courageous?”

“Don’t make me laugh.”

“Then what would you call it?”

“I’d call it … Blessed.”

And so would I.

Take That, Cancer!

2011-10-03T15:36:00.006-05:00

I sure get weary of burying my friends. A week ago I spoke at the funeral of David Martin. David and his wife Debbie were part of our church family for three years or so before work took them to the Dallas area. We continued to stay connected via email.

And when David was diagnosed with a malignant brain tumor a year and some months ago, we exchanged some of the richest email correspondence of my ministry. David sharing his heart; me trying to encourage him; me in my health telling David that God is with us in suffering; David on the frontline of suffering confirming for me that it’s true. I saved most of that correspondence and am very glad I did. Even though David didn’t want the tumor, he certainly embraced his condition and searched for God in the midst of it like a miner searches for gold. And David hit the mother lode. Did he waver in his faith from time to time? Yes, on rare occasions, but never for very long. He just kept leaning into Jesus and found Him in every twist and turn of his disease.

A few months ago I shared with David a poetic expression that was supposedly read at the funeral of a military chaplain who had died from cancer. Here it is: Cancer is so limited... It cannot cripple love. It cannot shatter hope. It cannot corrode faith. It cannot take away peace. It cannot destroy confidence. It cannot kill friendship. It cannot shut out memories. It cannot silence courage. It cannot invade the soul. It cannot reduce eternal life. It cannot quench the Spirit. It cannot lessen the power of the resurrection of Jesus Christ.

I had hoped to encourage David, but again he encouraged me. He sent me back a response in which he wrote his own reflection on cancer …

It’s not about the cancer; it's about the glance, or touch on the shoulder by a friend who leans forward and says "I have been thinking about you and praying for you, I love you brother.”

It's not about the cancer; it's about the concerned look/expression of a frightened family member and the comfort they experience as we all learn to hope more fully in God.

It's not about the cancer; it's about your spouse, your son, your daughter or sibling, and the pain they endure and the challenges they experience as they walk with you on this journey.

It's not about the cancer; It's about relationships—past, present and future.

It's not about the cancer; it's about living life. It's about loving life. It's about God and His glory.

It's not about the cancer; it's about magnifying the person and name of Jesus Christ—to Whom be glory, forever and ever, Amen.

See what I mean? David leaned into Jesus. Though he also wrote about his moments of anxiety and fear, he always found his way back into the peace and comfort of Jesus. And not long before the disease robbed him of the ability to concentrate or type an email, David sent me this: “God is so beautiful lately. I’m beginning to understand why Pentecostals whoop and holler.” That was David.

So it was David in one corner and cancer in the other. They traded punches in the middle of the ring for more than a year. David fought valiantly. In his corner stood family and friends, doctors and nurses, who cheered him on and tended his wounds at the end of each round. Yet in spite of the courage and faith with which David fought the battle, cancer finally took him down to the grave. The evidence suggests that cancer won the battle—his death certificate will say as much. But don’t believe that evidence. It’s tainted. It’s tainted by shortsightedness that sees life as a fixed continuum between birth and death. It’s tainted by a cynicism that believes cancer is king and death is final.

But against that evidence is the Scripture—a lot of Scripture—like this one from the apostle Paul who knew much about suffering: "Therefore we do not lose heart. Though we’re wasting away on the outside, we’re being renewed every day on the inside. For our light and momentary troubles are preparing for us an eternal glory that far outweighs them all. So we fix our eyes not on what is seen but on what is unseen. What is seen is temporary; what is unseen is eternal. And we know that if this earthly tent we live in is destroyed, we have a building from God, a house in the heavens, not built by human hands."

David believed that with all his heart. He knew Jesus was with him in the battle—the same Jesus who suffered and died and was raised from dead on the third day; the same Jesus who is the first and the last, the beginning and the end, the one who was dead but is alive forevermore; the same Jesus who holds the keys to death and the grave, who is with us and who is for us, and who is the resurrection and the life. David did cancer with Jesus. I so wish God had chosen to heal him this side of eternity, but for reasons known only to God, He healed David with the healing from which he will never be sick again. That’s why cancer didn’t win and why cancer doesn’t get the last word on David—God does, heaven does, life does.

So take that, cancer! You knocked David down, but you cannot knock him out! And even more, you will be knocked out in the end. And as you lay beaten and crushed on the mat, David and a host of other believers you’ve victimized over the centuries will raise their hands in victory and praise to the God who will finally set all things right.

The Double-Nickel

2011-09-26T11:37:00.004-05:00

It’s official. As of today I start getting my senior adult discount at lots of different places—SCORE! I had to wait fifty-five years to get it, but I got it now. And I’m going to enjoy it because I may not get any of the Social Security money I’ve been putting in since I was a like twelve. That’s right: I turned the old double-nickel today.

All in all, I’m in pretty good shape for a guy my age, thank God. In the middle of my early morning workout I knocked out a set of 55 pushups and had a few more in me. But I’m starting to show some signs of aging. A couple of Sundays ago a lady visited the church and told me she comes down once a year to Hot Springs and always visits our church on Sunday. She told me she has been coming since my first year here back in 1995. And then she said this: “I remember when you used to have red hair.” I guess my hair is s-l-o-w-l-y turning a premature gray. A lady who cut my hair a year or so ago told me it was blond, not gray, and since she’s a professional, I think I should trust her judgment more than this other lady’s. Anyway, I feel my age every now and then, but all in all it’s not so bad.

My concern at this growing old thing is that I don’t lose my mental edge (assuming, of course, that I have ever had a mental edge). There are people out there, you know, who like to take advantage of older folks. I recently heard about a lawyer sitting next to an older man on an airplane. The lawyer thought this guy might be easy-pickings, so he asked the older fellow if he wanted to play a little game. The older man wanted to take a nap so he politely declined. But the lawyer kept pestering him. "Come on, just play. I'll ask you a question and if you can't answer it you give me $5. Then you ask me a question, and if I can't answer it I give you $500." That did pique the senior's interest. So the older guy agreed to play.

The lawyer asked the first question: “What’s the distance between the earth and the moon?” The older man had no idea so he quietly pulled out his wallet and gave the lawyer $5. “Now you ask me a question,” said the lawyer.

The older man asked, “What goes up a hill with three legs and comes down with four?”

The lawyer liked the challenge, so he starts surfing the web looking for an answer, flashing emails to some of his smartest friends for their input. But nothing. So after an hour he woke the older fellow from his nap and handed him $500. The senior pocketed the money and went back to sleep.

But the lawyer couldn’t stand not knowing the answer. It was driving him nuts. So he woke up the old guy one more time and asked him, “So, what does go up a hill with three legs and comes down with four?” The old guy smiled, reached into his pocket, gave the lawyer $5, and went back to sleep.

I hope I can be that sharp as the years add up in my life, don’t you?

And I hope something else as well. I hope I’ll have the spirit to pray the prayer of the psalmist: “So teach us to number our days that we may get a heart of wisdom” (Ps. 90:12). I don’t want to just add years to my life; I want to learn from them. I want to grow deeper into Jesus, deeper into the well that satisfies a thirst mere years and the things of the world cannot. I want to gain the wisdom to help not only myself but others along the way. I want whatever years I have left to matter for God, for His kingdom, and for others. I don't want to waste my life; I don't want to waste what's left.

And who knows? Even though the double-nickel is a lot of years, in some ways I feel like I’m just getting started.

Of Tent Pegs and Nails

2011-09-19T14:04:00.003-05:00

Though he didn’t intend it to be a book on preaching, Michael Horton’s Christless Christianity has made an impact on the way I put a sermon together. Horton drew my attention to how so much American Christianity is little more than moralism devoid of the gospel: Do this. Don’t do that. Keep the rules. Smile a lot. Buck up. Be a good boy. Be a nice girl. He also bemoaned the state of preaching in such churches: “Four Steps to a Happy Marriage,” “How to Live Debt Free,” “Three Keys to Happiness,” “How to Climb Out of Depression.” Nothing wrong with any of that really, except that there’s no gospel in it, no Jesus in it. It would probably work just fine on the self-help rack at the bookstore. Any of us can work on being nice, keeping the rules, and applying a sermon’s “steps” whether we have Jesus or not.

Honestly, other than in the area of marriage and family, I’ve never done much of this kind of preaching anyway. But I haven’t always moved my sermons to Jesus and the gospel. Have I left people with the impression the Christian life is more law than grace, that Jesus is more crutch than life-support? Have I inadvertently communicated that we can do this Christian life thing on our own, leaning on Jesus only when we get in a tight spot? Thank you, Michael Horton; I think you’ve helped make me a better preacher of the gospel whether you intended to or not.

But what in the world do I do with Jael and the tent peg? Do you know the story? Jael was the Kenite tentwife who got Israel’s enemy and oppressor Sisera to take refuge in her tent. He was on the run from an Israel rout of his armies. Sisera believed Jael to be a friend, and bone tired from the fight and the flight, Sisera took Jael up on her offer. She treated him with much kindness—gave him a skin of warm milk, tucked him in nice and cozy, and told him to sleep well. But the woman was a sneak and a sly one at that. Once Sisera was happily snoring away, Jael took a tent peg in one hand, a hammer in the other, slipped back into the tent, tip-toed to Sisera who was sleeping on his side, lined up the peg with his temple, pulled the hammer back, and drove that peg right through his temples and into the ground. No more Sisera—he was dead at a tent peg. She murdered a sleeping man who trusted her. And through the act of a woman, not even an Israelite woman, Israel was delivered from Sisera and 20 years of Canaanite tyranny. Though a bit gruesome, it’s a good story.

But how do I get to Jesus and the gospel from there? I preached that story on Sunday and I never quite figured out a way? I did get it part way to gospel, I think, by reminding the congregation that this really isn’t a Jael story; it’s a God-story—that it’s more about God and His actions than about us and our actions. A noble try, I hope.

But as I continued to reflect upon that story through the day, another idea came to mind. And while it didn’t involve a tent peg, it involved some nails—as in the nails Roman soldiers drove through the hands and feet of Jesus. The story comparison is hardly apples to apples. In Jael’s story the good girl kills the bad guy, and Israel is delivered from the oppression of Canaan. In Jesus’ story, the bad guys kill the good guy, and people who believe from every nation, tribe, and tongue are delivered from the oppression of sin and death and the grave. Jael’s story is a temporary deliverance; Jesus’ story is an eternal deliverance. And while the one Jael murdered with a tent peg stayed dead; the one the Romans murdered with some nails did not—on the third day Jesus rose from the dead.

I don’t know if I’m on to something here or not. I don’t know if I’ve made a leap from Jael to Jesus that doesn’t follow. Maybe in doing so, I’m breaking some important rules of interpretation. I just don’t know.

But I do know this: the leap from Jael to Jesus gets my eyes on Jesus. That’s a good thing, right? The leap from Jael to Jesus gets me thinking of my own sin and of Jesus’ grace, of my own need and Jesus’ provision. That’s gospel, isn’t it? And this leap does something else: instead of hearing Jael’s story with the challenge to go and be as brave and cunning as Jael in dealing with my enemies, I’m reminded once again that, in the cross, Jesus decisively dealt with my worst enemies like sin and pride and self-sufficiency by doing for me what I could never do for myself. That take on the story doesn’t make me bow up; it makes me bow down. It doesn’t make me think I can deal with my enemies on my own; it drives me even deeper into dependency on Jesus and the power of His Spirit in my life. Hmm, I don’t know if making this leap is technically and hermeneutically correct, but it sure smells like gospel, and it seems to leave the fragrance of Christ over a story as brutal as Jael’s.

I wonder, isn’t that what separates Christianity from moralism? Isn’t that why the Bible isn’t just another book in the self-help rack at B. Dalton?

To Czech with Love

2011-09-09T15:45:00.004-05:00

I can honestly say that I never thought I would visit the Czech Republic—never. Not because I have anything against the Czechs, but because they were behind the Iron Curtain for most of my life, and it is an very small country—smaller even than our small state of Arkansas. What would ever take me to an obscure place like that anyway? God would, and God did. (I never thought I’d go to Russia either and I’ve been there three times—again, at God’s bidding.)

Anyway, here’s the deal. A couple of years ago a missionary to the Czech Republic named Harold attended our church’s annual mission celebration. He and I talked a good bit. He was discouraged. He was hearing other missionaries at the celebration talking about the people who were coming to Christ and the churches that were being planted. And Harold had no such stories. The Czech Republic is not exactly primed and ready for a Christian revival. After enduring a long, bitter history of religious war and then forty years of atheistic communist domination that seemed like 400 years (the Czechs aren’t too fond of Russia), hearts have hardened to Christ and the church. Czech is one of the most irreligious countries in the world. Our Prague tour guide, Klara, told us that Czech is 60% atheist, 30% Catholic (most of whom never darken the door of their magnificent cathedrals), and 10% Protestant. Not exactly fertile soil for the gospel, huh?

I couldn’t help but think about the shoe company who sent two representatives to scope out the market in central Africa. One sent back his report, “Nobody here wears shoes so no need to send them. I’m coming home on the next flight.” The second representative sent home a different report: “Nobody here wears shoes. Send me all you got. I’m sure I can sell a boat load.” It would be easy to look at Czech and say, “What’s the use of sending missionaries or helping the local church? Nobody much here believes and they probably never will.” Thankfully, Harold, Ginger, and their kids take a different view: “Nobody much here believes. With God’s help, we think we can lead many to Christ.” And so they stick it out and plow away at the blade-dulling soil, believing that sooner or later seeds will go down and a harvest will come up.

So our church decided to help them. We like going to hard places. They wanted English teachers. Along with a very small Czech congregation in a neighboring city, Harold and the church (pastured by Vladia and Zdenek) are trying to plant a church in Hradec Karlove, a city of over 100,000 that has no evangelical church that we know of. And they believe English classes are the way to build relationships and find doors for sharing the gospel. Heck, everybody in our church can speak English (Arkansas English anyway), so were rounded up thirteen folks and went to the Czech Republic to lead English classes.

We didn’t know what to expect. I didn’t. The country is a beautiful place. I thought it would look like Russia (something of an arm pit in terms of color or beauty or pizzazz and you can’t even drink the water). But no, Czech is a beautiful place: well-maintained and colorful buildings, lovely gardens and rivers, good roads, modern water system. And best of all: wonderful people. Our team and those who came to the English classes warmed to one another quickly. We had all ages and we hit it off fabulously.

Most of the people who came to the English classes consider themselves unbelievers or atheists (which I discovered to the Czech mind is really more agnosticism than classic scientific atheism). We did what we came to do: teach English. But when asked why we came, we were quick to tell them that we are Christians, followers of Jesus, and that God loves them and that we serve God by serving them. Harold was afraid this might put off Czechs and cause them to drop out of the class, but it didn’t. In fact, many signed up for follow up English which uses Bible stories to teach the language. Yea, God!! So we’ll see what comes of that. And by the way, the Czechs and the missionaries want us to come back. We’ve already got to future dates to go.

Near the end of the English camp, a Czech veterinarian, George, an unbeliever, told our trip leader that he never liked Americans. He said that Americans are typically arrogant and think the world revolves around them. Who can argue with that? But then he added this, “After being around your team, I feel differently now.” You know, George wasn’t drawn to us because we’re good Americans; he was drawn to Christ in us, the hope of glory. By being salt in that spiritually parched land, we were helping George get thirsty for Christ. He doesn’t understand that yet, but that’s what’s going on. The “Hound of heaven” is on his heels. And I pray George and the other wonderful people it was our pleasure to serve will one day recognize God’s great love for them and their great need for God and find the life that is really life in Jesus.

So we went to Czech with love, some English lessons, and not much else. And we found that God had gone to Czech with love long before us and was already there doing His thing—preparing, wooing, loving Czech people toward a relationship with Him. I wouldn’t have said this before I went there myself, but you know what? I believe God is up to something big in the Czech Republic and I can’t wait to see it happen.

Finally Here

2011-09-02T08:09:00.007-05:00

Okay, I admit it: I’m a Razorback junkie. I don’t have it as bad as some, but I’ve got it bad enough. I’m a Razorback junkie and I’m about to get my next fix. Football season is finally here. After that great sports desert (commonly known as summer), up in Fayetteville the pads are popping and the pigskin is once again flying through the air. Hog-elujah!

I’ve been addicted a long time—since 1969 to be exact. I was thirteen years old and few things seemed more important to me than the Razorbacks. I listened to or watched every game in a season that ended in the “Game of the Century,” when our arch-rival Texas came from 14 points down in the fourth quarter to beat us 15-14. It was the year 100 of college football. Envisioning the potential magnitude of the game, ABC Sports asked both teams to move the game from its traditional third Saturday in October to December 6, making it the last game ofthe year. In the AP poll, undefeatedTexas was ranked number 1; undefeated Arkansas was ranked number 2. Billy Graham prayed the invocation. President Nixon came to watch. It was a big deal. We had it won, and we lost. In the locker room after the game, Nixon awarded his version of the National Championship to Texas. Of course, he really didn’t have the authority to do that, but then again, as we would learn about President Nixon,he was prone to do things he had no authority to do. Anyway, watching that presentation in the locker room, I couldn’t help but feel sick that it should have been us, not Texas. I cried after that game—something I’d only done one other time in my life and something I’d never do again. Our coach, Frank Broyles, said he has never watched the tape of that game ever. I’ve watched it at least a couple of times, most recently in July, and I’m still bitter.

See what I mean? I’m a Razorback junkie. When my wife wanted to get married in the autumn, I made sure we did it on a Saturday the Razorbacks weren't playing. What's the matter with me? I'm a Razorback junkie—that's what's the matter. And it wasn’t always easy to get my fix. When I graduated from the University and left Fayetteville to move to Kansas City for seminary, it was harder to listen tothe games. Only two or three games ayear were televised, and the only station I could hear them on was KAAY out of Little Rock, and that only at night. But I listened to every night game and made due, until that one autumn when I tuned in the first game only to hear gospel music on KAAY instead of the Razorbacks. I was bitter about thattoo. And I was quite a site, sitting in my parked car, in front of the house, carefully working up and down the radio dial trying to find even a trace of a signal of the Razorbacks on the nights they were playing. Like a junkie trying to get his drug, I was trying desperately to find my Hogs. Every now and then, I would hear the faint strains of Paul Eels’ voice, but that was about it. I’ve pounded a few dashboards over it and said a few words I’m not proud of in my effort just to find some trace of the game. I felt angry. I felt lost and disconnected.

I think I have a problem. Israel worshiped a golden calf in the wilderness on their way to the Promised Land. Do I worship a red pig? I’ve wrestled with that over the years. I don’t think my addiction borders on worship. But I don’t know why I’m addicted at all. It’s not rational. The Razorbacks consistently promise more than they deliver. And if any team has had more heartbreak than the Hogs, I don’t know who it is. Texas in 1969. Referee Preston Watts awarding Tennessee afumble Arkansas’ Tom Reed recovered in the 1971 Liberty Bowl, giving the Volunteers the chance they needed to score and win the game. The bogus pass interference call that allowed SMU to tie us and keep us from an outright SWC Championship in 1982, and sending those bought and paid for Mustangs to the Cotton Bowl instead of us. Atwater’s drop of an interception that would have sealed the win for us at Miami in 1988 and kept us undefeated. Stoerner’s unforced fumble against Tennessee in 1998 in a game that would have made us 9-0 and sent us to the SEC Championship game and who knows what else after that. And I’m just scratching the surface. There have been plenty of other bad calls, untimely injuries, dumb plays, missed kicks, and turnovers that cost us games we should have won. We’ve certainly won some great and important games, but more often than not we usually find ways to lose them. Frustrating. Heartbreaking. Why do I keep going back for more?

Because I’m addicted, that’s why. Names like Montgomery and Dicus and Powell; Ferguson, Eckwood, Hampton, and Walker; Bull, Grovey, and Billy Ray Smith; Stoerner, Lucas, and Kennedy; Bua, Burlsworth, Jones, and Cobbs; McFadden, Jones, and Mallett; not to mention Bud Campbell and Paul Eels, are more than names to me. They are memories. They are friends. They are legends. They are part of the family—the Razorback family.

This Saturday it starts all over again, and I can’t wait.

Let It Go

2011-08-15T13:34:00.003-05:00

You’d think after all these years of being a pastor, all these years of being tangled up in the sins and troubles of people, I’d get used to it. But I’m not. I never cease to be astounded at the level of bitterness so many carry around in their souls. And bitterness is an ugly thing. Picture the lemon: bright, beautiful, yellow as the sun, inviting. But bite into it and just see what it does to your face. That’s the face of bitterness. Not a pretty thing, huh? In Claude Lanzmann’s documentary on the Holocaust, a leader of the Warsaw ghetto uprising talked about the bitterness that remains in his soul over how he and his neighbors were treated by the Nazis: “If you could lick my heart,” he says, “it would poison you.” Now that’s bitter!

Thankfully, most of us don’t have holocaust-level atrocities to forgive, yet plenty of us still carry around some bitterness: the insult, the divorce, the abuse, the treatment of our kid, the gossip, the betrayal, the firing, the criticism. And even though the affront that caused you such pain may have happened years ago, it feels like it just happened today. You remember it. You hold onto it. You chew on it over and over again like a morsel of choice food. But it is food that’s cooked in hell. There are no nutrients there, nothing to nourish you or sustain you, nothing to draw you closer to Christ or to others, nothing to make you more like Jesus.

And if anybody had reason to be bitter, it was Jesus. Innocent of any wrongdoing, Jesus was publicly humiliated and nailed to a cross. And even though the Gospels record that Jesus said seven different things on that cross, not one of them was a bitter word, not one. In fact, one of them was a forgiving word: “Father, forgive them for they don’t know what they’re doing.” There wasn’t a bitter bone in Jesus’ body. It’s hard to even imagine Jesus saying to the people around the cross, “You just wait! I’ll get you back for this—and twice as bad!” That’s not the Jesus we know.

And yet those who carry Jesus’ name say stuff like that all the time. This is a major disconnect. This same forgiving Jesus we claim to follow tells us that we’re supposed to love our enemies and forgive those who hurt us. Here’s the deal about bitterness and following Jesus: we’re not allowed to carry it. The Gospels forbid it, and so do the epistles. Remember Paul’s letter to the Ephesians? “Let all bitterness and wrath and anger and clamor and slander be put away from you, along with all malice. Be kind to one another, tenderhearted, forgiving one another, as God in Christ forgave you.” The forgiven are called to be forgiving. In fact, there’s just enough in Scripture to suggest that we can’t have it both ways. To boast of your forgiveness in Christ while carrying bitterness toward someone who has hurt you is as ugly as the bitterness itself.

I’m not suggesting that forgiving is an easy thing to do. It may even take a little time.to fully forgive the deepest hurts. But that’s okay. Forgiving others is one of those things that humbles us, that reveals to us our need and our weakness. Forgiving others can drive us back into the mercies of God for the strength to do it. So, run to those mercies already. And on your way, drop your bag of bitterness and just see how much that speeds the journey.

James Broderick in his book The Progress of the Jesuits says of Pope Pius IV: “He never forgot a slight done to him, and that was his fundamental weakness. He might appear to bury the hatchet, but he always marked where that hatchet was buried.” Not a pretty picture. Not a Jesus picture, that’s for sure. So if you, dear reader, are carrying the rotting seed of bitterness in your heart today, in the name and power of Jesus, spit it out, put it down, let it go.

My One Sermon

2011-08-08T14:15:00.002-05:00

I need your help—especially if you’re familiar with my preaching. Last week a pastor-friend and I engaged in an email dialogue around an article on preaching my friend had read and forwarded to me. Growing out of our dialogue was a discussion over something I had read in Eugene Peterson’s book, Pastor: A Memoir. Peterson wrote that his minister-son once told him, "Dad, you only have one sermon." For the longest time that troubled Peterson. He thought about his hours of preparation, the variety of biblical texts he employed, his openness to the text and the Spirit, his applications to the local congregation. In Peterson’s judgment, it sure seemed like he had a lot more than one sermon in his almost three-decade repertoire. But some years later, it struck him what his son meant—essentially this: most preachers who preach their own sermons have one dominating theme no matter the text. It might be grace or the cross or judgment or moral codes or something else, but there's something inside us pastors, created by life-experience and our relationship with Christ and the Bible, that seems to find its way in content or tone or spirit into our sermon pretty much every time we preach. I think I buy that.

And it got me to thinking about what my “one sermon” might be. My one sermon is probably, “Give more money!” With all the building campaigns I’ve endured in thirty years of pastoring, it sometimes feels like it. But, no, that's not it. It's something else. As I was pondering this “one sermon” thing, a past conversation came to mind. In one of my last Sundays at First Baptist Church of Greenwood, Missouri, a church I served for more than thirteen years, one of the leaders of our congregation approached me after the service. “I’m really going to miss your preaching,” he said. “I’ve been listening to you preach for years, and no matter what your text or topic, no matter whether you challenge us or comfort us, you always leave us with hope.” Someone listening in to the conversation was quick to agree: “Yes, you always leave us with hope.” I think he meant that before I put the amen on my sermon, I try to leave people with hope in Christ, hope that God is bigger and better than we know, hope that God loves us and God is for us and God is with us, hope that God isn’t finished with us yet, hope that past sins and failures don’t define our lives forever, hope for a new beginning and a fresh start, and even the hope of heaven when we take that last breath on earth. The more I reflect on my preaching, I think he’s right. And I’m okay with that. Although, I still hope people give more money.

