Say Hello to Teresa

As I continue my early November blogs in honor of All Saints’ Day, say hello to Teresa of Ávila. Teresa was from Spain and lived in the 16th century. From her earliest years, spurred on by her mother, she had a deep devotion to Christ. At seven years old she tried to run away with her brother Rodrigo to find martyrdom among the Moors. Her grandfather, who was returning to the city, found both of them outside the city walls and made them go back home. But Teresa’s devotion never wavered. She continued to grow in wisdom and stature and in favor with God and man.

In her adult years she founded a reformed Carmelite convent. She also experienced trials and illnesses that God used to deepen her prayer life and commitment to Christ. Teresa wrote much poetry and prose during her days—some of her best writing growing out of her troubles. Her writings reflected her life of prayer as well as her devotion to Jesus. Here’s an excerpt:

Let nothing trouble you
Let nothing make you afraid
All things pass away
God never changes.
Patience obtains everything.
God alone is enough.

Here’s my favorite Teresa story: she was traveling all over Spain by oxcart on bad roads in her efforts to reform Carmelite convents. One day she was thrown from her cart into a muddy stream. She shook her fist at God, “God,” she said, “if this is the way you treat your friends, no wonder you don’t have many.” I suspect God got a kick out of that. What a great lesson in prayer: Teresa reminds us we can talk with God about anything at anytime. She reminds us that prayer is not about results; it’s about relationship—a mutual relationship between God and His child, a relationship in which we can speak openly and honestly with God when it sounds pleasant and even when it doesn’t. Lloyd John Ogilvie once referred to prayer as "cumulative friendship with God." That is a perfect description of Teresa's prayers.

That's why Teresa inspires my prayer life. Knowing her leads me to ask myself some questions about my prayers: Are they open? Are they honest? Are they born out of a deep devotion to and friendship with God? Teresa’s prayers were. I hope mine are. And I encourage you to make yours this way too.

Meet Francis de Bernardone

According to the church calendar, today is All Saints’ Day, a day to remember and celebrate the lives of those who followed Christ faithfully—some even unto death. Of course, the Roman Catholics and mainline Protestant churches give much more emphasis to this day than do Baptists or our more charismatic brothers and sisters. Still, there’s good to be had for all of us to reflect upon the lives of saints past and present. Didn’t Paul encourage the Corinthians and the Philippians to imitate him as he tried to imitate Christ? So on this All Saints’ Day I want to post the first of series of brief blogs acquainting you with some of my favorite saints. My prayer is that these stories will inspire you and evoke in your own heart an appreciation for the saints who have made and are making an impact on your life.

My first story is about a young man named Francis. Francis lived in the years on either side of A.D. 1200. He was one of seven children born to Pietro de Bernardone, a wealthy cloth merchant. Francis grew up in the church, but like many children of wealth spent plenty of time walking on the wild side of indulgence and sin. But even early in his life, he discovered a part of him that was drawn to the poor and the needy. On one occasion he was selling cloth and velvet for his father in the marketplace when a beggar came to beg alms. Francis was too busy to deal with him, but when the transaction was done, Francis chased down the beggar and gave him everything he had in his pockets. His friends chided him and mocked him for his charity, and when word of it got to his father he gave Francis a harsh tongue-lashing. His father wanted Francis to be a businessman, to follow in his footsteps, to live the conventional life of the wealthy, to dress like the businessman his father determined he should be.

But those weren’t Francis’ clothes. God had different clothes for Francis. Francis was drawn to care for lepers against the counsel of his father and his friends. Francis had a heart for the needy. He had a heart for God and the church. On one occasion, he had a vision that he was to help repair the church. Francis assumed that meant the church in which he was praying so he sold some of his father’s cloth and gave the money to the church. That was the last straw for Francis' father. And it wasn’t just about the money. He could see Francis slipping away from the life he had planned for him. He tried to talk Francis out of it. He even beat him severely. But finally, in a legal exercise before the local bishop, Francis renounced his father and his father’s ways. And you know how he symbolized his decision? He stripped off the clothes his father provided him and laid them aside. He lived as a beggar for a short while. And the rest is history. You’ve heard of him. He even started a religious order that still exists today—the Franciscans. You know him as St. Francis—St. Francis of Assisi.

Francis heard the voices of his family and his culture: “Wear the clothes of a businessman, Francis. This is who you are. This is what you must do. This is what you should value. This is what should define your life. This is what people do in your station and with your money.” This is the message he received from childhood. But Francis knew God. He knew the Scriptures. He had a God-filled imagination. And he chose to be authentic to who God made him to be. And because he did, he lived a passionate, joyful life that made an impact and a difference in the kingdom of God. His life is still making a difference today.

Whose clothes are you wearing? Whose destiny are you living? Whose voice are you following? Every saint past and present has struggled with those questions. But sooner or later, every saint answers them with one word: “God’s”

To All the Pastors I've Loved Before

One of my favorite stories is about Jesus walking along one day when he came upon a man crying and he said, “My friend, what’s wrong?” The man replied, “I’m blind, can you help me?” Jesus healed the man and he went on his way.

Jesus continued along and came upon another man sitting and crying. “Good friend, what’s wrong?” The man answered, “I’m lame and can’t walk, can you help me?” Jesus healed the man and they both went down the road.

As Jesus continued on he came upon a third man crying. Jesus said, “Good friend, what’s wrong?” He answered, “I’m a minister.” And Jesus sat down and wept with him.

You may or may not be aware of this, but October is National Pastor Appreciation Month. I guess somebody decided that if mothers and fathers and grandparents each get a day each year to be appreciated, pastors ought to get a month. Not sure I grasp the logic, but many church people do seem to buy into it and shower their pastors with cards and notes and even a gift or two. It’s thoughtful.