So, here’s where I need your help: if you’re familiar with my preaching, what do you think is my one sermon? Did the guy in Greenwood get it right, or do you hear some other more prominent theme underneath my preaching? I’ve never used my blog to get evaluation, but what the heck. I’ve been thinking about this for a few days. I’m interested in your thoughts. You can make your comments either in the “comment section” on the blog site or on the Facebook link. Fire away, my friends, and thanks in advance for your investment in my ministry. Who knows? Your feedback might even make me a better preacher. And pretty much everybody who’s heard me preach would agree that that would be a good thing.

My Favorite Noah

2011-08-01T14:24:00.004-05:00

In the Bible book of Genesis we read these words: “Noah was a righteous man, blameless in his generation. Noah walked with God” (6:9). I really like this Noah. He was faithful to God when nobody else was. He was obedient to God when God asked him to do this strange thing of building an ark among people who knew little of rains and floods. To pull an image from the godless philosopher Friedrich Nietzsche, Noah exercised “a long obedience in the same direction.” Noah wasn’t perfect. He had his flaws. But the man loved and followed God as best he could through strange and amazing times. Since I am a pastor by vocation, you’d expect that this is my favorite Noah.

But you would be wrong. I surely love the biblical Noah and look forward to meeting him in heaven, but on August 2, 2001, another Noah bumped him from the top of my favorite Noah list. That would be Noah Scott McCallum, my first grandchild. And on August 2, 2011, that boy turns 10 years old—double digit years, all eight fingers and both thumbs, a decade.

What a great kid! He can be pretty funny when he wants to be—like the other day when he heard his grandmother and me talking about “back in the day.” I told him he was too young to be able to use that phrase. And he said that no, he could use that phrase. He said, “If it was 9:00 at night I could say, ‘You remember when we had lunch back in the day?’” Clever, huh? Or like the time he told the leader of his basketball camp that the leader’s gray hairs just meant he was “closer to heaven.” Funny kid. He’s also a good student: all A’s in his first four grades of school. He loves whatever sport is in season and is pretty good at all of them. And he’s a big fan of Cardinals baseball, the Dallas Cowboys and the Arkansas Razorbacks. Even better, Noah is a follower of Jesus, and it was my good pleasure to baptize him in his own church three years ago.

But what I appreciate most about Noah is that his life has not been storybook. He comes from a broken home. His parents have joint custody so that Noah and his sister rarely spend more than two or three nights in a row in the same bed. Out of that brokenness, I have seen that boy walk through some pretty deep sadness. Honestly, I don’t know how he’s done as well as he has with so much underlying sadness and even bouts of anger from time to time. Divorce-Care for Kids helped some here. A little counseling his dad got him helped a little too. And the fact that both his parents love him helps as well. Mostly, I believe the Lord has carried that little boy along on eagles' wings through his times of pain—a pain he can’t easily verbalize or fully understand. As you can imagine, a lot of prayers have gone up in his behalf. God listens and God helps. Blessed be the name of the Lord! Having come from a broken home myself, I am especially sensitive to what he struggles with and to the quiet mercies of God that tend to the heart of the child that seeks Him. I think this common pain has knitted my heart to his in some way. As I have listened to him talk about his hurt, I feel my hurt all over again. A kid’s wounds can heal, but those wounds leave scars that never quite fade away. Thankfully, as Noah turns 10, he seems to be better in this regard—open wounds are becoming scars.

As you can see, I think Noah’s pretty special. But my love for him is not blind. I know he’s far from perfect. He can be a whiny-butt sometimes—like his dad before him and his granddad before that. He can put up a good argument when he’s allowed to. He lapses into selfishness from time to time. And he can be short-tempered with his little sister more often than anybody would like. He’s a kid after all. Like all of us, he’s a sinner in need of grace and forgiveness, discipline, direction, and help. At least he knows where to find that help.

Can you tell I’m proud of him? Well, I am—very proud of him. I’m proud that he carries the McCallum name into the next generation. I’m proud that he and I share the same middle name, Scott. I’m proud that he carries the surname of one of the Bible’s great characters: Noah. And on his 10^th birthday, I pray that at the end of his life, no matter what he does for a vocation and whether his years be many or few, people who know him will say the same thing about him that the Bible says about the original Noah: “Noah was a righteous man, blameless in his generation. Noah walked with God.”

God of the Nations—Even Ours

2011-07-05T17:12:00.006-05:00

As we once again celebrate the birth of our nation and our blood-bought independence, I want to share Abraham Lincoln’s second inaugural address—perhaps the most theologically reflective address in the history of the U.S. presidency. Other presidents were known to call the nation in prayer during trying times. Franklin Roosevelt even led the nation in prayer on D-Day, June 6, 1944. Bill Clinton was fond of including numerous Bible references in his many speeches. On the campaign trail, Jimmy Carter stirred new interest in Jesus’ phrase “born again.”

Religion is nothing new to American life. Our Founders spoke often of God and Christ and freely quoted Bible verses. It’s no secret that many of our national monuments are inscribed with quotations from the Bible, and that most public oaths are taken with a hand on the Bible and end with “so help me God.” Even as late as the 1950s, America was very public in our God-talk and God-dependence, adopting the phrase “In God We Trust” (which had been on our coinage since 1864) as our national motto in 1956. Two years earlier, in 1954, the phrase “under God” was added to our Pledge of Allegiance. I’m a firm believer in the separation of church and state, but for some reason our Founders and a majority of Americans up through the 1950s never seemed to find that these kinds of things violated either that cherished American principle or the constitution. It’s only been in the last 50 or so years that the tide has been moving in the direction of expunging God from public life as much as possible.

Of course, one problem with these connections of the United States and God is that we will develop a kind of civil religion which is usually both civil and religious but not Christian. You know civil religion when you see it: perfunctory prayers at civic gatherings, the singing of God Bless America, the view that America is God’s chosen nation, that God loves America more than He loves other nations, the idea that American citizenship equates to being a Christian. Civil religion tends to wrap the Bible in the flag and employ the church to make patriots rather than disciples. This is dangerous for the nation and the church, and it's one reason why as a pastor I’ve never been one to lead patriotic services of worship. In fact, I believe the American flag belongs in the foyer, not the sanctuary. I just don’t think the church’s mission is to advance the cause of America. Doing so tends to stir a nationalism that borders on idolatry. And besides, Christian values and American values don’t always coincide. As Christians, we’re certainly to seek the peace of our own nation, but our concern, like God’s, is for all nations.

With all that said, here’s Lincoln’s second inaugural address. (Thank you, Library of Congress.) He gave it on March 4, 1865. Two things happened within a month of the speech: the Civil War finally ended and Lincoln was assassinated. You could say these were his last words. And what words they were! Lincoln had the audacity to speak of God's judgment on our nation. Has any public official ever wrestled with America and her faith in the Christian God more eloquently, boldly, or profoundly than Lincoln did in this address? And in the midst of our contemporary national sins and what seem to be the judgments of God on our nation, could any words be more timely?

_____________

At this second appearing to take the oath of the presidential office, there is less occasion for an extended address than there was at the first. Then a statement, somewhat in detail, of a course to be pursued, seemed fitting and proper. Now, at the expiration of four years, during which public declarations have been constantly called forth on every point and phase of the great contest which still absorbs the attention, and engrosses the energies of the nation, little that is new could be presented. The progress of our arms, upon which all else chiefly depends, is as well known to the public as to myself; and it is, I trust, reasonably satisfactory and encouraging to all. With high hope for the future, no prediction in regard to it is ventured.

On the occasion corresponding to this four years ago, all thoughts were anxiously directed to an impending civil war. All dreaded it--all sought to avert it. While the inaugeral [sic] address was being delivered from this place, devoted altogether to saving the Union without war, insurgent agents were in the city seeking to destroy it without war--seeking to dissole [sic] the Union, and divide effects, by negotiation. Both parties deprecated war; but one of them would make war rather than let the nation survive; and the other would accept war rather than let it perish. And the war came.

One eighth of the whole population were colored slaves, not distributed generally over the Union, but localized in the Southern part of it. These slaves constituted a peculiar and powerful interest. All knew that this interest was, somehow, the cause of the war. To strengthen, perpetuate, and extend this interest was the object for which the insurgents would rend the Union, even by war; while the government claimed no right to do more than to restrict the territorial enlargement of it. Neither party expected for the war, the magnitude, or the duration, which it has already attained. Neither anticipated that the cause of the conflict might cease with, or even before, the conflict itself should cease. Each looked for an easier triumph, and a result less fundamental and astounding. Both read the same Bible, and pray to the same God; and each invokes His aid against the other. It may seem strange that any men should dare to ask a just God's assistance in wringing their bread from the sweat of other men's faces; but let us judge not that we be not judged. The prayers of both could not be answered; that of neither has been answered fully. The Almighty has his own purposes. "Woe unto the world because of offences! for it must needs be that offences come; but woe to that man by whom the offence cometh!" If we shall suppose that American Slavery is one of those offences which, in the providence of God, must needs come, but which, having continued through His appointed time, He now wills to remove, and that He gives to both North and South, this terrible war, as the woe due to those by whom the offence came, shall we discern therein any departure from those divine attributes which the believers in a Living God always ascribe to Him? Fondly do we hope--fervently do we pray--that this mighty scourge of war may speedily pass away. Yet, if God wills that it continue, until all the wealth piled by the bond-man's two hundred and fifty years of unrequited toil shall be sunk, and until every drop of blood drawn with the lash, shall be paid by another drawn with the sword, as was said three thousand years ago, so still it must be said "the judgments of the Lord, are true and righteous altogether"

With malice toward none; with charity for all; with firmness in the right, as God gives us to see the right, let us strive on to finish the work we are in; to bind up the nation's wounds; to care for him who shall have borne the battle, and for his widow, and his orphan--to do all which may achieve and cherish a just and lasting peace, among ourselves, and with all nations.

Sleeping In Church

2011-06-29T09:41:00.007-05:00

It's been said that preachers are a group of people who talk in somebody else's sleep. It happens—probably happens every Sunday most everywhere. Somebody in the congregation or the choir nods off to dreamland. This is nothing new. One of my favorite stories in Acts is the story from Troas in chapter 20, where Paul, planning on leaving the next day, and having still much to say, preached pretty much all night long. One young man named Eutychus moved during the preaching to sit in a window. Maybe he was already feeling sleepy. Maybe the smoky haze of burning lanterns called for some fresh air. Who knows? But we do know this: while sitting in the window listening to Paul drone on and on, Eutychus fell sound asleep and right out the window. It was a three story fall, and the fall killed him dead. But not to worry, the church rushed down to him, and Paul raised that boy from the dead. Some wonder if Luke included this story as comic relief, or to prove Paul as a prophet in the vein of Elijah and Elisha, or to provide an example of judgment on those who neglect the word of God. Maybe it's all of those. Being a preacher I certainly find the comic relief in it—especially since Eutychus would live to sleep in church another day.

Every church has its sleepers. I remember a man in a congregation I serve d who kept his eyes closed for most of my sermon. He told me it helped him concentrate. I still think he was catching a few winks. A friend of mine was in a church where a particular man fell asleep every Sunday. And on one particular Sunday, the man was so deep in his sleep that he never even woke up during the invitation hymn. Fed up with it, the pastor decided to get him good. So after the invitation, the pastor called on this man to close in prayer. Still sleeping, he didn't hear the pastor. So he called on him again, and the man next to the sleeper grabbed his shoulder, shook him awake, and said, "You're supposed to pray." So the man groggily stood and prayed, "Thank you, God, for the food that's before us; and may it strengthen us for your service. Amen." Thinking he was at lunch, he said a blessing. It happens. It's never bothered me much when somebody falls asleep during my preaching. I figure that if the church can provide twenty minutes of rest to some worn out soul, then we're still doing some good.

But not every preacher feels that way. I read a great story about sleeping in church that happened in a Puritan church in Massachusetts in June, 1646. I found the story in On This Day in Christian History by Robert Morgan. The Puritans of colonial New England appointed "tithingmen" to stroll among the pews on Sunday mornings, alert for anyone nodding off during the long, often ponderous sermons. They carried long poles with feathers on one end and knobs or thorns on the other. Worshipers napped at their own peril, and the results were unpredictable. Obadiah Turner included this entry in his journal from a particular Sunday (I'm Americanizing the English a little bit):

_________

Allen Bridges was chosen to wake the sleepers in worship. Ang being much proud of his place, he had a fox tail fixed to the end of a long staff with which he may brush the faces of them that nap during the sermon, likewise a sharp thorn whereby he may prick such as sleep most sound. On the last Lord's day, as he strutted about the meetinghouse, he did spy Mr. Tomlins sleeping with much comfort, his head kept steady by being in the corner, and his hand grasping the rail. And so spying, Allen did quickly thrust his staff behind Dame Ballard and give him a grievous prick upon the hand. Whereupon Mr. Tomlins did spring up much above the floor and with terrible force strike his hand against the wall; and also to the great wonder of all, profanely exclaim in a loud voice, "Curse ye, woodchuck!" He was dreaming so it seemed that a woodchuck had seized and bit his hand. But on coming to know where he was, and the great scandal he had committed, he seemed much abashed, but did not speak. And I think he will not soon again go to sleep in worship.

__________

I think Mr. Tomlins could have avoided his embarrasing moment if he had owned a book I purchased years ago: 101 Things to Do During a Boring Sermon. In this book Tim Sims and Dan Pegoda offer a variety of games, diversions, musings, and the like to stay awake while the preachers waxes on and on. I look "Bird Brain" in which the bored worshiper is list as many state birds as he can and then match the state birds he's listed to church members who look like one of the birds. I also like the idea of using the Song of Solomon to compose an oozing love letter to a prominent church member, then leaving it, unsigned, inside a hymnal. Not only will composing that letter keep you awake during the sermon, it's bound to perk up the person who finds it the next Sunday. If you've got a boring preacher, you might want to pick up this book.

I wonder if Eutychus realized what he was starting on that hazy Troas night. His tribe has certainly increased. That's just life; that's just church. People are going to sleep in church from time to time. It happens. But my real concern is not for those that sleep through a sermon now and then but for those who are in a deeper spiritual slumber. They may wear the form of Christianity, but their faith is only skin deep, not heart deep. They are asleep to the presence of Christ around them, asleep to His promptings, asleep to the needs of their neighbors, asleep to God's word and God's will and God's ways. And some of these may stay awake through every sermon and even take good notes—notes that move from ear to page while bypassing the heart.

Those are the folks I worry about. But even then, their situation is not hopeless. If God can raise the dead, He can surely wake the sleeping. And I pray He will. There's a life to be lived, a God to be worshiped, truths to be learned, and a world that needs God's touch through you. So if you're in some sort of spiritual slumber these days, wake up!

Father of the Year

2011-06-19T14:58:00.009-05:00

The Arkansas Baptist News, a bi-monthly paper with all the news that's fit to print and some that's not, holds a contest every year around Fathers Day. The paper invites readers to write a brief essay and enter their good old dad in the "Father of the Year" contest.

So I was thinking that if the Bible had a "Father of the Year" contest, who would win the prize? You know, really good fathers, as we Americans romanticize them to be, are pretty hard to find in the Bible.

Adam could have won the award for several years in a row, I guess, but the man had no competition. And was he really all that great of a dad. Didn't one of his boys murder the other?

Noah did all right for the most part. He was a blameless man, most righteous man on earth at the time, so Noah and his family were the only ones God saw fit to save from the great flood. But after the flood, there was this strange episode about Noah getting drunk and falling asleep buck naked in his tent. His son Ham found him that way and went and told his two brothers, Shem and Japheth. Those two found a blanket, backed into the tent, and covered their father. When Noah slept off his drunk and learned what happened, he cursed his son Ham for looking on his nakedness. Ham became the father of the Canaanites, not exactly a very high class breed of people back in the day.

Abraham was pretty good, I think—at least with Isaac. Except for that little episode where Abraham almost slit Isaac's throat and burned him in sacrifice to God (a test at God's bidding, mind you), Abraham was probably a bit over-protective with this child of promise.

Isaac didn't do so well with his boys, Jacob and Esau. He played favorites with Esau and got played for chump by his other son Jacob.

And Jacob, a chip off the old block, wound up with twelve sons, playing favorites with two of them, Joseph and Benjamin, and sort of alienating the others in the process. Jacob did offer individual blessings for each of his boys though. A lot of us dads could sure do a better job of blessing our children, don't you think?

Moses is one of the three dominant figures in the Old Testament but we know virtually nothing of his kids or his fathering.

And while David was a great king, he didn't do so well at fatherhood. One of his sons raped one of his daughters. Another son killed the brother who raped their sister, and that same son later orchestrated a coup against his father—a coup he came within an inch of pulling off. And when that no good son was killed in the battle, David grieved and grieved and grieved.

Job was probably a pretty good dad. He provided well for his children and they apparently got along well with one another because they were eating together when a tornado crushed the house in which they were gathered and killed them all.

And we've got to at least tip our hats to Hosea. God told him to marry a whore as a stark example of God's opinion of His people Israel who were whoring after other gods. Hosea did what he was told. His wife Gomer bore him three children then left the family in a lurch and went right back to her whoring ways. I guess Hosea had to raise those kids on his on. And when God told Hosea to take Gomer back a few years later, he did so, setting quite an example of forgiving love for his kids.

Jump from the Old to the New Testament, and there's not many dads in there to enter in the contest. There was Joseph who more or less adopted Jesus and, except for the time he accidentally left 12-year-old Jesus in Jerusalem, apparently did well with him. But honestly, who couldn't do well with Jesus?

There's also Zebedee. He was the father of James and John. He taught them the fishing business and apparently let them go without much of a fight when Jesus called his sons to follow Him. But then again, James and John were known as "the sons of thunder." Was this a nickname about the boys or about their dad? Did their dad, perhaps, have a little temper problem he passed on to the boys? Who knows?

And there was also a dad here and there in the Gospels who brought sick children to Jesus, in hopes that Jesus would make them well. But we know so little about them it's hard to make a judgment as to the quality of their fathering.

Oh, and in Acts there was the Philippian jailer. No sooner did God save him than he invited Paul and Silas to his house in the hopes that his whole family would be saved. The Bible says they were. And really, that's about it for fathers in the New Testament.

I've got to tell you, the Bible doesn't appear to be all that interested in parading excellent fathers before our eyes. You'll not find many father role models in the pages of the Scripture. You'll find some fatherly counsel there: like, how dads are supposed to teach their kids day in and day out to love God, and like Paul's counsel for fathers not to breed rebellion in their kids but to raise them in the nurture and admonition of Christ. And, of course, Proverbs dishes out a little fatherly wisdom about disciplining the kids—"spare the rod, spoil the child" and all of that. Actually, when it comes to fathers, the Bible has more advice than role models. Most of the dads we see in the Scripture aren't all that different from most dads I know today: they are a mixture of the holy and the profane, they have their good moments and their bad moments, but mostly they just try to do the best they can with what they've got to work with in themselves and what they've got to work with in their children. So if you had a bad childhood and a father that wasn't so hot, why don't you cut him some slack and even forgive him if that's needed. And if you are a father who feels like you just haven't done enough, why don't you cut yourself some slack and just try to do a little better. I wish I could hold up a couple of fatherly models from the Bible and say, "Do it like these guys did it," but I really can't. Like or not, there just aren't many great father-figures in the Bible.

So is there no "Father of the Year" in the Bible? Well, there is one. In fact, I'm ready to make my nominee for "Father of the Year." I nominate … our Father God. He is the Father who made us, knitting us together in our mother's womb. He is the Father who saves us from our sin and keeps saving us a little more every single day, forgiving and restoring us as we have need. He's the Father who provides for our needs. He is the Father who loves us enough to discipline us when we go astray and get us back on the path that leads to life. And He's the Father who wants to be with His children so much that one day He will take us home to live with Him forever. What a great Father! He is, says the Bible, a Father to the fatherless, and He is a Father who can sympathize with any parent who ever gave up a child to death. If you want a model father to follow in the Bible look no further than to the Lord God himself. You will never live up to His standard, but at least He shows us the way. So praise be to God: the Father of the Year, the Father of All History, and the only perfect Father you'll ever know.

We Don't Speak Christian Anymore

2011-06-13T16:34:00.005-05:00

It comes as no surprise that our culture is post-Christian. Some would argue that it was never “Christian” to begin with. Ask the American Indian about our Christian culture. Ask black Americans how Christian our culture was to them. Maybe we never were all that Christian as a culture, but we leaned that direction in some ways. There are still vestiges of something of a Christian culture lingering here and there—like describing an athletic mismatch as “David vs. Goliath” or hearing someone talk of a hardship as their "cross to bear." But for the most part, any Christian culture we once had has been swallowed up by secularity. Some say it started with Madelyn Murray O’Hair’s victorious lawsuit to get state-sponsored prayer out of the public schools. Others will point to the repeal of the so called “blue laws” that required all but essential businesses (drugstores, for example) to close their doors on Sunday, in a sort of tip of the hat to the Sabbath and to free up employees to attend church if they so chose. All of this is old news.

But I was reminded of still more leakage of Christian culture in the last few days when New York Congressman Anthony Weiner was caught with his tweets pulled down. Apparently, he tweeted some pictures of himself in his undies to some ladies (who were not his wife). As is always the case there was the typical denial and “we don’t have enough information to comment at this time.” But that didn’t last for long. Soon the word and the pictures were out, and, like Amazon piranhas, the media-types were chewing him alive. It reminded me a good bit of the Tiger Woods mess a couple of years ago and of the John Edwards and Arnold Schwarzenegger soap operas that have been in the news more recently.

I’m not reflecting on this to throw another stone at Anthony Weiner. He’s a big boy, and like all big boys he’s going to have to man-up and face the consequences of his actions both personally and professionally. The reason this caught my attention was the way this is talked about in the media. His behavior is viewed as some kind of “sickness” for which he needs some kind of “treatment.” And would anyone be all that surprised in the months to come if we don’t find out that poor Mr. Weiner had some kind of trauma or disappointment in his childhood that led to this behavior? In other words, Mr. Weiner may not be a culprit here after all; he may be a sad victim of a parent’s neglect or a broken home or some event bringing on these latent tendencies in his life.

That’s the way our culture talks about these kinds of things. Do you notice that the Christian language of sin and guilt and personal responsibility is rarely mentioned in our post-Christian culture? We don’t speak Christian anymore. And that’s too bad. It’s precisely Christian language that gets at the heart of such behavior. Sin speaks of our behavior on a level that words like mistake and miscalculation and screw-up and bad judgment and moral failure just can’t reach. Those terms have a self-orientation. The word sin gives our behavior a God-orientation and points us to the only One who can truly repair what’s broken in our lives.

A good dose of Psalm 51 would do us a lot of good. You remember that psalm? That’s a psalm of King David. That’s his prayer and reflection after the prophet Nathan exposed what David thought was a pretty clever cover-up of his adultery with Bathsheba and his sort of murder of Bathsheba’s husband Uriah (by intentionally ordering him to the frontline of battle). But when David was confronted with this behavior, he didn’t dodge it, he didn’t deny it, he didn’t justify it. He didn’t talk about the pressures of office or the pressures of being a celebrity. He didn’t blame it on being the baby of his family or on the inattention of his father. He didn’t blame Bathsheba either. David called his behavior exactly what it was: sin—sin against Bathsheba and Uriah and God. David took full responsibility for his behavior. He confessed. He repented. He accepted the consequences, and he asked God to clean up his life and help him do better. Then, as God is so quick to do, He forgave David and restored him to full fellowship once again. I really think David recovered from this fiasco because he was dealing with reality: his deceitful heart and his sin. David reminds us that we can’t decisively or effectively deal with our sin without dealing with God.

In the early 70s psychiatrist Karl Menninger noticed this move from Christian language to therapeutic language and wrote a book about it: Whatever Became of Sin? Though sin is just as stylish as it has always been, the term sin is not. Consequently, fallen, broken people don’t take their brokenness to God; they take it to therapists and pharmacists. And while therapists and pharmacists can do a lot of good, therapists and therapy, pharmacists and pharmacy, are not enough for broken, fallen lives. Only God can fix our deeper problem: this deceitful heart with its compunction to sin and cover it up and justify it when its found out. Only God gives us the framework to understand that and make that well. And a simple word like sin gets us oriented toward God and His remedies rather than the remedies of folks who are fallen and broken too. The best therapists can offer is a little reformation. God offers transformation—from the inside out: “If anyone is in Christ, he is a new person; old things have passed away, all things become new” (2 Cor. 5:17). That’s why the fact that we are sinners is good news, not bad—it means, as Tim Keller once said, that we’re not the helpless victims of psychological drives or social systems; we’re responsible persons who can take our sins to God and find healing for our souls.

There are things I miss about the Christian culture we once embraced in our country. And there are things our country misses too—not the least of which is a little word called sin because we don’t speak Christian anymore.

Goodbye, Old Friend

2011-06-05T15:58:00.006-05:00

I wish I hadn’t answered the phone. We were in Memphis to celebrate my Aunt’s 100^th birthday. We were taking it easy in the motel waiting for the evening get-together when the cell phone rang. Dayna answered it and handed it to me. It was the vet. We had kenneled our dog Sadie there for the weekend just as we always did when we went out of town. But this time was different. Sadie was scheduled for a follow-up test on her kidney function. About three weeks before the vet discovered a significant loss in Sadie’s kidney function. She said it was an aging thing.

Sadie was getting old. We got her from the pound when she was about two years old. She had a case of the mange, she was malnourished and underweight, she had bad teeth, and she was skittish when a hand was held out to her (probably a sign of previous abuse). But she was a Sheltie mix, and we loved her right away. That was thirteen years ago this summer. Sadie was very shy and she wouldn’t bark. For the longest time we didn’t know if she had a bark. But a year or so after we brought her home, we finally heard her bark for the very first time. Though she always remained shy around people, she finally came out of her shell.

And now she was just plain old—15 years old, that’s roughly 105 in dog-years. And the old girl was feeling it. She was pretty much deaf as a post. She was night blind. Her hips were bad, making it hard for her to negotiate step downs or step ups, and sometimes those back legs would just slip out from under her leaving her a little like Steve Urkel: “I’ve fallen and I can’t get up.” And the poor thing only had about five or six teeth left in her head. But she still smiled a lot, still sat patiently staring up at us as we ate our meals, waiting for a little handout, and she could still prance about when she felt like it. So we didn’t know what to make of her condition.

That’s why the vet wanted a re-test on the kidney function after she been on some medicine for awhile. They ran the test last Friday when we dropped her off at the vet. And the phone call in Memphis told us the test was not good. Her kidney function had deteriorated dramatically in the three weeks since her first test. She was dealing with uremic poisoning, and it was going to kill her.

I asked the vet after the first test if it was time to think about putting her down. The vet said, “Probably not just yet. If a dog can do two of the three things she enjoys most, then she has quality of life.” I was tempted to say to the vet, “Well, would you ask her what those three things are because I really don’t have a clue?” But I refrained. We were caught off guard by this and wanted to see if the medicine would work.

It didn’t—not one bit. The vet told us Friday that Sadie’s condition was irreversible, that she would be dead in a month and that she would suffer with this. “Should we put her down?” I asked. “That’s up to you,” he said. “You don’t have to do it right now. You could even wait till you get back in town so you could say goodbye to her or you could just keep her till she showed more serious signs of the poisoning.” Sigh . . . “Can I call you back in a few minutes? I need to talk to my wife.”

So Dayna and I talked. As much as we didn’t want to let her go, neither one of us could bear the thought of showing up at the vet’s on Monday, scratching her behind the ears for a moment or two and then turning her right back over to vet to put her down. Neither did we want to watch her deteriorate and die before our eyes. So I called the vet back. “Go ahead and ….” I couldn’t finish the sentence and there was silence for a few seconds as I tried to speak through this giant lump in my throat. The vet was very patient with that silence—I think he had heard it before. “Go ahead and put her down,” I said. “It’ll be humane,” he said. And sometime late Friday afternoon, Sadie went to sleep for the last time.

And I miss her. Dayna went to Jonesboro from Memphis so I came home alone. And there was Sadie’s bed—a bed she’ll never sleep in again. Her food and water dish in its familiar place—it hurts to know I’ve fed her for the last time. And there’s that rug we put in the corner of our room where she likes to sleep. We put a rug there in hopes that her hair would end up on that little rug instead of in the carpet. Of course, she would start digging away until she moved the rug out of the corner enough to lay on the carpet. It was like a game to her I think. Well, we don’t need that rug anymore. I wonder how long it will take before I'll quit looking for her to come walking into the room? I tend to squelch my emotions on most everything, and I kid with people who get so emotional about their pets. But even stoic old Scottish me is feeling my emotions today.

I once heard somebody say, “You’re not truly free till the last kid leaves home and the dog dies.” I’ve repeated that a lot in a humorous way. It’s not funny to me today. There have been times in the last year or so where for whatever reason Sadie has thrown up a lot and even messed in the house and on the carpet. That really made me mad. And I'll be the first to confess that when I wake up to that in the morning, I said some mean things to Sadie upon discovery of such things. She never seemed to mind. She always forgave me. And in the last year or two she couldn’t hear me anyway. Our carpet is even older than Sadie, and (thanks to her in many ways) we need some new carpet. But I wasn't about to pay for new carpet until Sadie is gone. You know, I could have lived with the old carpet a little longer.

Of all the dogs I’ve ever had, Sadie was my favorite. Lassie was a great dog to have when I was a kid. She played ball with us. She helped us through a divorce. But Sadie has been the dog of my maturity, just a good old friend. For years she would run with me in the wee hours of the morning. I didn’t even have to leash her. She stayed right with me, her herding instincts kicking in gear as she’d follow behind me moving from one side to the other. Now and then she’d follow her nose instead of me and pause here and there along the way, but a slap on my leg and she was right back at my side. Dayna always said that Sadie was my dog. She wanted to be in whatever room I was in. She longed for the stroke of my hand on her head. She wanted to be near me, sometimes annoyingly so. Maybe she found some comfort in having me near, I don’t know. But she was the dog of my maturity, the dog my grandkids loved and looked forward to seeing every time they came to our house. I guess you could say that Sadie and I sort of aged together.

God has given us many gifts in life. Sadie was one of those gifts to me. Just as God rescued unlovely me from certain death, Dayna and I rescued Sadie. But across the years, Sadie loved us better than we loved her, at least better than I loved her.

People often ask me if dogs will go to heaven. I’m not as dogmatic about that as I once was. The Bible tells us there will certainly be animals in the new heaven and new earth as God redeems all creation fully and finally. Whether that means some of the animals we’ve loved in life will be there, I don’t know. But I do know this: heaven would be just a little bit brighter for me if could run a few more times there with Sadie at my heels.

Goodbye, old friend. I miss you already.

A Veteran I'd Love to Meet

2011-05-30T14:13:00.008-05:00

I just finished a remarkable biography. It's called Unbroken. It's written by Laura Hillenbrand, and she recounts the life (so far) of Louie Zamperini. Louie grew up in Torrance, California during the Great Depression. He was not a good boy. He connived. He stole. He got into numerous fights. He and the police were on a first name basis. He was, as Hillenbrand described him, a "one-boy insurgency." If it hadn't been for patient parents and his older brother, Pete, who knows what would have become of Louie? It certainly wouldn't have been this story.

The only way Louie avoided a life of crime was his interest in running. Pete was a runner and he saw something in the way Louie ran that could lead to greatness. And did it ever! He set all the California high school records for the mile run. He went on to the University of Southern California and set all kinds of records there, winning the mile run in the NCAA meet. He was a natural.

He even set his sights on the 1936 Olympics. He was the youngest man in the field, and he didn't make it in the mile. Not to be deterred, however, he tried the two mile and miraculously made the Olympics in that race. You've heard of those Olympics, haven't you? Berlin. Jesse Owens. Adolf Hitler. Zamperini placed seventh in the two mile run and because of the way he went about his business, he even shook hands with Hitler. Louie knew he was a bit young to compete with all those young men in their prime, so he refocused his energies on making the 1940 Olympics which were to be in Tokyo. Of course, a world war erupted and those Olympics were cancelled.

To avoid the draft, Louie enlisted in the Air Corps and became a bombardier on a B-24. He was good at what he did. But he didn't get many missions under his belt because he and his crew were forced to fly an unsafe plane on a search mission. The engines gave out. The plane went down into the sea. Only three of the crew, including Louie, survived.

There would be no rescue either. Louie and two others drifted for almost seven weeks, fending off hunger, sharks, a Japanese attack, and storms. One of the three died during their weeks on the raft. And just when Louie and his friend thought they were about to make land, a Japanese patrol boat found them and took them prisoner.

The next couple of years were hell for Louie. The Japanese were vicious to American prisoners. You've heard of the Bataan death march and the conditions in which these men had to live. It wasn't any better on the Japanese mainland. The men, even the officers, were treated as slaves, denied basic medicines, adequate food, and Red Cross packages. And worst of all, they were unmercifully beaten on a whim by the guards. One guard in particular took a sadistic interest in Louie. They called him "the Bird." He beat Louie with a belt. He beat him with rods. He beat him with his fists and kicked him with his boots. The bird knew Louie was a famous Olympian and wanted to make an example out of him, wanted to break him. And even though the Bird got Louie in two different prison camps, he never quite could break Louie Zamperini.

Finally, with the war over, Louie returned home, and quite the hero. People thought him dead, so it was almost a resurrection story. Add his war experiences to his Olympic glory and everybody wanted to hear Louie's story. Louie told it. He seemed okay to those who didn't know him, but he was not okay. He couldn't sleep. He couldn't get the Bird out of his mind. Louie couldn't sleep for thinking of him. And when he did fall asleep he dreamed of the Bird. Louie was eaten up with bitterness and a desire for revenge. Many war criminals had been caught and tried in Japan but the Bird eluded capture. Louie used to dream of how he'd kill the Bird. Once, he was awaken by his wife's screams as he sat on top of her choking the life out of her, thinking she was the Bird. Add to these problems Louie's constant drinking to numb the pain, and he was as big a mess as he was as a boy.

Everybody was worried about him. His wife left him for a time but came back to him. She wanted to help him but didn't know how. Until one day in 1949 when this gangly, young evangelist from North Carolina set up a tent in Los Angeles to hold a crusade. His name was Billy Graham. Louie's wife heard him and was saved from her sins. She gave her heart to Jesus. She tried to get Louie to go. He fought it but finally gave in, only to run out when Graham gave the invitation to trust Christ. He said he'd never go back, but he did. And as Graham preached, God broke through to Louie's heart. Louie trusted Christ for his salvation and invited Jesus to come into his life, save him from his sins and give him the life that is really life. Jesus answered that prayer. Louie was saved, transformed in every way. 2 Corinthians 5:17 says, "If anyone be in Christ he is a new creature; old things pass away, all things become new." You could paste Louie's picture right next to that verse. He was a changed man. He gave up his drinking immediately. And even better, he never had one more dream or ill thought about the Bird—not one. Isn't Jesus a wonderful, merciful, glorious Savior?

Louie went on in life to found and work with boys in camp. He has lived a life that matters. God has used him to do far greater things than win races and survive the horrors of war. And all these years later, Louie has stayed active, skiing and skateboarding well into his 80s—not the 80s, his 80s. It's a remarkable story. I encourage you to get it and read it. I've spared the details that add so much color and tension to the story. It's a biography that reads like a novel.

Louie's story made an deep impact on me. While I was reading the sections that describe his imprisonment by the Japanese, I actually dreamed that I was shooting Japanese prison guards—and liking it. That's not me, but I dreamed it. Louie let go of his hatred, bitterness, and desire for revenge. I was having a hard time with that, I guess.

One of my key takes from the story is this: the answer to bitterness, hatred, and revenge is not found in war, not found continuing the cycle of killing and brutalizing one another. The answer is found in Jesus. That's where Louie found it. Even though I assume that verse in the prophets about God turning swords into plowshares and spears into pruning hooks and nations studying war no more probably reflects a time when Christ comes back to this sin-sick, war-sick world, it seems like we could get a start on that even now if we'd all turn to Jesus and follow Him with the same passion and commitment of Louie Zamperini.

Did I tell you Louie went back to Japan to meet with former prison guards? He wanted to see them and forgive them. He wanted to forgive the Bird too, but the Bird would have none of it. Too bad for the Bird. But good for Louie. The Bird continued to live by his hate-filled heart. Louie followed the path of his master Jesus who taught, "Blessed are the peacemakers, for they shall be called the sons of God."

Oh, for more and more peacemakers like Louie in our war-torn world.

My Trip to the Asylum

2011-05-23T15:49:00.006-05:00

I’ve been out of the Asylum for one week now. I spent 30 days there. And those were some of the best and toughest 30 days I’ve ever spent. No, I wasn’t in a mental institution. I was in an exercise program called Insanity: The Asylum. Shaun Thompson is the trainer. The Asylum is Beachbody’s follow-up to the 60-day Insanity fitness program. I completed that in the winter of 2010. And I figured that sense I was insane I should spend some time in The Asylum. I’m glad I did. You may wonder why anyone would call a fitness program Insanity or The Asylum. Well, try a couple of days of either program and you’ll understand.

The Asylum did for me what Insanity did for me a year ago: it helped me get in the best shape of my life. And since The Asylum is Insanity on steroids, it has taken me to a whole new level of fitness. My fit test numbers dramatically improved from Day 1 to Day 30, and cardio endurance and muscle definition improved as well. The Asylum rocks!

As you’ve probably figured out, I love to exercise. I like to get my body moving. I like to challenge myself. And I like to reduce my stress. Exercise does that for me. As the old poster at the top suggests, exercise is a poor man’s plastic surgery. That’s only partly true—exercise is also a smart man’s plastic surgery. Study after study indicates that exercise improves mood, strengthens the immune system, builds overall health, increases energy, and slows down the aging process. I can do things at 54 that a whole of lot of people in their 30s could not.

So, get off your duff and get some exercise. You don’t have to do Insanity or The Asylum or any other program to get exercise. You can do little everyday things like these: take the stairs instead of the elevator, park farther away instead of as close as you can get, take long brisk walks or go for a little jog, ride a bike, hike a mountain, do a few pushups and squats and crunches every week. That’s a way to start. If you want more, join a gym (http://www.fbchsark.org/280122) and/or order one of Beachbody’s great fitness products (http://beachbodycoach.com/JohnMcFit). But do something!

And keep it in perspective when you do. I’m a little crazy about this stuff, but you don’t have to be. Just yesterday I was reminded of more important strength than I can build with exercise. I baptized a young woman who is having brain surgery this week. She has been a real star in our church’s fitness ministry. She’s lost a lot of weight and she has gotten herself in good shape. And while that will help speed her recovery, when she goes under the knife, she needs a different kind of strength. She needs the strength of the Lord. As the apostle Paul pointed out to the Corinthians, God’s strength is made perfect in our weakness (2 Cor. 12:9). And regardless of how much weight you can lift, how long you can run, how high you can jump, when you’re under anesthetic, your scalp is laid open, and some surgeon is poking around in your brain, you’re in a pretty weak position. As she told me yesterday, “As I face this surgery, I’m not depending on my strength; I’m depending on His.” And that’s a strength you can’t find in Insanity or The Asylum or anywhere else. You find that strength in a personal relationship with Jesus.

So by all means, exercise your body—you’ll get all kinds of benefits now. But even better, exercise your faith and trust in Jesus—you’ll get all kinds of benefits now and forever. And there's nothing insane about that.

Any News?

2011-05-16T15:20:00.003-05:00

I guess I’m sick of it. And I’m going to use my blog to vent. Can I just go on record and say I couldn’t care less whether that kid in Connecticut gets to go to his senior prom or not? Apparently, he broke some rule that disqualified him from going to prom, but thanks to modern social media, the outcry against the school administrator for enforcing the rules became so loud that the woman had to relent, say the rule doesn’t really matter after all, and let the kid go to his prom. And this, dear reader, is news? In today’s world, yes it is. Oh, there have to be reports and interviews and opinion polls and discussion ad nauseum by the networks and cable news channels over whether or not this kid gets to go to his prom. Please!!!

There has always been a market for human interest stories. In the small town in which I did some of my growing up, our local, twice-a-week newspaper had a column called “Down DD.” The column was some local yokel's account of what went on down DD highway: who ate dinner with whom, who got a new tractor, who got a letter from their son back east, who put a new coat of paint on their house—that kind of stuff. That’s called human interest, but even as a kid, it seemed to me the only humans interested in reading that drivel were the humans who lived down DD. I don’t think anyone in Connecticut would have had an iota of interest. I’m not sure anyone in our small town did. There’s a reason why that column was never syndicated in say, The Washington Post, The LA Times, or the St. Louis Post-Dispatch. And it’s the same reason Walter Cronkite or David Brinkley never brought it up on the nightly news: nobody cared. And yet we’re all supposed to care about the kid in Connecticut who, save a national outcry, was almost shut out of his prom. That’s national news these days. And it’s been covered with as much detail and manpower as the killing of Usama Bin Laden.

I suppose we just have too much media: 24-hour cable news, four networks, countless internet news sources, Twitter, Facebook, and all the rest. With that much opportunity to report news and opine (which means guests interrupt and yell at each other on national TV), I guess you have to find something to fill up the time. Maybe that’s why we have to listen to the ongoing brattish behavior of Lindsey Lohan, the self-destruction of Charlie Sheen, and (dare I say it) the recent royal wedding, as if these things had the gravitas of the war on terror, our national economic struggles, and the powder keg going off in the Arab world. My fear is that our youngest generations may never know the difference between news and trivia, national/international interest and human interest, stories that matter and stories that amuse and entertain.

I enjoy a good human interest story now and then, but by nature I am not a busybody and have no need to know other people’s business. My own business is plenty enough for me to manage. That may help me here, I don’t know. So when I think of real news, I think about things that have an impact on whole communities, the nation, and the world, not on who gets shut out of the prom, who just got divorced, the latest goings-on in the life of some celebrity, or even who shows up on the “police blotter.” I want to know about things that impact on a much larger scale.

Which may be why I love being a preacher. I get to tell the best and most important news of all: that Jesus died for our sins according to the Scripture, that He was buried, and that He was raised from the dead on the third day (1 Cor. 15:3-4). What God did for us in Christ impacts persons, nations, history, and the whole wide world! Christ loves, redeems, transforms, heals, disciplines, and judges on scales large and small. And that, my friend, is news. It’s old news but it always feels new to everyone Christ touches. In fact, the Bible calls it good news. And I get to be a frontline reporter of that news every day of the week and twice on Sunday.

So there, I’ve had my chance to vent. I’m sure I’m overreacting—I do that sometimes. And while I do feel better for getting this off my chest, it certainly doesn’t qualify as news any more than the Connecticut boy and his senior prom. Can we just move on?

An Interfaith Gathering

2011-05-05T10:30:00.009-05:00

May 1 was Holocaust Remembrance Day. We have a synagogue in our city. When I first moved to Hot Springs, the local rabbi and I became friends. He asked two or three times to come to the synagogue and do a reading for their Holocaust Remembrance Service. I was happy to do it. Not having become acquainted with any of the rabbis since my friend moved away, I haven't taken part in one of those services in a long time.

But a few months ago I got a call inviting me to participate in this year's remembrance. It was going to be different—more of an interfaith service. The meeting place would be the chapel at Garvan Woodland Gardens. The rabbi and five Christian pastors would be asked to speak for five minutes each. The whole community would be invited. The service would be called Commemoration, Hope, and Peace: A Coming Together. And though I'm a little uncomfortable in that kind of setting, I agreed to take part and was honored to do so.

But what does one say at such a service? The service was about the holocaust; yet it was about more than the holocaust. It was an effort to bring people of diverse backgrounds and faith together in unity and respect. After praying and thinking about it, I came up with the comments below. I don't know why I'm posting them on my blog, really. Other participants had better things to say. But if my remarks help foster understanding and respect for one another in spite of clear differences, then that would be a good thing. So if you're interested, read on.

___________

In Pierre Van Paassen’s book about the rise of the Third Reich, he describes a day when a group of Nazi Brown Shirts captured a rabbi in his study as he was preparing his Sabbath sermon. They mocked and humiliated him, then they stripped him and beat him. As they did, they laughed and said, “This lash is for Abraham; this one is for Isaac; this one is for Jacob.” After they tired of beating him, they took scissors and sheared his locks and his beard and mocked him some more.

“Say something in Hebrew,” the Nazi Captain ordered.

“Thou shalt love the Lord thy God with all thy heart,” the rabbi slowly pronounced the Hebrew words. But one of the other officers interrupted him. “Were you preparing your sermon this morning?” he asked him.

“Yes,” said the rabbi.

“Well, you can preach it here to us. You’ll never again see your synagogue; we’ve burned it. So go ahead, preach the sermon! All quiet now, everybody; Jacob is going to preach a sermon to us.”

“Could I have my hat?” asked the rabbi.

“Can’t you preach without a hat?” the captain asked.

“Give him his hat!” he commanded. Someone handed the rabbi his hat and he put it on his head. The sight made the Nazi thugs laugh all the louder. The man was naked and shivering as he spoke: “God created man in his image and his likeness,” the rabbi said. “That was to have been my text for this Sabbath.”

Talk about a moment thick with irony. We human beings wreak so much destruction on each other in the name of power and greed and God, and when we do, it’s not just an attack on a fellow human being; it’s an attack on the image of God in each of us.

It’s not news that there are great differences among us—even among those of us in this room. We don’t all believe the same things and we are kidding ourselves to profess otherwise. We probably have different views of reality and morality. I’m sure we have different views of God and how one comes to God and knows God. I read not long ago of a Christian minister who attended an interfaith gathering in a large city. The group was composed of a Muslim imam, a couple of Jewish rabbis, and a handful of Christian ministers from a variety of denominations and nationalities. They had gathered to talk about how they could work together to build bridges among the diverse religious and ethnic groups in their city. As these leaders took turns talking about such things, it was obvious that everyone was dancing around the issue, walking on eggshells, trying carefully not to offend anyone or say anything someone might disagree with. And that was taking that meeting to the same place most all of those meetings go—which is nowhere. Finally, one of the Christian ministers took his turn. He said something to this effect. “Honestly, I’m a little uncomfortable in this setting, and here’s why: my faith compels me to try to convert all of you.” As you can imagine, there was an uneasy silence; the elephant in the room had been exposed. Then the Muslim imam spoke up and said, “You know, I feel the exact same way.” I don’t know what they accomplished in the meeting, but it became a lot more honest, and I suspect, a lot more productive.

We acknowledge our many differences. That’s okay. That’s healthy. But I think we can at least agree on this: we are all made in the image of God—black people, white people, Hispanic people, healthy people, sick people, old people, special needs people, the most moral person to the most reprobate, Jews, Muslims, Christians, anybody and everybody, knitted together in their mother’s womb by the glorious hand of God, fearfully and wonderfully made. And if we can agree on that, then in spite of our differences, maybe we can treat one another with love rather than hate, with respect rather than disdain, with humility rather than arrogance, with compassion rather than anger, and with kindness rather than violence. And in spite of the fact that not all Christians do this, that’s the way my Lord Jesus calls me to act.

So we’ve gathered today to remember the horrible, unspeakable atrocities of the Holocaust. While we can’t fix that or all the other genocide that’s gone on in the world since then, we can do this: we can at least treat one another right in Hot Springs. It’s not the world, but it’s our world, and that would be a good place to start.

Things I Learned from My Mother

2011-05-01T14:54:00.006-05:00

On May 1, 1928, Joan Telfer Campbell took her first breath. That same woman would later watch me take my first breath too. My mother died on Christmas Eve in 2009. If she was still with us, she would turn 83 years old today. Honestly, I don’t think about her all that often. That’s for self-protection. When I think of her I hold a mixed bag of emotion: gratitude mixed with guilt. I feel guilt that I didn’t love her as well as I should have, wasn’t there for her as she probably needed me to be. And yet I feel grateful for her influence in my life. To celebrate her birthday, I thought I’d reflect on some of the lessons she taught me—most of them more caught than taught, really, but important things that continue to give direction to the way I live my life.

Jesus loves me this I know for the Bible tells me so. I don’t remember not knowing the name of Jesus. My mother saw to it. She taught me that the Bible is God’s word and that it is important to read it every day. I saw her do it. I still do it.

Work is good. She was a hard worker. After her stroke or whatever it was in 1964 that rendered her right side essentially useless for the rest of her life, she learned to use her left side and became the fastest left-handed typist in the history of the world. She worked for the same attorney for almost 40 years, never made much money, never took vacation, rarely called in sick, and gave more than a day’s work for a day’s pay. I never heard her complain once. She was grateful to have a job. She also encouraged and allowed us boys to have jobs at very young ages. I have her work ethic ingrained in me.

Education counts. She was always very bright. She didn’t get to go to college till well into her adult years, and she didn’t get to finish her degree even then, but she always encouraged her boys to get an education, and I think she was proud when we did so.

Read books. She watched her share of television, but the woman was an avid reader. She read spiritual books. She read mysteries. She read Shakespeare. I don’t know how many book clubs she was part of over the course of her life, but they were many. And in her retirement she volunteered at the local library. I read a lot of books too. I wish she could have lived long enough to enjoy a Kindle. She would have really liked that.

When it’s time for kids to be let go, let ‘em go. She raised us boys to be independent, to take care of ourselves, to clean up our own messes, and to purchase our own stuff. She set us free to live our lives as we felt led to lead them. When it was time to let us go, she let us go.

Theology matters. She left her beloved Presbyterian church over bad theology. She was a Sunday School teacher and was disturbed at the curriculum. She said it questioned the truth of the Bible. She tried to make a case for changing the curriculum. She was largely ignored, and she left a church and denomination she loved because she felt they had turned their back on God’s word. Thankfully, in her latter years, the church came back to classic Presbyterian theology and she gladly went back. As a pastor, this was a good lesson for me to learn. It’s made me take my theology seriously too.

The tithe is the Lord’s. Even when we had nothing, she made sure to tithe what she had. She made sure we kids knew it too. She wasn’t doing that to brag; she was doing that to teach us a lesson. When you put God first in your finances, God will take care of you. She believed that. She practiced that. And I do too.

I could probably think of others, but this will do for now. I know this is too little too late, but it’s my way of honoring her on her birthday. It’s my way of saying that in spite of my inattention to her since I left home some 37 years ago, I learned from her, profited from her wisdom, and am a better person for having been her son. Happy 83rd Birthday, Mother.

Images of Easter

2011-04-24T07:03:00.005-05:00

Sun rising in the east;
In spite of the cross, life goes on.

Morning dew glistening on the flowers in the garden.
Women making their way to Jesus’ tomb
to ready His body for its long, long rest.

What happened to the tomb?
Something’s wrong!
No! Something’s right!
Stone—rolled away; Jesus’ body—gone.
Angel-like men standing there with a message:
“Why do you seek the living among the dead?
Jesus is risen just as He said He would.”

Stunned, frightened, bewildered women race
To tell the disciples the story.

What does it mean?
Jesus wins.
Death loses.
Satan is thrown down.
Life is greater than death.
Hope is greater than despair.
And the living Jesus stands ready to share
that life with all who believe.

Easter in a nutshell … uh, tomb-shell:

Jesus Christ is Lord!

Hallelujah! Amen.

Your Name Is on His Cross

2011-04-22T11:31:00.005-05:00

Few words speak more powerfully to my heart on Good Friday than these words of the apostle Paul to the Romans: "For while we were still weak, at the right time Christ died for the ungodly. For one will scarcely die for a righteous person—though perhaps for a good person one would dare even to die—but God shows his love for us in that while we were still sinners,Christ died for us" (Rom. 5:6-8).

God shows his love for us … While we were still sinners … Christ died for us

Plural pronouns – us and we. Christ died for us all. His blood covers the sins of everyone who trusts Him for salvation. So when we speak of His death, we can speak in plural pronouns.

But Christ’s death is very personal as well. Christ died for you. Christ died for me. There’s a popular Christian song that’s been sung for years: “When He was on the cross, I was on His mind.” I don’t know about that. I’m not so sure and tend to doubt that John McCallum was on His mind when He died on the cross. I didn’t have to be because His death was large enough to cover so many more sins than mine. But His death is still personal. It applies to individuals who trust Him. And we could put our names in this text: “You see, at just the right time, when John was powerless, Christ died for the ungodly. Very rarely will anyone did for a righteous man, though for a good man someone might possibly dare to die. But God demonstrates his own love for us in this: while John was still a sinner, Christ died for John.” And you can put your name there too.

And that’s why I like a story I’ve told so many times in the past. It’s not a story in the Bible but it’s a story that teaches a truth fundamental to the Bible. It was delivered in the form of a play. Terry Young saw this play in seminary and told the story in his book, Compelled by the Cross.

A carpenter named Simon and his family lived in Jerusalem during Jesus’ time. The Roman government put out bids for the construction of crosses. Some carpenters were quick to bid the job. Simon was reluctant. He much preferred making tables and cabinets. He preferred objects of beauty to objects of torture and death. He had no intention of making a bid. But Simon’s son was learning the trade and he begged his father to bid one cross so he could have the experience of building it. Simon reluctantly agreed. He was awarded a contract to build one cross.

Simon gave his son the job. And his son worked very hard on that cross. He cut the wood and planed it and sanded it and built a solid and sturdy cross. The government paid them their money and took the cross of their hands.

Some weeks later, Simon’s son came running into their home. He was out of breath and his face was streaked with tears. “What’s wrong, son? Why are you so upset?”

“Daddy, are you the only one who doesn’t know what’s going on in Jerusalem today. The Romans are crucifying Jesus.”

“I am aware of that, son. But why does that upset you so? We’ve seen others die on a cross and we’ve seen prophets crucified too.”

“But daddy, this is different. They’re killing Jesus on my cross, on the cross I made in our shop.”

“You can’t know that, son. Crosses all look pretty much the same. You could never be sure that Jesus’ cross is yours.”

“But I can, daddy, I can. When I was finishing the cross I was so proud of my work that I did what artists do when they finish a work. I carved my name on it. And when Jesus fell on the street under the weight of it, I saw my name. Daddy, my name is on His cross.”

And that’s about as good of news as there is. Your name, my name is on His cross. The price He paid with His death, He paid for you and me. What He did covers our sins and makes it possible for us to be saved. As Paul put it in 2 Corinthians: “He who knew no sin became sin, so that we might become the righteousness of God.”

If you don’t remember anything else on this Good Friday, remember this: your name is on His cross. Jesus died for you.

Secret Church: FBC Style

2011-04-18T17:00:00.005-05:00

In his book, Killing Fields, Living Fields: The Unfinished Portrait of the Cambodian Church—the Church That Would Not Die, Don Cormack tells this story: In the village of Siem Riep, Cambodia, Haim, a Christian teacher, knew that the youthful black-clad Khmer Rouge soldiers now heading across the field were coming this time for him …. Haim was determined that when his turn come, he would die with dignity and without complaint. Since “Liberation” on April 17, 1975, what Cambodian had not considered this day? …. Haim’s entire family was rounded up that afternoon. They were “the old dandruff!”, “bad blood!”, “enemies of the glorious revolution!”, “CIA agents!” They were Christians.

The family spent a sleepless night comforting one another and praying for each other as they lay bound together in the dewy grass beneath a stand of friendly trees. Next morning the teenage soldiers returned and led them from their Gethsemane to their place of execution, to the nearby viel somlap, “the killing fields” ….

The family was ordered to dig a large grave for themselves. Then, consenting to Haim’s request for a moment to prepare themselves for death, father, mother, and children, hands linked, knelt together around the gaping pit. With loud cries to God, Haim began exhorting both Khmer Rouge and all those looking on from afar to repent and believe the gospel.

Then in panic, one of Haim’s youngest sons leapt to his feet, bolted into the surrounding bush and disappeared. Haim jumped up and with amazing coolness and authority prevailed upon the Khmer Rouge not to pursue the lad, but allow him to call the boy back. The knots of onlookers, peering around trees, the Khmer Rouge, and the stunned family still kneeling at the graveside, looked on in awe as Haim began calling his son, pleading with him to return and die together with his family. “What comparison, my son,” he called out, “stealing a few more days of life in the wilderness, a fugitive, wretched and alone, to joining your family here momentarily around this grave but soon around the throne of God, free forever in Paradise?” After a few minutes the bushes parted, and the lad, weeping, walked slowly back to his place with the kneeling family. “Now we are ready to go,” Haim told the Khmer Rouge.

Few of those watching doubted that as each of these Christians’ bodies toppled silently into the earthen pit which the victims themselves had prepared, their souls soared heavenward to a place prepared by their Lord.

And this kind of thing still happens to Christians in so many places in our world—always has. Churches are burned. Christians are harassed, persecuted, and martyred. Many believers have to meet in secret places just to fellowship with each other and worship Christ. Jesus said that the world would hate Christians because they hate Him. He was right on the money. Those of us who live in the West and who rarely face persecution much deeper than a little ridicule or job loss forget how costly it is to be a Christian for many of our brothers and sisters in Christ around the world.

Secret Church is helping to change that. If you’ve read David Platt’s book, Radical, then you’ve heard of Secret Church. Platt’s congregation, the Church at Brook Hills in Birmingham, Alabama, began doing Secret Church a few years ago. They get together on a Friday night from 6:00 pm to midnight. They do intensive Bible study, they worship, and they pray for persecuted believers and the countries in which they live. Brook Hills has over 1,000 attend their Secret Church so they meet in their spacious sanctuary.

Platt got the Secret Church idea from his experience in mission trips to countries where the church has to meet in secret lest the government or zealous citizens shut it down and do harm to church members. Such churches meet when they can and they meet for hours at a time usually in crowded, uncomfortable digs—everything from a house with drawn curtains to a cave.

I was intrigued with the concept, so we decided to try Secret Church at our place and with our people. It seemed like a good thing to try in the holy season where we contemplate Christ's suffering for us. Now we tweaked the format a bit from Brook Hills. We met last Friday, but we shortened the time frame from six hours to four. We met in our church bus barn to provide a more “secret” feel and to create discomfort for those in attendance. We did our part by choosing a room with scant light, concrete floors, no heating or cooling, no bathroom, and crowded conditions. God did his part to make us uncomfortable by sending windy, chilly night so that some wrapped themselves in a blanket to stay warm. We did provide chairs and we got as many in the barn as we would fit. I had no idea how many would come. I wouldn’t have been surprised if we ended up with 25 or 125. We ended up with just over 80, and we couldn’t have accommodated any more in that space.

So how did we fill up four hours? We decided our Bible study them would be to teach the Old Testament and its story. We broke it into four segments. Each segment included a worship song, Bible study, and information on and season of prayer for a country in which the church is persecuted. Some of those presenters shared some persecuted believer’s story out of that country. Around the two hour mark we took a break to enjoy a bowl of rice and the Lord’s Supper (see picture above).

Probably for the first time in the 175 year history of First Baptist Church of Hot Springs, we took the cup by dipping our bread in the juice. I was responsible to get the equipment for that, so I looked for some kind of glassware that had a wide enough circumference for dipping. I was proud of what I found … until it was gleefully pointed out to me that I had chosen margarita glasses for the Lord’s Supper. I’d think they’d be proud that their Baptist pastor didn’t know what a margarita glass looked like. Interestingly enough, my wife knew what they were (hmmm).

One of the highlights of the night was an exercise in which I asked everyone to close their Bible. I mentioned how in many of these countries where the church is persecuted, Bibles are hard to come by and confiscated if found by the authorities. Consequently, they are most precious. So I asked our folks how much Bible we could come up with if we had no Bible in our hands. From senior adults to children, our people started quoting Bible verses. Honestly, we had something from most every book. (My apologies, though, to Obadiah and Nahum who were glaring omissions in our memory work. We’ll try to do better next time, fellows). Still, I was proud of our people. And there’s just something about hearing children quote long passages of Scripture that stirs the heart. That was one my favorite segments.

When we were done with our four-hour study, people were saying, “Does it have to end so soon? “That four hours just flew by.” “I would have stayed even longer.” “Let’s do this again.” I think Secret Church did us some good. Our people became aware in tangible ways of the plight of our persecuted brothers and sisters in Christ and will now be more faithful to pray for them. Most gained some fresh insight into the Old Testament. And we came away more grateful for our blessings and our freedoms, and, I pray, more willing to use them to help those in need. If we do this again, I would do some things differently, but all in all, it was a pretty cool way to spend a Friday night.

Secret Church. Thanks, David Platt and Brook Hills, what a great idea!

Here's to Anna: As Special as They Come

2011-04-11T14:13:00.010-05:00

We knew this day was coming. In fact, three years ago, the doctors said she could go most any day—three years ago. And nothing speaks more to Anna’s stubborn determination and will to live than that. She was put into hospice care. She got better. She got out of hospice care. And then close to a year ago or so, she got worse and went into hospice care again. But she hung on. Good days, bad days, and she hung on. She got to where her pain was great and she couldn’t eat, but she hung on. Of course, she didn’t do this by herself. Her loving family and caregivers, a devoted medical team, and numerous friends all played a part in Anna’s ability to keep on fighting, keep on living. And while her quality of life may not have looked like much to you and me who have known better, it was much to Anna.

And then Tuesday came. Death showed up at Anna’s door and started knocking. It wasn’t the first time he showed up, but this time he stayed until he got what he came for. That rubber ball named Anna who had bounced back time and time again, well, there wasn’t any bounce left anymore. It was time. The best thing to do was to make her as comfortable as possible and let her go in peace. After years of successfully pushing against the door when Death tried to barge in for Anna, everyone finally quit pushing, including Anna. And early Thursday morning Anna died—in a setting she know so well, right next to her mom and her dad and her dog Eli. On the surface it looked like Death finally won. But Death didn’t win. Jesus scooped up Anna in His strong arms and took her home to heaven.

Anna was born 23 years ago with a degenerative brain disorder of some sort—problems from birth, early surgeries, one issue after another her whole life through. The kid took a pharmacy full of medicine over the course of her life. She was poked and pricked and prodded time and time again. She had tubes for this and tubes for that. I’m not sure, especially near the end, that even one system of her body functioned as it was supposed to. And yet she lived to the fullest through it all. She was special needs. Check that—she was just special. The girl had a zeal for life matched by few persons I have known.

You’re probably thinking, “How could she live a full life in her condition?” Some of us think a hangnail is a major crisis, a bad hair day the end of the world. So how could she enjoy life with all her problems? Well, the answer to those questions was on her face. The girl was always smiling. She reminds me of Buddy in the movie Elf who said, “I like smiling; smiling’s my favorite.” Anna liked to smile; she enjoyed making others smile too.

And why shouldn’t she? The girl was loved deeply and well. I can’t imagine her being in any other family than the one she was in. In Psalm 139 David prays: “You knitted me together in my mother’s womb. You know me full well. I am fearfully and wonderfully made.” That goes just as much for Anna as it does for you or me or anyone else born with all systems on go. Anna was fearfully and wonderfully made by God, and He could have chosen no more perfect womb in which to knit her together than in her mother Amy’s. No mother and father and brother could have loved her more or loved her better. They accepted her as she was and loved her as she was. They didn’t hide her in her room. They didn’t act like turtles and draw into their shells. They included her in whatever they did. They exposed her to their large swath of friends who in turn became good friends of Anna too. They understood Anna. They didn’t expect her to be something she wasn’t. And they watched over her with the tenacity of a mama, papa, and big brother bear. They could laugh with her and even at her when she did or said goofy stuff. They cut her slack when she got mad and pouty but they still expected her to behave. They made sure she lived her life. They let her run her race.

In spite of the fact that the majority of parents with a special needs child wind up in divorce court, James and Amy did not. They figured it out. They made it work. They and their son Adam realized that it wasn’t about them; it was about Anna and how to best care for the one who couldn’t care for herself. And did they ever care for her: church, school, Special Olympics, prom, high school graduation, loads of friends. They gave Anna everything she needed and more. Every kid should be so blessed. She smiled because of her family.

She smiled because of Jesus. There was a time when moms and dads were trying to get their children up to Jesus. Jesus was doing some teaching at the time, so the disciples tried to shoo those parents and kids away. “The Master’s much too bush with grown up concerns to bother with your snotty-nosed, sticky-handed rug rats. Make an appointment!” Jesus heard the commotion, stopped what He was doing, and said, “I want those children to come to me and don’t you dare stand in their way, for to such belongs the kingdom of God. And if you grownups don’t receive the kingdom like a child, you’ll never make it in.” Then Jesus took those children in his arms and blessed them. Jesus loves children.

In light of that, I don’t know why some die so young, or why some are abused and hungry, or why some like Anna are born with maladies that keep them from living what you and I consider a normal life, and why some suffer as they do. Anna sure dealt with some suffering. I don’t understand these things, and it troubles me. But I do know this: I think it’s safe to say that everyone in this room who knew and loved Anna would admit that if we hadn’t had Anna just as Anna was, our lives would be diminished. Anna just as she was added so much to all who knew her. It’s easy to think, “Well, if she had been normal things would have been so much better.” But how do you know that? How can we say that for sure? We’re all sorry Anna had to struggle the way she did through her life, and we all feel for James and Amy and Adam and the struggles and the sleeplessness and the weariness they’ve had to bear, but Anna was a miracle, just as she was. She was a gift. And just because she couldn’t do all the things most kids can do, she was no less loved by Jesus.

She loved Jesus too. She liked to come to church when she could. She liked to pray to Jesus or to have someone pray for her. I will always remember Tuesday afternoon. She had been sleeping under the influence of strong medicines, but she woke up long enough for me to pray for her. I prayed the 23rd Psalm and she just locked eyes with me soaking in those life-giving, hope-giving words. She couldn’t parse them, probably couldn’t explain them, but she understood them at the level that matters most. The Lord was her shepherd. He had helped her all life long. And He was going to get her through the valley of the shadow of death and take her to His house where she would live forever. Right after we prayed she smiled.

So I wasn’t surprised when I got the call about her death Thursday morning and went to the house and found Anna, lying in bed, with a smile on her face—just the softest, kind of a Mona Lisa smile, as if she’d caught a glimpse of heaven just before she passed from this life to the next. And we can be confident that that is where she is. Jesus loved her. Jesus died for her sins and rose from the dead. She believed in Jesus. She loved Jesus. And she is with him today. No more needles. No more tubes. No more medicine. No more stomach pumps. No more wheelchairs. No more suffering or sorrow or pain. As much as Anna enjoyed her life on earth in spite of all the hardships, we can only imagine how much she’s going to enjoy life in heaven—seeing Jesus face to face, being reunited with her papa and other family. And I wouldn’t be surprised if she’s even played a little catch with her big buddy Ryan White who died suddenly a year ago in a car wreck. One thing’s for sure though: she’s still smiling.

All of us who knew and loved her will miss her. Her family will miss her most of all. They will grieve as they should grieve, but they will grieve with hope. They also know Jesus, so they live with the hope that since Anna is with Jesus and Jesus is with them, they will never be too very far apart. And then one day, Anna will meet them at heaven’s gate. I can see it now: Anna speaking to them in the clear diction that eluded her own earth: “Welcome home. Let me show you around. And do you mind if we skip?”

Oh, For the Good Old Days

2011-04-04T14:12:00.007-05:00

I get nostalgic this time every year for Razorback basketball—real Razorback basketball—NCAA Tournament Razorback basketball. Oh, for the good old days! Even though many people are too young to remember, Razorback basketball used to be big-time. My freshman year at the University was Eddie Sutton’s first year as head coach. Nolan Richardson followed him. And from Eddie’s first year to Nolan’s last (1974-2002) the Razorbacks made 22 NCAA Tournaments (many of those were years when only 48 teams were invited). We appeared in 9 Sweet 16s, 5 Elite 8s, 4 Final Fours, back to back Championship Games in ’94 and ‘95, and won the National Championship in 1994. Altogether the Razorbacks have participated in 29 NCAA Tournaments (ninth in NCAA history) and 6 Final Fours. But the Eddie and Nolan years were the best and most consistent. And there was a stretch from 1990 through 1995 when the Razorbacks won more games than any other team in the NCAA. That’s right—more than North Carolina, more than Kentucky, more than Kansas, more than Duke.

And talk about fun. Eddie Sutton had the triplets (Moncrief, Brewer, and Delph). Nolan Richardson had the “40 Minutes of Hell” intimidating, in your face, press ‘em off the bus, race up the court, run and execute, teams that won and won big. Nolan had players like Day and Mayberry and Miller, Williamson and Thurman and Beck. Dang, I miss players like that. I miss teams like that! How I long for the good old days.

But an NCAA investigation, infighting between Nolan and Frank Broyles, and inept intervention in the whole mess by the Chancellor at the time, ended in Nolan’s angry resignation/firing, and a subsequent lawsuit Nolan filed against the University. It was ugly.

And the basketball that followed was even uglier—nine years in the great basketball abyss—no division or conference championships, only three NCAA appearances adding up to only one NCAA win, two coaching changes that took us pretty much nowhere, and finally we descended to what NCAA Tournament observers dubbed “a bad loss” for a potential tournament team. Oh, for the good old days!

And maybe those days are on the way. Mike Anderson has come home to be our coach. Mike coached as Nolan’s top assistant for 17 years at the University. Most of the banners that hang from Bud Walton are there in part because of Mike. Here’s hoping he can bring us some more. And with his hiring, Razorback Nation has moved from clinical depression to Razor-mania. There’s every reason to believe Mike will be successful. He’s been successful in head coaching stints at UAB and Mizzou. And he knows that it can be done here, and he knows what it takes to get it done here. After nine years of darkness and oblivion, it feels like the sun is shining on Arkansas basketball once again. Or at least, I can see the dawn of a better day. Can I get a “Hog-elujah!”?

Anyway, since tonight is the National Championship game, I was just feeling a little nostalgic. And for you Razorback fans out there, here are the highlights of that great game against the Dukies in 1994—back in the good old days, back when the Hogs were feared, when the Hogs won tons of games, when Arkansas basketball ruled. May those days return soon!

Just click on the link to join in my nostalgia: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=fXu76OtpgEw

Let's Hear It for the Underdog!

2011-03-28T19:02:00.005-05:00

Let’s hear it for the underdog! VCU and Butler? Are you kidding me? I know Butler made it all the way to the final game last year, and if not for a missed shot at the buzzer would have won it all. But two years in a row to the Final Four? Give me a break! What are the odds of that? And VCU? They lost eleven games during the regular season to mostly mid-major competition and they knock of King Kong Kansas to get the Final Four? No way. Yes way! And even though these two schools have pretty much busted everybody’s bracket, you can’t help but pull for them (unless, of course, they are playing your team). Too bad they have to play each other in the national semi-finals. Who knows? We could have had an 11-seed and an 8-seed in the championship game. But one of them will be there against a traditional basketball powerhouse: Kentucky or UConn. Whatever happens, it ought to be fun. And I bet that about the only folks who’ll be pulling for the UConn/Kentucky winner in the championship game are their own diehard fans. Most of America will be pulling for the underdog. Most of America always does.

What is it about the underdog that engenders such interest and support? Could it be that most of us feel like underdogs most of the time in our own lives? Could it be that we like to see the little guy win against all odds? Or maybe we just like it when the “script” gets interrupted by an unexpected and better storyline? There's a reason why Cinderella is a timeless story.

This weekend’s games got me to thinking about other underdogs that captured the imagination of sports fans everywhere.

• How about the New York Jets and their mouthy quarterback, Joe Namath, upsetting the Baltimore Colts giving the upstart AFL their first Super Bowl championship in only the third year of that game? Namath guaranteed it would happen. Everybody wrote him off as a nut case. It happened.

• How about the U.S. Hockey Team defeating the U.S.S.R. in the 1980 Olympics. It happened during the height of the Cold War. It happened while we still had a bunch of our citizens held hostage in Iran. It happened when American pride was taking a beating. And it happened against a team of professionals who were the heavy favorites to win the gold. I still remember Al Michaels’ comment as the game wound down, “Do you believe in miracles?” That’s what it felt like.

• And one of my personal favorites: the 1978 Orange Bowl—Oklahoma vs. Arkansas. Texas had lost earlier in the day and if Oklahoma won that game they would be crowned national champions yet again. Both teams had only one loss, but prior to the game Arkansas had suspended three of the top offensive players on the team. It looked like a disaster waiting to happen for the Razorbacks. But the Razorbacks played inspired, a reserve running back named Roland Sales ran for a then record 200+ yards against the vaunted Sooner defense, and the Hogs won 31-6. Let’s hear it for the underdog!

It happens in realms outside of the world of sports too, you know. Who would have believed the sophisticated, well-supplied military machine of the Soviet Union would go to war with a bunch of peasants in Afghanistan only to withdraw with their tail between their legs, limping back to Russia about ten years later? (Well, maybe we Americans would believe it now, huh?) And what about the church in China? When missionaries pulled out around the time of the communist revolution, the church in China was doing pretty well. But how would they fare without Western missionaries to teach and reach and train? How would they fare under a government that was committed to stamping them out by any and every means? Well, when the country opened up about 40 years later, visitors discovered that the Chinese church had grown into the millions. Let’s hear it for the underdog!

All this underdog talk got me to thinking of underdog stories in the Bible. And there are plenty. Most of us are familiar with young small David against Philistine giant Goliath. Talk about a mismatch! The Israelites were holding their collective breath in fear. Goliath and the Philistines were holding their collective sides in laughter. And yet David laid out that giant with a well placed rock from his slingshot right between Goliath’s eyes.

And what about Gideon? God told Gideon to crush the merciless Midianites and their oppressive rule over Israel. Gideon was from the smallest tribe in Israel, and he was the runt of the litter. He was fearful, doubtful, and weak. He did assemble a big army however, but by the time God pared that army down to size Gideon was left with only 300 men to fight a multitude of Midianites. You know the phrase, “to get an omelet you’ve got to break a few eggs”? Gideon’s tiny army broke a few jars and did something akin to the Confederate rebel yell, and those Midianites were so caught off guard that they started killing one another. Mission accomplished for the underdog.

And in the New Testament we bump into a few underdogs as well. You remember the woman with the 12-year hemorrhage who’d spent all her money on doctors and for nothing? She got no better; she only got worse. And she thought maybe if she could get to Jesus, He could heal her. The best she could do was squeeze through the crowd and just get a hand on the hem of His robe. Nobody would have given her a chance of getting better on no more than that … but she got better; she got well.

And then there’s the woman the Pharisees caught in adultery and paraded to Jesus for a ruling on what was an open and shut case. They caught her in the act; the law said to stone her. She didn’t have a prayer. But she had Jesus. And Jesus essentially said, “So stone her already, and whoever has never sinned can throw the first stone.” They threw their stones all right. They threw them down on the ground and walked away. Jesus forgave her sin. And this woman on the edge of death walked away alive and free.

These are all good underdog stories, but I think my favorite might be Jesus vs. Death. We know the story, so it doesn’t catch us by surprise. But had we been eyewitnesses to these events in that day we would have been as shocked, stunned, and amazed as everybody else. Sure, Jesus had raised the dead in His ministry: He took a dead little girl’s hand in His and lifted her back to life. He touched a dead young man being carried out to his grave, and the young man sat up in his casket. Then Jesus called forth Lazarus who had been dead and buried some four long days. Lazarus came forth from his tomb looking something like the mummy. Jesus told the folks to unwrap him and set him free. Lazarus had supper with his sisters that night. So Jesus raised the dead in His ministry. He didn’t do it much, but He did do it some.

And that was the problem. Now that Jesus was dead, who would raise Him? Who would take Him by the hand? Who would touch Him on His way to the grave? Who would call Him forth from His hillside tomb? Who indeed? That’s why the disciples and all who were close to Jesus assumed that when they took His dead body off the cross and put that dead body in the tomb, the story was over. It was nice while it lasted. Jesus did a lot of good. Those who followed Him would have some good memories. But Jesus ended up like everyone ends up—dead as one of the nails they used to pin Him to the cross, and six feet under.

But like I said, we know the story. And early in the morning, on the third day, Jesus rose from the dead. Nobody saw Him come out of the tomb, but a lot of people saw the empty tomb and later saw the risen Jesus with their own eyes. They saw Him, they touched Him, they heard His voice. It was Jesus. The nail scars gave Him away. It was Jesus and the one who was dead is alive evermore. Something like that had NEVER happened before. Death had always won the day. Rich, poor, every color, every language, every person—didn’t matter. Death played no favorites, cut no one any breaks. You could run from death but you could not hide. Sooner or later, Death would track you down and take you down and that was that! Death caught up to Jesus on a cross. Death took Jesus down. But Death could not keep Jesus down. Jesus rose from the grave—the first-fruits for all who believe. Jesus rose from the grave, and all the power of death is dead.

Yes, of all the great underdog stories I’ve enjoyed, this is my favorite because it didn’t just matter in the moment; it matters forever.

The Hound of Heaven

2011-03-21T15:52:00.003-05:00

About 130 years ago Francis Thompson wrote a poem called The Hound of Heaven. Using the hound as a metaphor for God, Thompson writes of God’s loving, yet relentless pursuit of the soul on the run from Him. Some of the language is awkward for modern ears, but it is a powerful poem. Google it some time. Now, let me tell you why this poem came to mind for me.

I was checking my email in between worship services on Sunday when I opened one that just about had me jumping out of my chair with joy. Danny did it. He made a public profession of faith in Jesus Christ in front of a Methodist church in Texas. No doubt stuff like that happens every Sunday somewhere, but this is a really big deal. Let me explain.

About four or five years ago a local high school physics teacher named Deborah started visiting our church. She had been out of the church and away from the faith for a very long time. She is married to the Danny I mentioned above, and they have two boys, Thomas and Matthew. Deborah brought her two sons with her; Danny didn’t come and wasn’t interested.

In visiting with Deborah, I learned something of her story. She was raised in the church. Early in her life she made a decision to follow Jesus and be a Christian. But as she grew up into college and adulthood, she grew farther and farther away from her faith. How far? Far enough to consider herself an atheist—and that’s about as far as one can go. She’d been schooled in the classical sciences and in physics. She couldn’t find a place for God in all of that. And that was okay with her husband Danny because he considered himself an atheist too. So they were doing just fine, working at their jobs, raising their two boys.

And that’s when it happened. It happened in a barber shop. It happened with the simple question of a child. Deborah had taken the boys to get a haircut. The oldest boy, Thomas, about six or so at the time, saw a picture of Jesus in the barbershop. It was the face of Jesus, crown of thorns pressed on His head, blood streaking down His cheek. Since Thomas had never heard of Jesus, he asked his mom a simple question: “Who is that man and why is he bleeding?” I think for Deborah those words felt more like a scalpel than a question because the Holy Spirit used those words to open Deborah’s heart to truth she’d known since childhood and had spent years denying.

Ah, the power of the right question at the right time! The Lord kept pressing that question to Deborah well after they’d left the barbershop. It disturbed her … and rightly so. And underneath that question were affirmations the Lord also continued to press upon Deborah: “I love you. Jesus died for you and rose from the dead. Your sins are forgiven in Jesus’ name. Come home, Deborah. Follow me.” The Hound of heaven had tracked down His girl and gently shepherded her back into the fold.

Deborah decided her boys were going to know who that man was and why He was bleeding. She and the boys plugged into the church. Deborah began to grow in her faith by leaps and bounds. She shared her testimony during a musical presentation and many were touched. She spoke freely of her faith to students at school. She did her best to help some who, like her, were skeptics, doubters, at the edge of atheism. And in the church, she worked with children. She got involved in missions. She taught a thing or two. She didn’t put a toe in to see how the water was; she dove right into the deep end. As a pastor, I found myself thinking, “Oh, for a tribe of Deborahs, and this church could turn the world upside down!” She became a franchise player in the church. And her boys were so very much at home among us too.

But her husband Danny wasn’t. He is a good man and was kind to give Deborah freedom to do her thing, but he made no bones about the fact that it was not his thing. And Deborah didn’t press him. She prayed for him. She lived a changed and changing life in front of him. She suggested a book or two if he wanted to know more. And Deborah’s friends in the church joined her in her prayers. Danny wasn’t a stranger to the church. He came once in a while when Deborah or the boys were doing something special. And he even got on one of our softball teams. But that was as far as he was willing to go. What he didn’t know, however, was that the Hound of heaven was hot on his trail. I said about Danny what I’ve said about others in a similar boat, “God is going to get him; Danny just doesn’t know it yet.”

We hoped to see that happen right here in Hot Springs. But it didn’t. Family considerations led them to move to Texas. Not long after the move, I got an email from Deborah with this news: “Danny has decided he’s no longer an atheist. He’s now an agnostic.” In other words, Danny was open to the fact that there might be a God but he wasn’t making any commitments. Progress! The Hound of heaven was now nipping at his heels. And then a few months ago, I got another email: “Danny asked Christ into his life today.” Deborah gave praise and the Hound howled and the angels danced and heaven threw a party and those of us who know Danny kicked up our heels in praise and joy too.

The next step was church—getting connected to the body of Christ where they live. Jesus didn’t call us to a solitary life but to a life of community. And that email came yesterday! Deborah and Danny joined a local Methodist church in their town. Danny had spent some time in the Methodist church when he was growing up, and it felt right to him to reconnect. Here’s the way Deborah put it: “The preacher invited us to the Celebration service at 8:30am instead of the main service. We went and it was amazing! It's just like worshipping at a Baptist church with a few of the Methodist rituals …. Danny loves it and so do I. After going there for almost 2 months, I told Danny I was joining and he said he'd join to with me! It was everything I could do not to cry as we were walking down that aisle holding hands with the two boys beside us!” Hallelujah! Praise the Lord from whom all blessings flow! Praise the Hound of heaven for loving us, for pursuing us, for finding a way to get our attention, for saving our souls, and for getting us all the way home.

Deborah and Danny still have a lot of growing to do. As Deborah said, “I think Danny is going through the same thing I did where sometimes I have the faith of a thousand people and then other times I wonder if I even believe.” That’s okay. Once He chases them down, the Hound of heaven doesn’t abandon His children. He stands guard over their souls through every valley and mountaintop and plateau that they face. When the Hound finds you, He keeps you. Danny and Deborah are not the first of Jesus’ followers to have seasons of doubt now and then. They are going to be just fine.

In writing of that Hound, Francis Thompson put it this way:

I fled Him down the nights and down the days

I fled Him down the arches of the years

I fled Him down the labyrinthine ways of my own mind,

And in the midst of tears

I hid from him, and under running laughter.

Deborah and Danny fled. Danny and Deborah hid. But the Hound of heaven found a way to get their attention. He pursued them and found them and saved them and will watch over them forever. And one of the interesting things about this story is that the first time they heard the Hound’s voice it didn’t sound like the howling of a dog; it sounded like the voice of a child: “Who is that man and why is He bleeding?”

If You Love Happy Endings …

2011-03-14T13:47:00.009-05:00

I spent some time in court last Tuesday afternoon. No, I wasn’t on trial for anything. I was there to watch the next chapter in a story that I’ve been watching for seven years now. But I get ahead of myself.

It all started when a mother called the church to see if we could help with Christmas presents for her seven-year-old son Gunnar. The family's names were then given to one of our Sunday School classes. Two ladies in the class, Sally and Terry, were assigned to purchase and deliver presents for those two boys. Little did Sally and Terry know what they were getting into when they stopped by the house to drop off the presents! God had bigger things in mind. In fact, though unbeknownst to Sally and Terry, God was shaping an answer to a little boy’s prayer. And it wasn’t a prayer for nice presents or a new bike for Christmas. Gunnar had been asking God to rescue him from the situation in which he lived. I won’t go into the problems in their home, but suffice it to say they were serious and dangerous: two parents who loved their kids in their own way but with some serious issues. They were way over their head in trying to take care of a child.

So Sally and Terry dropped off the presents and Gunnar took more than the presents they carried in their arms; he stole the ladies’ hearts. They were drawn to Gunnar; Gunnar was drawn to them. And they knew this would not be their last visit with this family. So instead of turning a blind eye or writing off that family’s troubles as just tough luck for a little boy, Sally and Terry began to work with the family. The family even added another boy not long after—a little bundle of joy named Freddy. Amid many frustrations, Sally and Terry didn’t give up. They continued to try to help this family be a family. But it was a losing battle. And what began as an effort to help parents take care of their own children eventually became legal guardianship of those boys for Sally and Terry.

Sally is a college president. Terry is an administrator in a local public school. Sally has never married. Terry has already raised two kids of her own. Now, as longtime friends well into their 50s, they share a home, and they invited Gunnar and Freddy to live in their home and be their boys for awhile. The court agreed to legal guardianship, and Gunnar and Freddy moved in. Did I tell you that this answered a second prayer Gunnar had prayed: that he and Freddy get to move in with Sally and Terry?

Finally placed in soil with the right nutrients, Gunnar and Freddy began to blossom. Our church family watched this unfold before our eyes. We watched shy, insecure children become more confident, more open, more social, and less anxious. Hillary Clinton wrote a book in which she said it takes a village to raise a child. Well, it takes a church too, and a number of folks in the church stepped up to help Sally and Terry love and care for those boys. Mandy became the A-#1 babysitter, and R.L. and Diana provided a lot of care for the boys too (Sally and Terry have busy careers and lives). Dr. Lance took those boys fishing whenever he could. Our children’s and youth pastors reached out in a variety of ways. Sunday School teachers helped. It was a group effort. A good counselor and a kind attorney played their roles in this drama too. But it’s always been Sally and Terry on the frontlines. In spite of the emotional and physical weariness that comes from trying to raise two young boys (young enough to be their grandchildren), in spite of the extra emotional baggage those boys carry, and in spite of the demands of challenging occupations, Sally and Terry invested their lives and their time and their resources in those boys. They did it gladly. And in doing so, they rescued two boys from God-knows-what. Gunnar’s prayers were answered.

The rescue effort took a new turn on Tuesday. Gunnar and Freddy were officially adopted by another family. Sally and Terry were very careful about the process, but God opened the door to a Christian family that has raised some kids of their own and was ready to raise some more. After months of checking it out and giving the boys and the family plenty of time to see if this was right, they all determined it was. God was in it. God was for it. And God was going to get it done. And it’s a pretty sweet deal for Gunnar and Freddy. They get to live in the country. They have a horse to ride and woods to explore and play in. And best of all, they have new parents with the maturity to love them and guide them and provide for them. Add to their new family a couple of grandmothers named Sally and Terry, and God couldn't have been kinder to Gunnar and Freddy. The boys have even decided that they wanted to take their new family's name. Every kid should have it so good. And I'll admit it: even though I’m not as close to those boys as are several others, I got a little misty-eyed at court watching God pour out all this grace on those boys. I found myself praying He would do as much for so many other children who are in the same boat. As you can imagine, Sally and Terry were pretty emotional too. And they should be. They literally saved those boys lives in so many ways. And they did it when they didn’t have to, when nobody would have expected them to, and when some of the people who watched this unfold must have thought those two ladies were nuts to take on such a challenge. After the proceedings were over, I hugged Sally, and whispered these words the Lord gave me to say to her: “And God said, ‘I’m proud of my daughter Sally.’” And He’s proud of his daughter Terry too. A party followed in the jury room—and I'm pretty sure heaven threw a party as well. What can I say? I’m a sucker for happy endings.

That’s probably a good place to stop, but there’s one more thing I want to tell you about this story. Around three years ago, Gunnar trusted Jesus as His Savior and Lord. God had answered Gunnar’s prayer that he and Freddy be saved from their dangerous home. And now God answered Gunnar's prayer for the salvation of his soul. In obedience to Jesus, Gunnar followed his commitment to Jesus with baptism. I’ll never forget it. It meant so much to him and to everyone who had played a role in Gunnar’s story. It was emotional for a lot of us.

And at the end of the service when I was giving him his baptism certificate and Bible, I reminded him that while he no longer lived with his birth family, adoption is a beautiful thing because that’s the only way any of us can become a child of God. The apostle Paul put it this way: “God predestined us to be adopted as his sons through Jesus Christ, in accordance with his pleasure and will” (Eph. 1:5).

Then, God prompted me to tell him a Fred Craddock story that came to mind. Craddock writes that while eating dinner at a small restaurant in the Smoky Mountains, he and his wife were engaged in conversation by an old man. The old man asked them lots of questions about where they lived and what they did. When Craddock told the man that he was a minister in the Christian church, the old man said that he owed a great deal to a minister of a Christian church, and he pulled up a chair to tell his story.

The old man said that he grew up in those Tennessee mountains. His mother was not married and everybody in town knew it. He was what people called an illegitimate child, though most used the more degrading and derogatory term. The old man said, “In those days that was a shame, and I was ashamed.” He felt the stares and the glares of people everywhere he went. He heard the whispers when he entered a room, heard people trying to guess who his father might be. Needless to say, he tended to stay to himself and really didn’t have any friends.

In his early teens he started to attend the Laurel Springs Christian Church. He was attracted to the minister, a man with a chiseled face, a heavy beard, and a deep voice. “I waited until sermon time to enter the church,” he said, “and I hurried out as soon as it was over, fearing that someone would stop me and say, ‘What’s a boy like you doing in a church?’”

One Sunday as he was trying to hurry out, he got trapped in a line of people. That’s when he felt a hand on his shoulder. It was the minister. “He turned me around," said the old man, "so we were face to face. He studied me for a moment. I knew what he was doing: he was trying to figure out who my father might be.” A moment later the preacher said, “Well, boy, you’re a child of …” and he paused there. “I knew what was coming,” said the old man. “I knew I would have my feelings hurt and I would never come back to that church again.” And then the preacher finished his sentence: “Boy, you’re a child of God. I see a striking resemblance, boy.” Then, the preacher swatted him on the bottom and said, “Now, you go claim your inheritance.” The old man concluded his story by saying, “I left that building a different person. In fact, that was really the beginning of my life.”

Craddock was so moved by the story he had to ask the old man, “What’s your name?” The man said, “Ben Hooper.” And that’s when Craddock recalled his own father once telling him about how the people of Tennessee had twice elected as governor an illegitimate named Ben Hooper.

I told that story to Gunnar and I could tell the same story to his brother Freddy. Why? Because I see a striking resemblance of their Heavenly Father in both of them. And with a Father like God, who knows how He might bless and use their lives in years to come. You should have seen God use Gunnar’s life and testimony at a camp our church hosted last summer for at-risk kids. Everybody saw the resemblance of Gunnar’s Father in him at that camp. Anyway, that’s a bit of the rest of the story—a story yet to unfold in it fullest. Makes me think of something else the apostle Paul had to say, "Being confident of this, that he who began a good work in you will carry it on to completion until the day of Christ Jesus" (Phil. 1:6). I guess God loves happy endings too.

Please Find Something Else to Talk About

2011-03-07T14:19:00.004-06:00

A couple of weeks ago, Dayna and I went to see a movie. I’m cheap, so we try to make the afternoon matinee and save a couple of bucks. You know who else likes afternoon matinees: a good many of our older population. In Hot Springs we have a lot that demographic. In fact, I’m rapidly becoming that demographic.

Anyway, we took our seats near the back on the aisle. There was an older couple sitting just across the aisle from us. And just after we sat down, another older couple slowly made their way down the aisle past us. They were moving gingerly because the man, walking with a slight limp, was trying to balance a couple of cokes in his hands while hugging a huge bucket of popcorn to his chelly (that’s what you call that part of the body when you can’t tell where the chest stops and the belly begins). He was a big ol’ boy for sure. I was fearful that either a coke or the popcorn was about to say hello to the floor, but he made it. He scooted sideways past the aisle seat, then wiggled down into the next one. Score! The dude made it, and he wasn’t in that seat two seconds before he had a handful of popcorn on the way to his mouth. I liked him immediately because here was a man after my own heart, a man who understands that movies are more about the popcorn than anything else.

His wife followed behind leaning on a cane. She was rather rotund herself, wide at the hip, and more or less dragging a leg. She got to her seat, turned slightly toward Dayna and me, found the arm of the seat behind her to catch her balance, tried to hang her cane on the seat in front of her, then made a quick twist to her left and semi-collapsed into the seat. The seat held. She let out a sigh of what I thought was relief but soon discovered it was one of anguish. All was not well. Poor thing couldn’t settle. So she grabbed the top of the seat in front of her, pulled herself up, and announced to anyone within earshot that all that wiggling to sit down twisted up her pants, and she had to get them straightened out. She proceeded to grab the back of her pants with one hand, the front of her pants with the other, and give them a firm jerk to the right. Now, all was well.

But the old man seated behind her just couldn’t resist asking her about her ailments. He saw the cane. He watched how hard it was for her to walk and sit down and get up. So before she sat back down, he popped the question: “Something wrong with your leg?” It was at this point that I leaned over to Dayna and said, “You watch, he’s not interested in her leg. I bet he just wants to tell her about his own ailments.” And I nailed it. No sooner did she start to talk about the hematoma in her calf that made it so hard to blah, blah, blah, blah, then he started rattling on about his two knee replacements blah, blah, blah, blah. He didn’t even wait for her to finish her sentence. I’m not sure either one heard a word of what the other said; they appeared to be happy just to talk about their own aches and pains. And two other people in the picture seemed to be happy as well: the wife of double knee replacement and the husband of hematoma. I think they were happy that their spouse had found somebody else besides them to jabber on and on with about their sufferings. Oh, and I was happy too, because I leaned over to Dayna and whispered, “I just got an idea for my blog.”

Why is it that some folks feel such a need to discuss all their ailments? I work out a lot. I stay in good shape, but I get dinged up now and then, and I’ll admit that when I do I like to tell people what’s hurting. Why is that? Am I trying to explain why I’m moving slower than usual? Am I wanting sympathy? Am I really saying that I can’t believe this is happening to me and by talking it out sort of come to grips with it? I don’t know. Maybe a little bit of all of that. People don’t suffer in silence very well. Most want to talk about it: especially their physical sufferings.

Being a pastor, I hear lots of this stuff. That’s okay. I want to know what’s going on in the lives of my church family. I want to know how they hurt so I can pray for them more specifically. But I weary of the ouch by ouch description that some seem so compelled to share. Listen to too much of that and it will suck the life right out of you. That’s why I sometimes find myself saying to them, “Please find something else to talk about. If you don’t, people will start to identify you with your ailments. They’ll want to hide when they see you coming because you wear them out.” Some folks learn; some folks don’t. I remember visiting a cancer patient at the hospital who was suffering so much from her cancer that even morphine couldn't knock it out. And though she didn’t say it, I think she suffered most by having to listen to another visitor in the room chronicle the history and migrations of his various and sundry back pains. (The pain he was causing the patient and me was located just below the back.) I didn’t say it to him, but I should have: “Please find something else to talk about it. Seriously. The patient has suffered enough." I walked out of that hospital room worn out.

But you know what’s uplifting? It’s a visit like I had just today in the hospital with an older lady who suffered a terrible fall, peeled most of the skin off her arm, some off her face, and has the skin on both knees stapled together. I asked her what happened. She told me. She was brief and too the point, because that’s not what she really wanted to talk about. She wanted to talk about her blessings. She wanted to talk about God’s watch-care and providence in her life. She wanted to talk about some good news concerning a daughter battling cancer. We prayed over these things and for her return to health. And as I was leaving she smiled and said, “This too shall pass.” I walked out of that hospital room energized, humbled, and grateful that God would put such a saint in life. And a Scripture came to mind: “Therefore we do not lose heart. Though outwardly we are wasting away, yet inwardly we are being renewed day by day. For our light and momentary troubles are preparing for us an eternal glory that far outweighs them all” (2 Cor. 6:16-17).

If we live long enough, we’ll all experience our share of ailments. It's okay to talk about them. It's even healthy to talk about them to some extent, but keep it short, okay. Don't pitch a tent and live there. Move the conversation along. Find something else to talk about: the ballgame, the weather, gas prices, your hobbies, your dreams, your family, or maybe even your blessings. Not only will you find yourself lifted up and encouraged, you might find you have a few more listeners too.

Another Season in the Books

2011-02-28T15:34:00.003-06:00

Ten years ago our church family decided to build a Family Life Center (which is church code for gym). We didn’t build it so we could pamper ourselves. We built it because we wanted to bring Upward Basketball to our city. And we just finished up our tenth season this past weekend.

It’s a big deal. Upward Basketball is a program for children designed to give them a quality basketball experience while opening doors for sharing the gospel. Coaches share a devotion with their team at every practice. During halftime of every game, someone shares a testimony or a brief talk about Jesus with the kids’ families who’ve come to watch the games. And at the end of the season we have a big celebration in which we get to share the gospel with the children and their families. Upward allows us to share the love of Christ with hundreds of people every week for about seven weeks. So Upward is an open door for the gospel.

But it’s also an open door for the kids who might not find a place in any other league in town. We have some good players every year—kids who would be stars in anybody’s league—but we also have a number of kids, some even with disabilities that we find a place for and a coach for and a team for. We had a nearly blind kid for a few seasons. We’ve had kids with autism and seizure-risks and even some brain damage. We get to love on them and their families, and they get to play as much as anybody else. Then, in the post-game meeting they get a star to put on their shirt for something they did in the game to help their team.

It’s a lot of fun. For the first few seasons I coached a team. And while I love to play basketball, I’m not much of a coach. Except for one 5th and 6th grade girls team, my teams never were much good. We don’t keep an official score in Upward for the younger kids, but most coaches keep score anyway. And the score of most of my games was Other Team: Too Much – My Team: Not Enough. But we always had a good time.

One of my favorite teams was a group of 1st and 2nd grade boys. I had twins on that team who were absolutely clueless about basketball and were there not because they wanted to be but because their dad was making them play. I remember giving the team a pep talk before a game, trying to get the boys ready and focused. One of the twins raised his hand. “Yes,” I thought to myself, “he’s finally getting into it.” And he asked, “Will it be dark when we get through?” (It was 8:00 in the morning.) “Focus,” I said. And about that time his brother raised his hand with a question: “Do your legs sweat in those pants?” Well, needless to say, we weren’t focused. At one practice I was really trying to get those boys to pay attention and to give some effort so I bent down to look them right in the eye and make my point. No sooner did I straighten up then one of the boys started waving his hand in front of his nose signaling that I must have had some serious bad breath going on. Upward is a lot fun.

In the last few seasons, I traded in my coach’s hat for a referee’s whistle. We get a little cat-calling from parents and coaches who don’t like what we call or what we don’t call, but we don’t get much of that in Upward. And when I ref, I get a front row seat to see some really neat stuff happen on the court—which brings me to my highlight for the 2011 season. It happened Friday night with the 5th-7th grade boys. There’s a kid named Ty on one of the teams. He’s a fifth-grader and a little feller—the smallest kid on the court. He’s played Upward for the last few seasons, but he’s got some issues that keep him from really grasping this whole basketball thing. But he loves to play. He’s a joy to watch. And nobody has a better time on a Friday night than Ty.

In between periods on Friday, his coach told us refs that they were going to try to get Ty a shot at the goal. The kid rarely got the ball all season long, but we really try to see that every kid gets to make a basket before the season is over, and his coach wanted Ty to score. They’d tried before and it had yet to happen. This was the last game so it was now or never. His tall teammate, a good player, worked hard to get Ty the ball in a position close to the goal where Ty could shoot it. His defender backed off of him to give him a chance. Ty’s so small he can’t get it to that 10-foot goal goal by shooting the ball from his shoulders or his head. So he had to do a granny shot—a two-handed, underhand toss up at the basket. He got about three shots close in. He hit the rim a couple of times. And with every try the crowd would hold their breath and then groan at the miss. Time was running out. Somehow Ty ended up with the ball outside the three-point line (which is around 20 feet from the goal). People were yelling, “Shoot!!” but he was too far from the goal to even get it close, right? Wrong. The kid pulled that ball down between his legs, threw his whole body into the shot, let her fly, and … swish! A little string music. Nothing but net. And a three-pointer no less—one of only four that I remember being made all season long. You should have heard the crowd—family and friends of both teams rising to their feet to cheer. And you should have seen Ty running and jumping down the court with both arms raised in triumph, kids giving him high-fives. For a fleeting moment, time stood still, and Ty was “the man.” In the words of ESPN college basketball analyst Dick Vitale, it was “Awesome, baby!!” And I wouldn’t be surprised if Ty remembers that moment for the rest of his life.

That’s my basketball highlight for Upward 2011. But there are always other highlights of a different nature: kids encouraged and loved whether they are star athletes or whether they trip over the free throw line; families blessed by the way their kids are treated; people mustering up the faith and courage to get out of their shell and share a testimony about Jesus at halftime of a game; and some folks—kids and adults—discovering the life that only Jesus can offer. That’s what Upward is all about. That’s why we built the gym … uh, I mean Family Life Center. And that’s why so many dedicated volunteers pray, coach, ref, work possession arrows, serve concessions, set up, clean up, and organize that whole wonderful thing.

Not long after Ty made his big play, the father of a player on the other team said to me, “God made that shot.” And he’s right: God did make that shot. But it’s not the only shot God made this season in Upward. And most of them had nothing to do with a ball and a rim and a net.

Of Presidents and Pastors

2011-02-21T16:31:00.003-06:00

One of my favorite biographies of all time is David McCullough’s Truman: the life story of President Harry S. Truman. I read that shortly after it was released, in part, because I’ve always enjoyed history and biographies and presidential stuff. I had a special interest in Truman because at the time I was living in the Kansas City area. Truman lived most of his life in that area—Independence, Missouri, in particular. I’ve visited his library a couple of times. I’ve seen his house near downtown Independence. I was very familiar with many of the places Truman once walked and campaigned and worked. It was a great read.

But I have to admit one of the things that struck me most in my reading was the way that being a president and being a pastor share some of the same burdens. I’m not saying that being a pastor is as difficult as being the president. I don’t have to worry about terrorism, nuclear proliferation, the economy, and trying to get stuff done with a group of people, half of whom, want to see me run out of office at the next election. (Well, maybe that last one does apply to pastors from time to time.) Pastoral work is not as difficult, the burdens not as heavy, the consequences of my decisions and actions not usually so far reaching. Still, reading Truman showed me there are some similarities. Let me highlight three.

Here’s the first. In November, 1947, Harry Truman wrote his sister and told her that no man in his right mind would ever wish to be President if he knew what it entailed. What he wrote about the presidency often rings true with the pastorate. Listen to what he wrote her: "Aside from the impossible administrative burden, he has to take all sorts of abuse from liars and demagogues … The people can never understand why the President does not use his supposedly great power to make 'em behave. Well, all the President is, is a glorified public relations man who spends his time flattering, kissing, and kicking people to get them to do what they are supposed to do anyway." Sometimes the pastorate feels like that. While the church at its best shows herself to be the bride and the body of Christ, she can also be a royal pain in the rump. Someone once said that being in the church is sometimes like being in Noah's Ark: “If it weren't for the storm without, we could never stand the smell within.” And yet that is the outpost to which pastors are called—the church in all its beauty and mystery, its ugliness and pettiness, its divine and human elements. And sometimes pastors feel like no man in his right mind would ever wish to be the pastor of a local church if he knew what it entailed. That’s the first similarity.

Here’s the second. Harry Truman earned the nickname “Give ‘em hell” Harry. When asked why people called him that, Truman said, “I never gave anybody hell. I just told them the truth, and they thought it was hell.” Sounds like a lot of preaching a pastor has to do. It’s a pastor’s task to speak the truth whether people like it or not, whether it’s popular or not, whether it’s gets him a raise in his salary or a boot out the door. So that’s the second similarity.

Now here’s the third. One of the issues that fell into Truman’s presidential lap was the random, senseless violence and blatantly unfair treatment against blacks. In trying to deal with the issue Truman was fighting strong opposition from the South, and even fighting his own prejudices. But he came to this conclusion, as written to one of his critics: "I can't approve of such goings on and I shall never approve of it, as long as I am here … I am going to try to remedy it and if that ends up in my failure to be reelected, that failure will be in a good cause." It’s been unusual in any age of politics for a politician to put principle ahead of popularity. We pastors could learn to do the same thing. Of course, like presidents, pastors are wise to pick their fights. If a pastor’s going to die trying to take a hill, it better be a hill worth dying on. But that element of courage is as important in pastoral work as it is in a president’s work. And the underlying integrity of such courage seems to be crucial to a pastor’s overall character.

So there you have it. There are other similarities, like Truman’s “The Buck Stops Here” placard on his desk; his wife’s distaste for, discomfort in, and dislike for being a president’s wife; following a popular president who had just been elected to his fourth term and then died in office; and Truman’s refusal to believe he was ever anything other than a common man. Those things also speak to the pastoral life. But I’ll save those things for another day.

I don’t know much about Truman’s religious faith. I do know he was thought to be a Baptist, and he did attend First Baptist Church in Independence now and then (it was only a block from his home). Apparently, his language could be a little salty. But if you don’t think a pastor’s language can be a little salty too, you’ve never played golf with one. Still, whether Truman was a committed Christian or not I’ve learned a lot from him. So on this President’s Day, I’m thankful for all our presidents. But today I’m thankful most of all for President Harry S. Truman who taught me how to be a better pastor.

You Have St. Valentine to Thank for This

2011-02-14T14:22:00.004-06:00

Happy Valentine’s Day! Did you know that this day has its roots in the legend of an early Christian leader? In fact, two Valentines are mentioned in the early martyrologies as having feast days in their honor on February 14. One was a Roman priest and the other a bishop of Interamna. Both appear to have been buried along the Flaminian Way, so it’s quite possible, as many speculate, that these two were the same man.

According to tradition, Valentine ministered during the reign of Emperor Claudius II in the third century. He was imprisoned, beaten, and beheaded on February 14, c. 270. As a friend of mine posted on Facebook today, they don’t tell you that on the Valentine cards. And why would they? What’s more romantic: a red heart on a card or a bloody head in a basket?

So, with all that blood and gore, how did Valentine get associated with a day of love and romance? According to the legend, Valentine undercut an edict of Emperor Claudius. The emperor wanted to recruit more soldiers for his army, so he tried to weaken family ties by forbidding marriage. But Valentine ignored the order and secretly married couples in the underground church. Once the government got wind of these activities, Valentine was arrested and tossed in the slammer. This part of the tradition is probably true.

The next part sounds a little fishy to me. Apparently, while in jail Valentine became friends with the jailer’s daughter, and being bored out of his mind as he languished in a dank dungeon, he amused himself by cutting shapes in paper and writing notes to her. His last note arrived on the morning of his death and ended with the words, “Your Valentine.” (It’s a nice story, but it just doesn’t ring true to me. There's wasn't an Office Depot on every corner, you know, and I don't think Roman guards would be supplying sharp objects to their prisoners.)

Anyway, by 496, February 14 was named in Valentine’s honor. Christianity was now a “legal” religion in the empire and many pagan festivals were baptized and christianized. Valentine’s Day christianized the pagan festival of Lupercalia, which was a celebration of love and fertility in which young men put the names of girls in a box, drew them out, and celebrated lovemaking. Valentine’s Day sort of cleaned that up and encouraged more innocent expressions of affection like notes and gifts.

So there you have it. That's the rest of the story concerning Valentine’s Day—that annual celebration of romantic love. I think it’s safe to say that women like Valentine’s Day a lot more than men do. Women tend to be a little better at romantic expressions than men are. And some men are just plain pathetic when it comes to this kind of thing. I’ve even known guys who broke up with their girlfriends before Valentine’s Day so they wouldn’t have to make a fuss and spend a lot of money on the big day, only to try to hook back up with them a week or two later. Real smooth, guys.

And as if that’s not bad enough, I know husbands who, day in and day out, don't treat their wives much better than that. But since breaking up a marriage is much more complicated than breaking up a courtship, husbands are kind of stuck. And if a husband doesn’t do something for his wife on Valentine’s Day, well, what’s that saying, “Hell hath no fury like a woman’s scorn”? So at the very least, Valentine’s Day serves as motivation for the lazy, inattentive husband to do something nice for his wife: buy her a card, send her some flowers, give her a gift, wine and dine her for a change. I guess it’s a good thing to have a day to motivate a husband to express his love for his wife. And I suppose most wives would say it’s better than nothing. But it seems to me that if it takes a day on a calendar to make a husband act like he loves his wife, then that marriage is adrift in ways a Hallmark valentine, a dozen roses, and a candlelight dinner won’t fix.

(Sources for this post: Dictionary of Christian Biography, Michael Walsh, ed., and On This Day in Christian History by Robert Morgan.)

On Snow

2011-02-10T11:24:00.004-06:00

I’ve got a few friends from up north who like to blog. In light of all the snow that’s been dumped on those poor Yankees this winter, they’ve all felt compelled to write a blog about snow. I’ve enjoyed their blogs. They comment on how pretty it all is. They write of childhood experiences in the snow, of warm memories of sledding and skating and building snowmen with their family and friends. They quote Bible verses, they write philosophically of how God may just use this snow to slow us down a bit and remind us that we’re not in control, and that if it does that, the snow can be spiritually liberating. They all acknowledge that the white stuff gets tiring for sure, but the larger lessons to be learned from the inconvenience of snow are worth the trouble that comes with it. Noble stuff.

I guess I could write a similar blog on snow. Like my Yankee friends, I have lots of great childhood memories of snow as well. But the sledding and snow football days of childhood have been replaced by shoveling and by taking my life in my hands driving on treacherous roads that wouldn’t recognize a snow plow if they saw one. Maybe I’ll quote a Bible verse here: “When I was a child I talked like a child, I thought like a child, I reasoned like a child. When I became a man I put away childish things” (1 Cor. 13:11). So, all that said, here’s my blog on snow:

I hate it. I’m sick of it. I want it to go away. The end.

Now That's What I Call an Offering!

2011-02-07T14:26:00.005-06:00

On four Sundays in January I preached a series of sermons entitled Money Matters. We talked about God’s ownership of all things, the wisdom of living within our means, the importance of the tithe, and God’s promise to meet a giver’s needs. Though I preach on money issues once or twice a year, I haven’t attempted a series on money in eight years. And let’s face it: the church already has a bad enough rep in the world for being just one more money-grubbing organization. So I didn’t know what to expect. Would attendance hold up or would folks decide to miss church for that overdue visit to grandma or take that winter vacation to some warmer climate (where nobody is talking about money)? Well, much to my delight, attendance was excellent. And the sermons stirred conversations among people everywhere from Sunday School classes to gatherings of friends in other venues, not to mention record interest in our spring sessions of Financial Peace University. God was obviously up to something.

And I’m glad He was. Over thirty years of experience have taught me that when Christ takes lordship over our finances, He begins to take more and more ground in our hearts. Financial obedience nurtures a deeper dependence on and trust in God; it deepens gratitude; it reshuffles one’s priorities; it strikes a blow against the materialistic-consumer spirit that so dominates American culture and our own hearts; and it moves us from being takers to becoming givers. Giving God and His kingdom priority in your finances can be one of the most spiritually liberating things you ever do.

Anyway, we finished the series on January 30, but as a conclusion and a challenge to apply these truths to our lives, we declared Sunday, February 6, as Prove-the-Tithe Day. Well, our folks proved the tithe, all right. Our normal first Sunday offering is usually in the neighborhood of $50,000, but yesterday our people gave over $81,000. Somebody was proving the tithe—several somebodies. And while it was a praise-stirring, gratifying thing to see this offering, that’s not the best thing I experienced about Prove-the-Tithe Day.

That experience occurred between our first worship service and Sunday School. I went down to the preschool area to retrieve a protein bar I asked my wife to bring for me (since I forgot to bring it myself). In the hallway, I crossed paths with Chris and Misty, a young couple in our church family who have a couple of kids, Kennedy and Bo. Kennedy is six-years-old, and Chris showed me her offering envelope. Chris often helps take up the offering in the worship, so Kennedy is pretty well acquainted with offering envelopes, and she had filled out her own for this Sunday. It was really something. It’s an envelope identical to the one in the picture above. The one in the picture is blank, but Kennedy’s was not. In the “budget offering” box she wrote her name, “Kennedy.” In the other giving boxes, she wrote, “daddy” and “mommy.” In the name and address lines she put: “I love Jesus” and “I love God.”

That really struck a chord with me. And my first thought was, “Kennedy gets it. She really gets it.” Offerings are not so much the heart of the matter as they are a matter of the heart. And Kennedy’s heart was in the right place. She had no money to give (she’s only six); yet she gave something far better and something more fundamental. She offered herself. If God doesn’t own our hearts, then are financial gifts are little more than dues to be paid or some sort of spiritual taxation. When God owns our hearts, our financial gifts become a pleasing sacrifice to Him. The best and first offering we make is ourselves: “Lord, here I am. Lord, I give myself to you. Lord, I’m yours.” It sounds sort of like Paul’s word to the Romans, “I urge you, brothers and sisters, by the mercies of God, that you present your bodies to God as living sacrifices, holy and pleasing to God.” I remember reading about the offering time in a worship service at another church. A young man in the congregation, new to Christ and the church, knew nothing about such things and had no money in his pockets at the time. So when the offering plate passed by him, he did a most unusual thing: he set it on the floor and stepped right into it. Like Kennedy, that young man intuitively grasped the deeper dimensions of our tithes and offerings to God: "My offering is me." Because when God has me, he has my time, my talents, my treasure—He has it all.

When Kennedy put her pencil to her offering envelope, I doubt she understood the theological import of what she did. I'm not sure one of our money-counters would have known what to do with that envelope either, except maybe to smile and consider it kind of a cute, childlike thing to do. But God saw the import of it, and so did I. I wouldn’t be surprised if some of the envelopes our money-counters tallied up on our Prove-the-Tithe Day were marked with four-figure gifts—good and needed gifts to be sure. But this I know: no gift on Sunday was any more precious to God than Kennedy’s gift of herself.

I guess it's not just from the mouths of babes we can learn a thing or two; we can learn a little something from their pencils too.

My Big Blue Funk

2011-01-31T15:13:00.006-06:00

No, I’m not talking about a 70s rock band; I’m talking about my mood. And I hate it. I hate it because I prefer to feel upbeat and optimistic. I hate it because I can never predict its onset or its exit. I hate it because I have no known reason for feeling this way. I hate it because I deal with people every day whose circumstances could make the hardest heart weep in sympathy. I hate it because I can’t control it, because it reminds me that I am weak. I hate it because I don’t know how to rid myself of it other than to wait it out until the blue funk becomes a blue sky once again. And I hate it because pastors, many think, should be immune from such things. And even though I know better, sometimes I think that too.

But no one is immune. A young man came to a renowned doctor in Paris complaining of depression. He asked what he could do to get well. The doctor thought of a well-known young man named Grumaldi, prince of clowns in the Paris circus. The doctor told the young man, "Go see Grumaldi. He will make you laugh and forget your troubles. He will show you how to enjoy yourself. He can help you get well." The downcast patient looked at the doctor and said, "I am Grumaldi." I think I understand how Grumaldi felt.

What I’m describing is not some deep dark depression. It’s not the kind of thing keeps me from functioning or smiling or laughing at something I find funny. It doesn’t keep me from coming to work and counseling with people and writing sermons and teaching Scripture and dealing with issues (although those things take a lot more energy when I feel this way). I don’t have any compulsion to stay in bed or keep the curtains drawn. I don’t court the darkness. I don’t stare into the face of the great abyss. It’s not that. It’s not that bad or that deep or that pervading. It’s what I call my big blue funk. It’s not a pit; it’s a rut. It’s not a Rottweiler that takes a chunk out of my backside; it’s a Chihuahua that nips at my heels. It’s a joy-stealing heaviness of heart I call my big blue funk.

It would be easier to understand if things were going badly in my life, but they are not. I am blessed. Things go well. My family is fine. The church I serve is rolling right along and doing significant kingdom work in our city and around the world. I don’t feel lonely, unloved, or unappreciated. Maybe that's why my heart is often drawn in times like these to the prophet Elijah. In 1 Kings 18 the Lord gave him a great victory over the false god Baal and Baal’s prophets. Revival broke out on the mountain and multitudes of people praised the one true God—in 1 Kings 18. But in 1 Kings 19, Elijah gets wind of Jezebel’s threat on his life, takes off running for the desert, and ends up moping and depressed in a dank dark cave. That didn’t make sense for Elijah, and it doesn’t make sense for me. Seems like I ought be doing a march or singing in major chords, but minor chords are the best I can do today. I wish I could be cheery in every season and all the time like some Christians I know, but I’m not and I can’t.

And I’ve learned to be okay with that. I’ve learned that God loves me no less in my funk than He does in my joy. I’ve learned to rest upon the wings of grace to carry me through. Such funky seasons are no stranger to God’s people. Consider the prayers of the psalmists, the laments of Job, the frustration of Moses, the cave of Elijah, the thorn in the flesh of St. Paul, the stomach trouble of Timothy, the cries of Jesus on the cross. So I’ve learned through the years to just ride it out and wait on God to lift the funk.

Even though I hate feeling this way, I’ve grown to appreciate these seasons to some degree. My big blue funk keeps me humble. It keeps me grounded. It keeps me authentic and real and teachable. It also helps me move a bit more deeply and quietly into Jesus—my ears and my heart more attuned to that still small voice of God.

Ann Lamott writes of a mother whose two-year-old child accidentally locked himself in a room one night. She heard him calling for her: "Mommy! Mommy!" She couldn't open the door from the outside, so she kept saying, "Just jiggle the doorknob, honey." But he didn't understand because he was afraid and sobbing. She tried talking to him. She tried coaxing him. She tried everything she could think of and nothing seemed to calm him down. When the woman could think of nothing else to do, she finally fell to her knees and slid her fingers beneath the door in the space between the door and floor. She told him to find her fingers. He did, and they stayed like that for a long time—on the floor, with him holding her fingers in the dark. Eventually he stopped crying. Once he was calm, she gently said, "Now stand up and jiggle the doorknob." He did, and in just a moment the door popped open.

It's the image of the fingertips under the door that Lamott could not forget. It's the way that we are like the two-year-old in the dark, and God is the one who, though we can't see Him, is there to comfort us and help us until we are clear enough to get out of a big blue funk or even out of a deeper, darker pit of depression.

So if my big blue funk sounds sort of familiar to you, then hang on, listen for God’s gentle voice, or just hold onto His fingers in the darkness. Perhaps, and even sooner than you think, you’ll be able to stand up, jiggle the doorknob, and come out into a better, brighter day.

I Surrender

2011-01-24T13:56:00.004-06:00

I follow two NFL teams—only two—the Dallas Cowboys and the Kansas City Chiefs. Both are done for the season, so I don’t have any more dogs in the fight for the championship. And since I’m not all that big of an NFL fan in general, I haven’t been paying much attention to the playoffs. I did catch a little of the Bears-Packers game on Sunday. When I turned it on the game was in the third quarter. The Packers were up 14-0, but I quickly learned that the story of the game was Jay Cutler, the Bears quarterback, who was on the sideline with a mysterious knee injury. No one, not even Cutler, seemed to know just when the injury took place. That left the Bears with a washed up second-stringer and an inexperienced free agent to carry the team, neither of whom could get much done. Now I’ve had a mysterious injury like Cutler claims to have so I kind of understand, but apparently the rest of the NFL is not all that understanding. There were some pretty vicious tweets by other NFL players accusing Cutler of more or less faking the injury to avoid the pounding he was taking by the Packers. The basic accusation is that he quit. He quit on his teammates. He quit on his coaches. He quit on his fans. I have no idea as to the extent, or lack thereof, of Cutler’s mysterious injury. But a good number of observers believe he essentially waved the white flag and surrendered.

In most venues, surrender is a dirty word. It’s a dirty word in war. A friend of mine was General McAuliffe’s aide during World War II. He was with McAuliffe at Bastogne during the famous Battle of the Bulge. You probably know the story: the Nazis had the American troops surrounded. The Nazis sent a messenger to McAuliffe demanding an American surrender: “Surrender or die.” My friend, Col. Dowis, said McAuliffe talked over this surrender proposal with the officers in the room and decided on a one word answer: “Nuts.” McAuliffe wasn’t about to surrender. He considered the whole idea nothing short of crazy, nutty. And you also know the rest of the story: after taking an unmerciful beating and suffering many casualties from both the Nazis and the weather, the U.S. Airborne broke out of Bastogne (with some late help from Patton’s Third Army), and effectively ended Germany's last ditch attempt to turn the tide of the war. Surrender is a dirty word in war.

Surrender is a dirty word in fighting. Whether it’s a couple of kids wrestling in the yard, the stronger demanding the weaker say “uncle” as a sign of surrender, or whether it’s a professional boxing match when one fighter has to throw in the towel, surrender is always the last option, the dreaded outcome, and one of the most difficult things a fighter might ever have to do. Surrender is a dirty word. It's one of those words that gets stuck in the throat when you try to say it.

And you know why. Surrender is largely viewed as defeat, as weakness, as quitting. And nobody much likes a quitter. Armies have been destroyed and fighters have been killed because of a stubborn unwillingness to surrender to superior forces even though the outcome was inevitable. Surrender may have nine letters, but to many it’s a four-letter-word.

Maybe that’s why it sometimes strikes people strange that in the spiritual realm, surrender is the only path to victory. Giving up, letting go, waving the white flag in the face of God’s superior wisdom and strength is how a person wins in matters spiritual. When God called me to the ministry, I described my experience as "accepting" God's call, but most preachers describe their call as “surrendering to preach.” When God knocked Paul off his high horse and called him to faith in Christ, the Lord asked Paul, “Why do you kick against the goads?” In other words, why do you fight against that which you know is true and right? Why do you fight a battle you can't win? And when did Paul find victory in that experience? When he surrendered. We even have a hymn that speaks to this. It’s called I Surrender All—not some, not a little, not this or that, but all—I surrender all. I surrender my willfulness. I surrender my right to run my own life and call my own shots and be my own god. I surrender my time and my talents and my treasure. I wave the white flag of surrender. I lay them down at the feet of Him who laid down His life for me on the cross. And you remember that Jesus did that after a night of praying, “Father, I’d rather not drink this cup of the cross. If there’s any other way, could we do that instead? Nevertheless, Father, not my will but your will be done.” There’s a word for what Jesus did in that prayer. That word is surrender.

Are there things you need to surrender to the Lord today? Has He been nudging you and pushing you and calling you to lay some things down or to take some things up that will get you in step with His plans for your life? Until you wave the white flag, you’re going to be at war with God and in yourself. You want peace? Then surrender. That’s the key to victory in the spiritual life.

It’s one of my favorite stories. I don’t know where I first came across it, but I’ve told it a lot over the years. It's about two monks—one old, the other a novice—walking together one morning in the monastery. The novice turns to the saintly old monk and asks: "Tell me, Father, do you still wrestle with the devil?"

"Oh, no, my son," he answered. "I'm much too old and wise for that! Now, you see, I wrestle with God."

"With God?" the young novice exclaimed. "But Father, do you hope to win?"

"No, my child," said the old monk. "I hope to lose."

Grace and Civil Rights

2011-01-17T14:03:00.005-06:00

As our nation remembers Martin Luther King, Jr. today, I want to share a story. I read it this summer in Thomas Long’s book, Preaching from Memory and Hope. The story is one of those rare moments in the early days of the civil rights movement when a white person, a southern white person, that is, actually took a public stand in support of giving black people the rights they deserve as human beings, and the rights they deserve as Americans under our Declaration of Independence and Constitution. Her name is Grace Thomas, and this is her story.

Grace was the daughter of a Birmingham, Alabama, streetcar conductor and his wife. When she married in the late 1930’s, she moved to Atlanta and took a clerking job in one of the state government offices. Through her work, she developed an interest in law and politics, and she enrolled in a local law school that offered night classes.

After years of part-time study, she finally completed law school, and her family wondered what she would do with her law degree. They were shocked when Grace announced that she had decided to enter the 1954 election race for governor of Georgia. There were nine candidates for governor that year, eight men and Grace, but there was really only one issue. In the famous Brown v. the Board of Education case earlier that year, the Supreme Court had declared racially “separate but equal” schools unconstitutional and thus paved the way for integration of the public schools. Eight of the gubernatorial candidates spoke out angrily against the court’s decision. Only Grace said that she thought the decision was fair and just and ought to be welcomed by the citizenry. Her campaign slogan was “Say Grace at the Polls.” Not many did; she ran dead last, and her family was relieved that she had gotten this out of her system.

But she had not. Eight years later, in 1962, she ran for governor again. By then, the civil rights movement was gaining momentum, and her message of racial harmony was hotly controversial. She received death threats, and her family traveled with her as she campaigned, in order to provide protection and moral support. On Election Day she finished dead last again, but her campaign was a testimony to goodwill and racial tolerance.

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, and 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, and the crowd got all riled up. “Are you a communist?” someone shouted at her.

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

“Well, then,” continued the heckler, “where’d you get those damned 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.”

Wow! If every pulpit and Sunday school in the South had taught the things Grace learned in her Sunday school, the road to civil rights would have been much smoother and Martin Luther King, Jr. would have probably lived to die at a ripe old age. What Grace Thomas did was exceptional and unique for her time and her race. Grace supported civil rights before civil rights were cool, before it was hip to do so. She supported civil rights in the heat of the battle, when reputations, elections, and even lives were on the line. But with a name like Grace, could we have really expected anything else? Such courage impresses the heck out of me. I sometimes wonder what I would have done had I been a pastor in Little Rock instead of a one-year-old boy when Central High School was forcefully integrated by the famous Little Rock Nine and the U.S. Airborne in 1957. Would I have embraced civil rights for all in that day, let alone speak out in favor of those rights?

I don’t remember hearing anything about such matters as a grade-school kid in my Sunday school in Little Rock, but I did learn about it at home. I remember when my mother and father insisted that our black housekeeper/babysitter actually sit at the table with us for lunch even when she was very, very hesitant to do so. I remember when my mother took her home after her work and she refused to sit in the front seat with my mother, insisting instead that the back seat was where she belonged and that her husband would have her head if he caught her in the front seat. I think it was at home that I learned that black people, white people, rich people, poor people, all people, are equal in the eyes of God, and that means they should be equal in our eyes too.

But I was just a kid in those days. I don’t know what I would have done had I been an adult. Would I have been supporting the Little Rock Nine or protesting against them and calling them vulgar names like so many others were doing? Or even more, would I have just sat idly by as a spectator, doing nothing, refusing to take sides, choosing instead to "rise above the fray"? It seems to me that most of us have a higher estimation of our courage from a distance than we would probably exercise in the actual moment. So while I don’t know what I would have done in that day, I do know what Grace Thomas did. And on this Martin Luther King Day, 2011, I honor and applaud her for it.

Not Again!

2011-01-10T15:02:00.006-06:00

So I was reading the religion section of our local paper on Saturday, and there it was: an Associated Press article titled, "End of days in May?" Tom Breen has the byline. Seems that some 89 year old retired civil engineer named Harold Camping has it all figured out. Drum roll please: Jesus is coming again on May 21, 2011, and Camping's disciples (as you can see from the adjoining picture) are out spreading the word. Please, sir, not again! Camping believes the Bible essentially functions as a cosmic calendar explaining exactly when variouis prophecies will be fulfilled. He claims that events like the founding of the modern state of Israel in 1948 are signs confirming his date. Good luck with that, bro—I don't know how many modern false prophets have hedged their timetables on Israel's founding in 1948 only to end up with egg on their faces. We just never learn, I guess.

Reading the article brought back memories of Edgar Whisenant's book 88 Reasons Why the Rapture Will Be in 1988. Whisenant was also a retired engineer and he was certain from his timetables that Jesus would come to rapture the church sometime between September 11 and 13, 1988, coinciding with the Jewish festival of Rosh Hashanah. I was a pastor in suburban Kansas City at the time, and that book was all the rage. A pastor and his church in a neighboring community became so enamored with it, so convinced of its truth, that some people in the church quit their jobs, spent their life savings, and put their pets to sleep. People in my own congregation asked me for my take on the matter. So the Sunday before the predicted dates I preached a sermon entitled, "Why the Rapture Won't Happen This Week." Of course, the very fact you're reading this blog is a stark rebuke to Whisenant's prediction. He was wrong. And then the dude had the nerve to come back in 1989 and write another book saying he miscalculated and was a year off—Jesus was coming back in 1989 instead. Good grief!

Whisenant joined a long list of false-predictors. I predict Harold Camping will join that list come May 22, 2011. Why is it that some of us just have a hard time accepting Jesus' statement on the matter: "But of that day or hour no one knows, not even the angels in heaven, nor the Son, but the Father alone … Be on the alert—for you do not know when the master of the house is coming …" (Mark 13:32, 35). And when the disciples had a question about such things just before Jesus' ascension, He said, "It is not for you to know times or epochs which the Father has set by his own authority …" (Acts 1:7). We don't know. We can't know. We're not supposed to know. I guess the desire to know is just another echo of Eden: this desire to be like God, this craving to know what God knows.

Some might say that these predictors are no big deal. Their dates come and go and they are heard from no more. There's truth in that, but here's the problem: such phony predictions over and over again turn the Christian's "blessed hope" into a sideshow. They disillusion people who put their hope in the so-called prophet instead of in the Lord. And to a skeptical world, these false predictions and their disciples make the church look just plain silly.

Really, we've got all we need to know about these things in the Bible. Ezekiel and Daniel and Isaiah and Jesus and John are good enough for me. We don't need Edgar Whisenant or Harold Camping or Hal Lindsay or Jack Van Impe or any of these so-called prophecy experts to tell us how it's going to all come down. These people seem to stir up one of two pathological conditions in regard to Christ's second coming: apocalyptic fever for the folks who just have to be in the know, or apocalyptic atrophy for those who are so turned off by such imaginative interpretation and speculation that they refuse to even think about Christ's return. Let me suggets a better way, a prescription for these apocalyptic maladies—let's focus on what we do know about Jesus' return, let's focus on what the Bible says: Jesus is coming again; we don't know just when, so let's be ready for Him now.

Would Have Been 97 Today

2011-01-05T08:48:00.008-06:00

Storyteller and writer extraordinaire, Garrison Keillor, once told this story about one of the dads in Lake Wobegon. The town ball club was the Lake Wobegon Schroeders, so named because the starting nine were brothers, sons of E. J. Schroeder. E. J. was ticked off if a boy hit a bad pitch. He’d spit and curse and rail at him. And if a son hit a home run, E. J. would say, “Blind man coulda hit that one. Your gramma coulda put the wood on that one. If a guy couldn’t hit that one out, there’d be something wrong with him, I’d say. Wind practically took that one out of here, didn’t even need to hit it much”—and lean over and spit.

So his sons could never please him, and if they did, he forgot about it. Once, against Freeport, his oldest boy, Edwin Jim, Jr., turned and ran to the centerfield fence for a long, long fly ball. He threw his glove forty feet in the air to snag the ball and caught the ball and the glove. When he turned toward the dugout to see if his dad had seen it, E. J. was on his feet clapping, but when he saw the boy look to him, he immediately pretended he was swatting mosquitoes. The batter was called out, the third out. Jim ran back to the bench and stood by his dad. E. J. sat chewing in silence and finally said, “I saw a man in Superior, Wisconsin, do that a long time ago. But he did it at night and the ball was hit a lot harder.”

I’ve known a lot of people over the years who had a dad like E. J. Schroeder—a dad who loved his kids for sure but had a hard time showing it, a dad who found it easier to find fault than to applaud and encourage.

My dad was not exactly like E. J., but to be honest, I don’t really know what my dad was like. At least E. J. was there for his kids. For the most part my dad ceased to be an active part of my life in the middle of my third-grade year. He did have time to pass on his love of sports to his three boys. My dad was a star athlete in Lakeside High School in Lake Village Arkansas, class of ’32. And I have yellowed newspaper clippings of his exploits as a fullback and punter for Arkansas College in Batesville (now Lyons College) where he played until financial restraints forced him to drop out of college and find work (it was the Great Depression, you know). My dad taught me how to throw and catch and love any good old American game that involved a round or oblong ball. The sad thing was: after my third-grade year he never saw me play again. So, would he have been an encouraging dad or an E. J?

I suspect he would have been a little bit of both. On most visits (which weren’t numerous) he would take my brothers and I bowling. He would show us how to do it, encourage us when we did it right and correct us when we did it wrong. I remember playing catch with him on some of those rare weekend visits. “Good throw, John Scott, but get your arm up here instead of down there.” He’d throw me a grounder: “Nice catch, John Scott, but don’t reach for the ball; scoot over, get your butt down, and keep it in front of you.” I played catcher for a couple of years of my Little League career, and when my dad found out, he bought me a full set of catcher’s gear—chest protector, shin guards, mask, the works. I really liked the gift. I remember standing in front of a full length mirror in my gear, dreaming of throw-outs at second and tag-outs at the plate. But I would have traded the gear in a heartbeat just to have him in the stands to watch me play. It’s not that he didn’t want to see me play, but he lived in Little Rock, my mother had moved us to Branson, Missouri, and things were complicated. But you can see what I mean, can’t you? I think my dad had some E. J. in him for sure, but he also could be encouraging.

A few things stand out in my memory. He hurt me emotionally several times and in several ways across the years—maybe that’s the E. J. in him. But I’m choosing today to remember better things. On those rare occasions when he made a visit, especially when I was still in grade school, I would run out to his car when he pulled up in front of the house, and he would greet me with a kiss on the mouth. His family was affectionate; my mother’s family was not. Why is it that I remember a warm kiss on the mouth from my dad? Did I yearn for touch and affection (so missing in my Branson home), or did I just want my daddy? I don’t know, probably both, but I remember it.

Another memory: my dad paid for the first three years of my college education. I got married early in my senior year, and he told me that if I was old enough to get married, I was old enough to make my own way. I appreciated both the first three years and the lesson he taught me in the fourth. But it’s something from the first year that stands out most in my memory. I received a valentine from him in February that said something like, “Valentine, you’re at the head of the class.” Go figure—I don’t think my dad had ever sent me a valentine in my life. I remember thinking that was strange at the time. What prompted him to do that?

Still another thing that sticks out in my memory is the 1964 Ford Fairlane Ranchwagon. I had no car my first year in college. I needed a car for my summer job. My dad sold me his old ’64 wagon for one dollar. I got ripped off. The car was junk. My college friends called it the Ratwagon. The heater didn’t work. It had a hole in the floorboard. It broke down at least three different times between Fayetteville and Branson. I replaced most every part over the next three years. But it was a car. I had wheels. I had independence. When I traded it in for something better in December of 1977 I got 200 bucks for it. And my dad made it happen.

Another memory: my dad was dying of cancer in a Jackson, Mississippi, hospital. I was going to make the trip to see him but couldn’t get away until after Christmas. I am a pastor. I had Christmas Eve Service, then I had a wedding to do the day after Christmas. His doctor told me he expected my dad to live for another week or two. Daddy and I talked by phone the night after Christmas. I told him I was leaving the next morning to head down to see him. He said he appreciated that. We small-talked a bit (which was hard for both of us, I think). Then, just before he hung up, he thanked me for reaching out to him and he said, “John Scott, I love you. I’ve always loved you.” My aunt called me not an hour later to tell me my dad was dead. I never saw him alive again, but those words of blessing and love still linger in my mind.

Still another memory: when we were cleaning out his apartment after his death, my aunt found a written prayer folded up in an envelope in a drawer. It was a prayer for “John Scott McCallum II.” It was line after line of petition to God that “John Scott McCallum II” be the best minister he could be. It was a prayer that God give me wisdom and peace and knowledge and understanding as I carried out the ministry to which God had called me. I don’t know if it was a prayer he wrote or a prayer he copied and then just inserted my name. I do know that I still have that prayer.

And one memory more: after his death, we found in his apartment every card and picture and letter any of us boys had ever sent him—every one. The cards and letters were neatly filed away; the pictures were on the dresser, the chest, and the walls. He saved them like treasure, hoarded them like a miser. It was as if he wanted to be surrounded by reminders of his children and grandchildren, yet he couldn’t or wouldn’t just pick up the phone and call us. And I don’t know how many times after his death we heard this from people who knew him: “He was so proud of you boys. He talked about you all the time.” That was good to hear, but I couldn’t help but wish he had said such things to us while he was alive. I think it would have built some bridges. I think it would have made things different in the relationship (or lack thereof) we had with our father.

So there you have it. My daddy was a little bit of E. J. and a little bit of an encourager too. Mostly he seemed pretty clueless as to how be a dad to his kids—especially after the divorce. He wasn’t perfect by any means. I don’t idolize him in my memory. But he was my daddy. He loved me as best he could, I think. And I loved him as best I could. I write this today because this is his birthday. If he were still alive he would be 97 years old today. And even though we never knew one another all that well, even though from the time I was 8 until his death I rarely saw him, and even though he’s now been dead for 23 years, that old man is still on my mind.

The 2010 Highlight Reel

2010-12-31T11:14:00.012-06:00

I was pedaling away in a spin class at FBC Fitness yesterday morning when, after a particularly grueling series of spin exercises, one of the ladies in the class said to the instructor, "I'm taking you off my list of the year's ten most influential people in my life." That got me to thinking. And so I did this: near the end of the class the instructor asked us to think of our top three blessings of 2010. So, after a day of reflecting on such things, I decided to run my 2010 highlight reel. There's no video, only words, but I see pictures in my mind when I run down these highlights. Here goes, and they are in no particular order, by the way.

1. The birth of our fourth grandchild, Macey Jo Parrish, on October 2. At one point, she was due on my birthday. That didn't happen, but she happened, and are there any greater blessings than grandchildren?

2. Bible-storying in Paris with men from Taiba, Senegal. Our church has been building relationships with the people of Taiba for three years now. We minister to them in Paris and in their village in Senegal. They are warm, hospitable people who give us as much as we give them. We've offered medical, dental, and eye-glass care for them. On our last trip to Senegal they allowed us to show the Jesus film. But Paris in October is the first opportunity we've had to engage them in spiritual conversations based on Bible stories. That is the beginning of an answer to many prayers, and it was a thrill to be a part of it. The fact that my son was able to be in on it too just made it all the more a highlight for 2010.

3. A man named Danny who came to know Jesus. Before they moved to a new state, Danny's wife and sons were a part of our church family. Danny played some softball on one of our teams and visited church occasionally, but labled himself as an atheist. Slowly, and on the wings of many prayers, Danny became a bit more open to Christ and His claims. I received an email from his wife earlier this week telling me that Danny made a decision to follow Jesus. What a great reminder of patient prayers and waiting on God!

4. My sabbatical. I get one of these every few years. The church allowed me to take off for the whole month of August. We traveled to see family. We visited Washington, D.C. for the first time. I got to watch the Baltimore Orioles (my favorite team in my childhood) in Camden Yards. And I actually got some rest—well, a little.

5. Insanity. No, not a mental illness; an exercise program. It's 63 days of the most intense cardio work I've ever done. I do a lot of intense exercise, but when I finished day 1, I told my wife, "That was the most intense thing I've ever done in exercise." When I finished day 2, I told her, "That was the most intense thing I've ever done." It is a butt-kicking, body-shaping, fat-burning, muscle-sculpting workout. It's insane. And I was so thankful to God and proud of myself that I actually finished. Who knows? I may do it again in 2011.

6. My son got engaged. After around three or four years of being single, my son popped the question to his longtime girlfriend. "Wilt thou?" he asked. And she wilted. She's a peach. She loves God. She loves our grandchildren. No date set just yet, but should be sometime in 2011. I'm thankful for God's grace, new beginnings, and promising futures.

7. The Razorbacks go to the Sugar Bowl. Only an Arkansas Razorback fan would understand how big this is for our fan base. We've been close so many times and just never seem to breakthrough. This year we broke through: our first BCS game. And our coach wants to stay with us a long time. Many of us feel like Sally Field when she won the Oscar years ago: "He loves us. He really loves us." Wooo pig sooie! Beat the Buckeyes!

8. Mike Pounders. Our church voted to call Mike Pounders to a part-time position as Administrative Pastor. He begins work on January 1. It's a joy to see him back in the vocational ministry. He brings so much to our church family: a love for God, a love for his family, a love for people, and very good administrative and pastoral skills. He's served so well in this wilderness time between ministry posts, but I think he's felt like he's been on the bench. Well, your back in the game again, Mike. Praise God!

9. FBC Fitness. Last spring our church started a fitness ministry. It's been touch and go financially, but we're seeing lives getting whole and healthy physically and spiritually! We've opened another door to Christ and the church and God is using it, and I'm grateful.

In spite of the fact that I could go on, I'm stopping there. Your job is to pick up where I left off and make your own list. Remember, reflect, and give thanks. At this point every year, I can't help but think of the third verse to a great hymn:

Through many dangers, toils, and snares,

I have already come.

'Tis grace hath brought me safe thus far,

And grace will lead me home.

Happy New Year!

It's a Boy!

2010-12-20T10:13:00.011-06:00

Christmas is a beautiful story—especially if you don't give it a lot of thought. Stop and think about it for awhile and the perplexities are enough to drive you nuts. It's not an easy story to understand. Remember, Christ didn’t get His start in Bethlehem. He has existed for all eternity. Wrote John: "In the beginning was the Word, and the Word was with God, and the Word was God" (Jn. 1:1). This Bethlehem child was no Jesus-come-lately; He was the eternal Word made flesh to dwell among us. As the poet George Herbert put it:

The God of power, as he did ride
In his majestick robes of glorie
Resolv'd to light; and so one day
He did descend, undressing all the way.

Though Herbert wrote in the lofty metaphor of the poet, he was more earthy than he knew. "Undressing all the way" was right. Not just in the sense of stripping Himself of the full benefits of deity, but more earthy yet—this baby Jesus was born like you and me—in his birthday suit, as naked as a jaybird. And He was born not in the birthing room of a modern hospital, but in a cave-like stable amid dusty straw and the steaming dung of beasts.

Does that not bother you—even a little? Couldn't God to better than a stable? I did better for my kids and I'm not even God. And to come as a baby? Angels from heaven made grown-up appearances, scared the bejeebers out of people, impressed their socks off. People took note of angel's appearance. And yet who will take note of baby's appearance, except the immediate family and those who are annoyed by a baby's cry in the middle of the night. And what about the fact that God cast His own Son our our mercy. God trusted His only Son on history's most important mission with a couple of young folks who had zero parental experience—zero. What was God thinking? Do you suppose this is where Edgar Rice Burroughs got the idea for his Tarzan series: a baby raised by apes in the jungle? Hmmm.

It just doesn't seem very God-like. Now sending plagues and splitting seas, crushing city walls and humbling kings—that's God-like. But showing up as a baby? Even though the prophet predicted it, would he have even believed if he saw it: “Israel, behold your God!” (Isa. 40:9). And what do they see but a little bundle in a teenage mama's arms. His eyes can't focus. He cries, He whimpers, He fusses, He even messes his diaper. And if left alone with no one to care for Him, He'd die in no time at all. Israel, behold your God? You can see why it took the cross and resurrection before anybody made much of Christmas.

And maybe that's why we can be too quick to rush past the manger to the cross and the empty tomb? Though perplexing in their own way, those things, especially resurrection, feel so much more like God's doing. But I don't want to run past the manger this Christmas. I want to linger there a while and, like Mary, ponder what is going on there—to think my way through the perplexities to a deeper faith and a wider worship.

See Him there in the manger. In the manger. Not a palace. Not a comfortable home. Not even an Motel 6. But a manger. When Christ emptied Himself to come down and save us, He didn't just do it halfway. Jesus checked His pride at the door on the way down to earth. He didn't say, "I'll go so far and no farther." He didn't say, "I draw the line at a stable." He didn't say, "I refuse to be born in that dump." No, Jesus was willing to do whatever it took, willing to reach as low as He had to go, willing to make His beachhead on the earth in a musty stable in Bethlehem. Jesus came all the way down. Now, no one can say, "Jesus, didn't stoop far enough for me." No one can say that—not the poor, not the outcast, not the man without a home. Born as He was in a stable, Jesus demonstrated total commitment to go as far as He had to go to seek and to save humankind.

And to come as a baby. Why not just beam Him down like an angel? Why not step out of heaven and into Jerusalem as a grown-up Christ ready to accomplish His mission? Why not execute what the military calls a surgical strike? Move in quickly, execute the mission, and get out before people know what hit them. Why come as a baby? Why risk the Son of God to a couple of bumbling parents? Jesus was their first child, you know. They had no experience. Jesus would be a guinea pig of sorts as they tested their parental skills. Why put the Son of God in the care of others? Would it not have been a safer course to send Jesus at an age when He could have cared for Himself? And why risk the Son of God to adolescence and the temptations that come naturally to changing bodies and racing hormones? What if Jesus gave into temptation even once? What then? This Lamb of God would have been blemished and His sacrifice unacceptable. Why did God send His Son as a baby? Why this route, this risk, this way?

Because God loves us, that's why. If Jesus was going to save us He would have to be one of us. His ministry needed context, roots, and history. He needed to know us from the inside out. Now Jesus understands us completely. Now Jesus knows our temptations and our struggles and overcame them every one. Instead of acting the role of a TV meteorologist who tracks a tornado on radar from the comfort and safety of a studio, Jesus moved right out into the storm—seeing the twister with His own eyes, feeling the wind in His face, dodging the debris, experiencing the sense of danger that comes from being in the thick of it all. And He did it from birth to death; from the crib to the casket; from the womb to the tomb. He did it without sin so that He could bear our sin on the cross and kill its power and penalty once and for all. And He did it all to a T—perfect in every way. Pretty darn amazing if you ask me!

About twenty years ago somebody left this poem on my desk. I really like it. It's simple. It's to the point. And it's the truth:

A cave, a birth
A cry, a song,
To praise a King expected long.
To heal with love,
To give with joy.
A star above,
It is A BOY!

God With Us?

2010-12-13T10:16:00.005-06:00

In spite of the fact that I have so much Bible to work with, one of my favorite texts is this Christmas one: “All this took place to fulfill what the Lord had said through the prophet: ‘The virgin will be with child and will give birth to a son, and they will call him Immanuel’—which means ‘God with us’” (Matt. 1:22-23). Immanuel is two words stuck together as one: immanu (immanent) which means present, near, with us, and el which means God. He is God present, God near, God with us.

And notice there are no exception clauses in the word. God with us means always, all the time, no matter what, and in spite of the evidence. We forget that. We tend to equate God with us to the good and happy times of life—to the there’s no cancer, I passed the test, I got a raise, she said yes, I escaped without injury, kinds of times. Here’s a classic example: you see a picture of a mangled, twisted car, you hear the driver escaped with only scratches, and you say, “God was really with him.” But if you look at the same picture and hear that the driver was paralyzed or even killed, my guess is the phrase, “God was really with him,” never comes to your mind. See what I mean? I don’t think most of us intend to leave God out of the hard and trying times, but we are pretty quick to do so.

And that’s why we raise this question in our difficulties: “Where is God in this? Where is God when the diagnosis is ALS? Where is God when the baby is born with birth defects? Where is God when I lose my job and can’t pay the rent? Where in the world is God?” Such a question rises out of this bad theology: God is with us in the blessings; God is absent in the trials.

But here’s the truth: God is with us always, always, always—when we can see Him and when we can’t, when we win and when we lose, when the cancer is cured and when the cancer takes our life. When we know Christ, God is with us, period. That’s His promise. That’s who He is: God with us.

Back in 1981 as I was preparing a sermon on this text, God gave me a story. I’ve told it numerous times across the years. Let me tell it one more time.

A man was facing heard times. His wife had left him, his job was in jeopardy, his security was threatened. He truly needed help. He thought for sure that God had abandoned him. If God was really with Him, things would be better, right? He sought the counsel of his pastor who tried to assure him that God had not left him, but the man was not convinced.

That night he went to bed. As he struggled for sleep he kept asking over and over: "God, where are you? God, where are you? Why can't I see you working in my life?" Finally, he drifted off to sleep and fell into a dream.

He dreamed that he lived in Palestine many years ago. He dreamed that he was searching for God. Everywhere he went he asked people if they could tell him where he could find God. "Check the temple," they said. "God lives in the temple." He looked in the temple but did not see God there. Disappointed, he journeyed on. Then, one night as he was warming himself by the fire at his campsite, a group of shepherds came passing by. "What's all the commotion?" shouted the man to the shepherds.

"We're off to see the Lord. Angels have made known to us that the Lord is in Bethlehem. Would you like to come along?"

"Would I?" exclaimed the man. "I've been looking for the Lord."

So off they journeyed to Bethlehem. But when they arrived, all they saw was a mother and a father and a baby in a crude little stable. Disgusted at another faulty lead, the man said to a shepherd, "I thought we were going to see God."

"Look at the baby, man!" said the shepherd. "Look at the baby!"

"The baby? I didn't come to Bethlehem to see a baby; I came to see the Lord." And the man stormed out of the stable and into the darkness.

He decided to give up his search for awhile. A person can only endure so much frustration and disappointment. His dream fast-forwarded many years and he was encouraged when he began to hear reports of a miracle worker from Nazareth who claimed to be God. He followed these reports, but he was always a day or two behind.

Finally, his journeys took him to Jerusalem during the Passover. He got there on Friday. It was unusually dark for that time of day and there was much commotion. The man stopped a passerby and asked him what was going on. The passerby said that the commotion centered around a particular Nazarene. The man asked, "Would this be Jesus of Nazareth – the one who claims to be God?"

"That's right," said the passerby. "That's who it is."

"Where can I find Him?" asked the man. "I've got to see the Lord."

"Oh, you can find Him outside the city on Skull Hill. Go look there."

The man raced to Skull Hill, but when he arrived all he saw were three men being crucified. He grabbed a spectator and asked, "I was told God was out here on this hill. I've got to see Him. Can you tell me where He is?"

"Why sure," the spectator mocked, "that's Him on that middle cross. There's your God."

The man looked at the middle cross only to see in silhouette a dying, suffering figure of a man in the midst of common criminals. Disheartened and discouraged, the man kicked the dirt, walked away, and mumbled to himself, "I came here to see God and all I see is a man on a cross. God can’t be here. Will I ever get to see Him?"

The man hung around Jerusalem for another day or so. He got up to leave early on the day after the Sabbath, and as he was leaving Jerusalem he passed some very excited women. He thought he overheard them say something to the effect that they had seen the Lord. He stopped them. "Did I hear you right? Did you say that you have seen the Lord?"

"Oh, yes! He's alive. We have seen Him with our own eyes."

"Where? Where did you see Him? I’ve got to see Him too!"

The women pointed in the direction of the tomb and said, "We saw Him there … in Joseph's garden."

The man sprinted to the garden. He looked and he looked but found nothing. All he saw amidst spring flowers was an empty tomb with some grave clothes left upon the slab inside. Having had it up to here with frustration, the man wept and pounded on a large stone adjacent to the tomb, "I came to see God and all I see is an empty tomb. How come I never see God? Where is He? Where is God?"

Our Matthew text tells us exactly where He is: "The virgin will be with child and will give birth to a Son, and they will call Him Immanuel – which means 'God with us.'" Where is God? He is with us; that's where He is.

The manger shows us that no situation is too degrading, no experience too humbling what that God, in Christ, is with us right in the midst of it.

The cross shows us that no struggle is too great, no grief too deep, no suffering too intense, not even death itself is so awful what that God faces it with us in Christ.

And the resurrection assures us that because Jesus rose from the dead and lives today, He is able to send us His Spirit so that He truly can be with us and in us everywhere, all the time, and in every situation.

You may not always see Christ, and you may not always feel Him. But be of good cheer! The witness of Scripture is true: His name is Immanuel—which means “God with us”! God – with – us! Always and forever. Amen.

John the Baptist: Desert Storm

2010-12-08T15:24:00.004-06:00

Every Advent John the Baptist makes his often unwelcome appearance. He’s not going to win any popularity contests when he shows up. To many, John is like your crazy Cousin Eddie who shows up every Christmas uninvited, unwanted, and seen in general as an embarrassment to the rest of the family. To others, John is like opening a day on your Advent calendar and instead of finding a delicious piece of chocolate behind the little door, you get a punch in the gut. He’s different. It shows in his dress. While most religious leaders dressed in their finely tailored clothes from Dillard’s, John got his stuff off a rack at the outpost. While most ate a diet filled with rich foods and expensive meats, John ate locusts and wild honey. While most religious types lived in community among people, John lived like a hermit in the desert. Strange, eccentric, and odd are all terms that you could hang on John.

And after years in the desert, He heard the stirring, the prompting, the voice that called him out of the desert to prepare the way for Messiah. His message was simple: “Repent! The kingdom of God is here! Turn from your sins. Clean up your life. And get yourself ready for Messiah!” He baptized those who did as a sign of their repentance and God’s forgiveness. He made quite a stir. The common people loved him; the religious leaders didn’t know what to make of him. Was he a prophet or a crackpot? Anyway, they were his biggest obstacle and harshest critics. But he preached on, getting people ready for Jesus.

So I got to thinking—what would John have to say to the American church in this Advent season? And you’ll find below what I think his message might be. I’m casting it in the first person, as if John was doing the preaching. Fasten your seatbelt; it might not be easy to hear.

__________

“REPENT!! Repent of your sins!! The kingdom of God is near. Take stock of your life. What sins are you harboring? What sins do you feel entitled to? Well you’re not entitled to a single one. Repent! Be relentlessly honest with yourself. Name your sins and repent! Do you gossip? Do you cheat? Do you lie? Are you filled with lust? Are you greedy and envious and covetous? Do you seek to do the will of God or do you do your own thing without thought of God’s will for your life? Do you share faith? Do you reach out to those in need? Are you prayerless? Are you self-righteous? Do you sit in judgment on others? Repent! Do you think God doesn’t notice your sins? Do you think God doesn’t care? He notices. He cares. That’s why He sent me. So repent! Turn from your sins and get ready for the coming of Christ.

And in this Advent season you need to repent of sins that are particular to this time of year and to the American church.

Repent of worshiping Christmas instead of Christ. Don’t love the season; love the Savior. To get caught up in the trappings of the season is a trap for your soul. Don’t you realize that most of the stuff that occupies your attention in this season is man-made not God-made. Repent of such nonsense and turn your attention to Christ. Christmas cannot save your soul; only Christ can save your soul. Worship Christ, not Christmas. Repent!

Repent of preparing your house but not your heart. Ask yourself a question: do I spend more time getting my house or my heart ready for the coming of Christ? Do I spend more time in stores or in the Word, more time wrapping gifts or worshiping the gift of Messiah Christ? Be honest with yourself—the well-being of your soul is at stake. Quit fussing about your house and start fussing about your heart. Reflect on what God has done for you in Christ. Give praise that the Word who was with God in the beginning and who is God became flesh to dwell among us and bring us salvation and life. Spend time thinking about that. And spend time thinking about the second coming of Christ. Are you ready for that coming? What if it were today? Would you be prepared? Would you be ready? To heck with your house and your tree and your shopping and all that jazz; prepare your heart for the coming of Christ. Repent!

And repent of giving your best gifts to others instead of Christ. You say, “We give gifts because the Magi gave gifts.” The Magi gave their gifts to Christ not to each other. Do you think it is consistent with the Spirit of Christ to go into debt giving presents to people who already have everything they need? Please!! This is the season in which you celebrate the truth that Christ left the riches of heaven and became poor on earth so that you could become rich in the things that matter. He didn’t come so that you could be rich in sweaters and shoes and jewelry and gadgets. He came to make you rich in the giving, serving life on earth and the eternal life He has prepared for His people in heaven. Quit being so foolish by giving a bunch of extra junk to people who have what they need. Give your best gifts to Christ—to missions, to the poor, to charities that serve those in real need. These are the gifts that matter. These are the gifts that make a difference. These are the gifts that carry Jesus’ name on the tag. Repent and give your best gifts to Christ.

Jesus is coming. And when He comes He will have a winnowing fork in His hands and He’ll do the great sorting out. If you know Him, if you have repented of your sins and followed Him, then you have no doubt produced fruit in keeping with repentance and have lived a Christ-filled, Christ-centered generous, gracious life. You He will gather you into the place that He has prepared for you in the Father’s house: a place of life and peace and fellowship and joy!

But if you do not know Him and if your repentance is only word-deep instead of heart-deep (and Jesus knows the difference), then He will scoop you up with His winnowing fork, pitch you into the fire like so much useless chaff. And nobody will ever extinguish that fire.

You say, “That’s not very pleasant talk here at Christmas and all.” No, it’s not. You’ll never see this message on one of your Christmas cards. It’s not sophisticated. It’s not nuanced to fit your tastes. It’s not polite conversation. You know what it is? It’s the truth. So repent! The kingdom of God is near. Jesus Messiah is on His way! And you better be ready for Him when He comes.

____________

Ouch! But thanks anyway, John … I think.

O Little Town of Bethlehem

2010-12-02T08:22:00.002-06:00

It’s Advent season once again, and early in the season it’s customary to think through some of the prophecies of Jesus’ first coming. The Old Testament is full of them. Matthew cites five of them in his telling of the Christmas story in Matthew 1-2. One of those citations concerns the place of Jesus’ birth.

It comes from Micah. In the midst of Micah’s prophecies concerning God’s judgment on Israel and Judah, we find this word of hope for God’s people: “But you Bethlehem …, though you are small among the clans of Judah, out of you will come for me one who will be ruler over Israel, whose origins are from of old, from ancient times.” Matthew alters this prophecy a bit when he cites it in Matthew 2:6. But he cites it as the clue that enabled Herod’s priests to tell the Magi where to find the baby king. That’s the key thing in both Micah and in Matthew: Messiah would be born in Bethlehem.

Why is this important? On the prophetic level it’s important because Bethlehem is David’s town and Jesus was to come from the line of David (Isa. 11:1-5). On a theological level it’s important because this prophecy hints at Jesus pre-existence: “whose origins are from of old, from ancient times.” And on a practical level it’s important because it reminds us that God works in history, in particular places and through particular people at particular times for particular purposes.

The Christian faith is rooted in history. Yes, God is transcendent and above history, yet God is also immanent (Immanuel—which means “God with us”) and works in history. God’s plan was to send His Son to earth to be born in Bethlehem. So when the time was right, God called a particular woman, Mary, to bear His child, and a particular man, Joseph, to provide a dad and a home for Jesus—both of whom were in David’s line. God then prompted Caesar Augustus to call for a tax registration (Luke 2:1-3) which got Joseph and Mary to leave Nazareth and get to Bethlehem just in time for Jesus’ birth. You see it, don’t you? God works in time and history through particular people in particular places to accomplish His particular will for our world and our lives.

And the good news in that for us is that God also chooses to work in your particular life in your particular place to accomplish His particular will in and through you. He knows who you are. He knows where to find you. He knows how to work in and through your life right where you are. Are you open to God’s work in your life this season? Are you listening for His call?

A Friend Named Thanksgiving

2010-11-24T09:15:00.008-06:00

In 1 Thessalonians 5:18, Paul writes, “Give thanks in all circumstances for this is God’s will for you in Christ Jesus.” You got to figure Paul must have been a good mood when he wrote that verse. You got to figure Paul’s circumstances must have been good ones. But if we do that, our figuring is wrong. Paul certainly had his share of good times, but for the most part, life was hard for Paul. Most of his adult life spent on the road, often sleeping in the elements. He was beaten like a rug, pelted with stones and left for dead, shipwrecked in the dead of winter, jailed for long periods of time for nothing more than proclaiming the gospel, and stricken with this mysterious “thorn in the flesh” that God wouldn’t not remove. Paul had his good times, but he spent much of life in the worst of circumstances. Yet he was thankful—thankful when times were good, thankful when times were hard, thankful in all circumstances. And not because he was some extra strong Christian, but because giving thanks in all circumstances is God’s will for His people in Christ Jesus. That’s the same Christ Jesus who endured painful persecution and angry scorn, the same Christ Jesus who was nailed up on a cross—a cross He endured because He knew that death wouldn’t get the last word on Him; life would get the last word. Crucifixion wouldn’t be His swan song; resurrection just a couple of mornings away would be the new song He would sing for eternity. Knowing these things helped Paul and can help us give thanks in all circumstances.

It was like Thanksgiving was a friend to Paul—a friend Paul took along everywhere he went and into every situation he encountered. Years ago, Fred Craddock helped me see that Doxology can be a friend. Well, Thanksgiving can be a friend as well. And I live life on higher plane when I take my friend Thanksgiving along.

And Paul is not the only person who has modeled this for me. Teresa Walters did too. I knew her for many years. And I’ll never forget when I got word that she had died. I was at my son’s basketball game when the call came to meet the Walters family at the hospital. That death was hard to take on many levels. At her death, Teresa was only 25 years old. One of “Jerry’s kids,” she had been stricken with muscular dystrophy from earliest childhood. She had never known what it was like to run through the grass, to catch a ball, to drive a car. All she could drive was her little motorized wheelchair. And she drove it everywhere. It was a nifty little wheelchair: oxygen tank-ready and a bumper sticker on the back that said, "A woman's place is in the mall." And did I tell you it was a two-seater? One for her and one for Thanksgiving.

In spite of her problems, Teresa took Thanksgiving almost everywhere. Now and then God gives us opportunity to know someone whose courage and grace in the midst of adversity just lifts us up. She was one of those persons—an incredible young woman in many ways. But the older she got, the more tightly her terrible disease held her in its grip. And no matter how much she or her parents or the church or the doctors tried to pry its fingers loose, muscular dystrophy would not let go. Teresa got to the point where she had to be on oxygen all the time. She couldn't eat the things you and I could eat. She was literally skin and bones. So weak was Teresa that she had to be belted into her wheelchair or she would slide right out. She was as bad as I had ever seen her. She had bounced back before—this determined little fighter—but this time her disease squeezed her so hard that she died.

Thanksgiving had come along with me to my son's basketball game, and he said he wanted to go with me to the hospital too. "All right," I said (my heart not in it), "you can come along but I want you to sit in the backseat and keep your mouth shut." When we got to the hospital, we both started to get out of the car. "Where do you think you're going?" I said to Thanksgiving.

He replied, "I'm going with you. You may need me in there. Teresa was my friend too."

"Forget it!" I said. "You're the last person anybody wants to see right now. Just wait in the car." Obviously hurt, but equally submissive, Thanksgiving (who will only go where he's invited) climbed back in the car and shut the door.

I went up to the room and found Teresa's parents there. They were surrounded by family and friends in that hospital hallway. The three of us, however, went in alone to the room where Teresa's body lay dead upon the bed. Her flaming red locks spread out across her pillow. We cried and we prayed the 23rd Psalm. It was all very sad. We stood there for the longest time in silence. Then her parents started talking. They told me that late in the afternoon, when Teresa was struggling the most, they prayed and asked God to take her home to heaven. All these 25 years they could never pray that prayer, all the previous times death had knocked at Teresa’s door they couldn’t pray that prayer, but today they found the strength and peace to do it. And now, even though they were sad, they were thanking God for His mercy.

And then they told me about the last picture Teresa had painted. In spite of her problems, Teresa was an accomplished painter. I don't know how she did it, but she did it, and she did it well enough to win awards at art fairs. And, as her parents told the story, the last picture she painted (though hard to see the detail, that's it at the top of this blog) was based on Isaiah 40:31. You remember that verse, don't you? "They that wait upon the Lord shall renew their strength; they shall mount up with wings as eagles; they shall run and not be weary; they shall walk and not faint." In the painting, Teresa had drawn a skyline of the heavenly city encased in lush trees at the end of a long winding path. Above the city was a soaring eagle. And right there at the end of the path that led to the city, she painted something else—a tiny, empty wheelchair. She titled the painting Freedom Awaits. Teresa knew she was dying. She knew it wouldn't be long. She didn't want to die, but she was ready.

About that time, there was a quiet tap at the door. It was Thanksgiving. He came in and said, "I thought maybe y’all might need me about now." We did. And as strange as it may sound, Thanksgiving comforted us and made that experience a little easier to take.

But that’s what Thanksgiving does for every experience. Thanksgiving helps maximizes the joy of our blessings and helps lessen the heartbreak of our trials. Paul knew that. Teresa knew that. I want to know that too. How about you? So in this Thanksgiving season, let’s ask God to provide the Holy Spirit power we need to live this great thanksgiving verse in this season and all year long: “Give thanks in all circumstances for this is God’s will for you in Christ Jesus.”

Happy Thanksgiving!

One Tough Persistent Saint

2010-11-19T11:13:00.004-06:00

One more saint story to tell as I wrap up my tribute to All Saints' Day 2010. This saint has no fame that you would know her. Her name will not ring a bell. Nor does she come from some time past in our Christian history. But she is a saint all the same—a present day, on the job, serve the Lord saint.

Her name is Taryn Blocker. Taryn is a young lady currently serving a two-year term in Spain as a journeywoman missionary through the Southern Baptist International Mission Board. That in itself is no uncommon thing. Lots of college graduates have done and do that even today. They serve all over the world. "So why highlight Taryn?" you ask.

Well, a couple of things. First, I know her. I've known her since she was in junior high, I think. I know her family. I had the joy to watch her grow through her teen and college years. And second, what she had to endure to get to the field and what she endures even now is what sets her apart.

While Taryn and Brook, her partner in the mission, were getting their training and orientation in Richmond, they were involved in a terrible car wreck. Both were injured: Taryn had significant injuries: broken jaw, two broken legs, conditions that required surgeries. And then, after the surgeries, months of painful rehab just to be able to walk again. What always amazed me most is that in spite of the pain (a constant companion even now), in spite of the fact that she wouldn't be able to go to Spain when she was supposed to go, Taryn never lost faith and never lost her sense of call to go to Spain and reach out to immigrant Hispanics from Central and South America. Hers was one long and winding road just to be reapproved by the mission board. Needless to say they were concerned with her well-being in light of her injuries and weren't sure she would be up to the rigors of mission work. But Taryn hit all her benchmarks to get the clearance to go. It wasn't easy, but she pushed herself and leaned heavily upon the Lord for His strength that was and is made perfect in her weakness.

So today Taryn is in Spain, serving God and extending His kingdom in that part of the world. I wish I could say that she finally is pain free and her injuries from the wreck are just a part of her past, but I can't. She hurts every day. Most every step is painful. But she takes those steps, determined to fulfill the mission to which God called her. She continues to get medical attention. She continues to pray. She continues to serve. And I find that so very saint-like.

No one would have blamed her if she had given up this dream after the accident and after the rehab. No one would have been critical if she had said, "I thought God wanted me to go, but I guess these injuries are God's way of shutting the door on my mission." In fact, a number of folks figured that might be what was going on. But not Taryn. She was called. She was committed. And car wrecks, wounded legs, and pain nothwithstanding, she was going to go fulfill her calling. Taryn believes that God is larger than her challenges, that her mission is more important that her pain, and that she can do all things through Christ who strengthens her. The young woman is an inspiration to all who know her and blessing to those whom she serves in Spain. She is an example worth noting and following.

In His Revlation letter to the persecuted church at Smyrna, Jesus said, "Be faithful unto death and I will give you a crown of life." Taryn hasn't been asked to die for her faith; she's been asked to live it in a foreign culture and with significant pain. And she is being faithful in the midst of all that. She is marked by the life of Christ, and she is bringing that life to those in Spain. So in my book, this young woman bears the markings of a saint.

So Happy All Saints' Day, Taryn! Your parents, your pastor, and your church family are more proud of you than you know. And even then, nobody has a broader smile when he thinks of you than your Friend and Savior Jesus.

The Four Chaplains

2010-11-11T13:11:00.006-06:00

As I continue to post a few saint stories in honor of All Saints’ Day on November 1, today I post a saint story to honor American veterans on this Veterans Day, 2010.

For years, Daniel Poling was editor of The Christian Herald magazine. He had raised his children to be faithful to Christ and to the call of Christ in their lives. One December day in 1941, not many days after the Japanese bombed Pearl Harbor, Daniel's son, Clark Poling, went to Boston to see his father. Clark told his dad that he was going to enlist in the army as a chaplain. Clark was a young man. He and his wife Betty had a son named Corky and one on the way. Clark was a minister of the gospel and had every reason not to go to war. But he felt the tug of God at his heart to go and serve in the chaplaincy. As he visited with his dad about that decision, Clark said, "Dad, I believe in the power of prayers so pray for me. Pray not that I come back but that I shall not be a coward, that I shall do my duty, and even more, pray that I will understand men and be patient. And pray that I shall be adequate for whatever comes." His father began to pray that prayer for his son Clark.

About fourteen months later, on February 3, 1943, the U.S.S. Dorchester was heading across the North Atlantic for England. The ship was loaded with over 900 soldiers. There were also four chaplains on that ship: John Washington (Catholic), Alex Goode (Jewish), George Fox (Methodist), and the focus of this story, Clark Poling (Dutch Reformed). The voyage was going smoothly until just off the coast of Greenland a German U-Boat got the Dorchester in his sights and put a torpedo right in the hull of their ship. Chaos broke loose! "Abandon ship! Abandon ship!" came the order over the loud speakers. A mad scramble for life jackets and lifeboats ensued. The four chaplains quickly organized the men and, without panic, opened the boxes of life jackets and dispensed every one of them. Suddenly, the stark reality of the situation become apparent to the many men who were left on board: there were no more life jackets and no more lifeboats to go around. The four chaplains reacted instinctively: they quietly took off their life jackets, gave them to the first four men they found, and told them to jump. Not long afterward, the ship sunk. In all 678 men died, including the four chaplains.

In the Congressional Record of this incident, there is the testimony of one of the survivors, the ship's Chief Engineer. This is how he described the scene: "I looked and I saw the ship wallowing there. And then I saw the bow come up. I saw standing on the deck the four chaplains—arms linked together, standing on the slippery, slanting deck—praying for us. Suddenly, the ship trembled and sank. And they were gone."

In those last moments as the chaplains stood arm in arm on that sinking ship, I wonder if Clark remembered the prayer he had asked his father to pray: "Pray not that I come back, but that I shall not be a coward, that I shall do my duty; and even more pray that I will understand men and be patient. And pray that I will be adequate for whatever comes."

God answered that prayer. Clark and the other three chaplains were not cowards. They did their duty. They were adequate for what came. There’s something saintly in that spirit, don’t you think—courage, devotion to duty, love of others, and dependence on God to meet the challenge before them? In John 15:13 Jesus said, “Greater love has no man than this: that he lay his life down for his friends.” Jesus did that for us. These four chaplains did that for the men on their ship.

So on this Veterans Day 2010, let’s remember that a lot of other veterans have given their lives for us. Others have sacrificed lengthy tours duty away from family and physical and emotional wounds that never go away. I don't want to take such sacrifices for granted, do you? So join me in giving thanks for all our veterans in general and for these four chaplains in particular, because they model the best of what it means to serve one's country and the best of what it means to serve their God. Happy All Saints Day, Four Chaplains!

Dirk Willens: A Saint You've Never Heard Of

2010-11-08T15:14:00.004-06:00

In honor of All Saints' Day on November 1, it's time time to introduce you to another saint—one you've probably never heard of. But first some background. When we think Reformation, the names that quickly come to the surface are Martin Luther, John Calvin, and Ulrich Zwingli. These were the headliners. Of course, when Luther nailed those 95 theses to the door of the Wittenburg church, his real intention was to reform the Catholic Church, not break away and start something new. But once set in motion, nobody could stop the wave of reformation that swept across Europe. Men like Luther and Calvin went pretty far in their theological and ecclesiastical reforms, but some in that era thought they didn’t go far enough.

I'm talking about the Anabaptists. These Anabaptists (ancestors to modern day Mennonites and Amish) took things a step further. In effect, they said to other branches of the reformation movement: “If you want to get back to the Bible, then get back to the Bible in all things.” That’s why Anabaptists (which means re-baptizers) were the only Reformation group to practice believer’s baptism by immersion instead of infant baptism. That’s why Anabaptists believed and practiced a form of church-state separation as best they could in a climate where church and state had been in bed together for centuries. And that’s why neither Catholics or Lutherans or Calvinists had any love for the Anabaptists. This group was persecuted and martyred by all of the above. Do you know the favorite way to kill an Anabaptist? Drowning—tie them to something heavy and toss them in the river. “If they are so committed to immersion baptism,” their persecutors said, “then we’ll immerse them into eternity.” Of course, Anabaptists were martyred in other ways as well.

Let me tell you a story about one of them. In 16th century Holland, the Anabaptists were outlawed and, when caught, often executed. Dirk Willens, a faithful Anabaptist convert, was being chased across an ice-field when his pursuer broke through and fell in. In response to his cries for help, Willens returned and saved him from the waters. His pursuer was grateful and astonished that he would do such a thing but nevertheless arrested him, as he thought it his duty to do. A few days later Willens was executed by being burned at the stake in the town of Asperen.

That’s it. That’s the story. But it’s a story that inspires me and makes Dirk Willens a saint in my eyes. Here’s a man who loved his neighbor as himself, who loved his enemies even. Here’s a man who put the interest of another ahead of himself. Here’s a man who loved Christ and Christ’s ways more than he loved his own life. Here’s a man who was faithful unto death. Here’s a man whose actions remind me of Jesus Christ. And it seems to me that if there’s one thing that should stand out about a saint, it’s this: when we think of the saint we can't help but think of Christ. Dirk Willens reminds me of Christ. And this leaves me with a question to ponder about my own life. Perhaps it’s a question you could ponder too: Do the people who know me best think of Christ when they think of me?