Here’s my problem with it, however: I don’t have a pastor to appreciate. I am a pastor. Oh, I certainly can and do appreciate our staff pastors who coordinate and oversee various ministries within the church. But none of them are my pastor. I feel quite like the atheist who in a weak moment feels overcome with gratitude for the blessings and good fortune of his life and yet has no one to thank for them. What can I do for Pastor Appreciation Month?

How about this? I can use this forum to express appreciation for all the pastors I have had in my life. In God’s providence he has put pastors in my path that have had various levels of influence on my life. Even a bad detective could find the fingerprints of every one of them on my 30 year body of work as a pastor. So here’s to the all the pastors I’ve loved before.

I don’t even remember the name of my first pastor. That church is no longer in existence and both my parents are dead, so I don’t know how I would find his name even if I wanted to. But he was pastor of St. Andrew’s Presbyterian Church in Little Rock, Arkansas. I was just a little kid when we attended that church. I do remember that he had black hair, a five o’clock shadow, and was not an exceptionally big fellow. I remember the black robe he wore in worship. And I remember he didn’t seem to mind that on my way from Sunday School to the sanctuary I would stop at the church library and check out a Dr. Seuss book to help me get through big church with minimal wiggling and fidgeting. I remember he noticed me at the door and shook my hand too as we were leaving the church. I don't think I was just a face to him; I think he considered me part of his flock too.

I don’t remember the name of my next pastor either. I was in third grade, and we were members of the Presbyterian Church in Ozark, Arkansas—where we lived for only six months. It was a small church. I don’t remember much about the pastor or his family except this: when my mother fell out in church and was hospitalized for a couple of weeks, my brothers and I spent a lot of that time in our pastor’s home. It seems like it was most every day after school. If pastors are supposed to be hospitable, this pastor and family fit the bill.

My next pastor was at the Presbyterian Church in Branson, Missouri. His name was Byron Price. He was a God-send to our family. My mom left my dad and took us boys to Branson to live with our grandmother. Pastor Price came alongside and really ministered to our mother and to us. Her new disability kept her from driving, and there were multiple occasions when Pastor Price and his wife drove my mother to Springfield to see her psychologist. Pastor Price was from Texas and he gave me a homemade slingshot with the state of Texas carved into its handle. It was a pretty cool gift for fifth-grade boy. I really liked the Price family—had a secret crush on his daughter Mary Beth who was my age. And I remember being very sad when the Lord called them to a different place.

The pastor who followed Byron Price at our church was Sammy Shrum. He and his wife had a couple of kids younger than I was. I remember him taking my younger brother and I out with him and his son to look at land. I remember playing cowboys with him around the big rocks on the land he was checking out. He was a good speaker according to everyone’s report, though all I remember of his sermons through my teenage years was his use of the phrase: “What the world needs now is love, sweet love.” Honestly, I mostly passed the time in worship up in the balcony avoiding the stare of my mother from the choir and filling in the o’s and p’s and d’s and b’s and q’s in the Sunday bulletin. (Rarely were there any q's, but if they were there, I filled them in too.) I also played a lot of hangman and the dot game to pass the time. Another thing that stands out about Pastor Shrum was his kindness to me when I made a big goof in church. At an end of worship business meeting, when, for some reason, the youth were sitting at the front, the vote came up on the pastor’s annual salary raise. “All in favor, say aye.” I said, “Aye.” "All opposed, no." And horror of horrors, I said, “No”—the only voice in the sanctuary to do so. Honestly, I wasn’t paying attention and was just following orders: "Say aye; say no." My mother and grandmother were mortified and sunk down in their seats in the choir. My youth leader thumped me on the head. And Pastor Shrum smiled a great big smile, looked right at me and said, “I think we’ve had a little slip of the tongue up here.” And that was that. My youth leaders never let me forget it, but Pastor Shrum never said another word. It was like he understood.

My next pastor was a Baptist. I made the move to First Baptist Church in Branson at the end of my senior year in high school. (No, I wasn’t run out of the Presbyterian Church for accidentally voting no.) I made a conscious choice to become a Baptist. That pastor’s name was Gary Fenton. Gary took a real interest in me. He baptized me. He encouraged me. He helped me process my call to ministry. He gave me the opportunity to preach my first sermon and created a position of Summer Campground Minister on the church staff so I could work for the church in the summer after my freshman year in college, preaching in local campgrounds and assisting the staff in the day to day duties of ministry. What a learning opportunity! Gary talked ministry and commentaries with me. A couple of years later, when Gary had left Branson, he invited me to preach a weekend youth revival at the next church he pastored in Windsor, Missouri. Gary came back to Branson to preach my ordination sermon a bit later as well. When she was a teenager, my wife Dayna babysat his children, so I felt close to Gary. I remember him looking in on my wife and I when we first moved to seminary. Things that stand out to me about Gary is that he is a very good preacher; he is very good with people; and he is a very hard worker. I learned a lot about ministry and preaching and people-skills from Gary. Even though he was only my pastor for year or so, he has had profound influence on me. We still stay in touch. I still learn from him.

The pastor that followed Gary to Branson was a man named Gilbert Spencer. I worked two summers at the Branson church with Gilbert. He also took an interest in me and helped me grow in my ministry. Gilbert wore these crazy-loud sports jackets he got from his missionary father-in-law from Singapore. Didn’t care for the jackets, but I sure enjoyed his preaching. It was so full of passion, so straight-forward. I don’t remember hearing a sermon that left me bored or rendered me semi-conscious. He was able to engage me every time. His passion was magnetic. You knew he believed to the depths of his core what he was preaching. Gilbert also gave me opportunities to preach at Branson and at the next church he served in Nixa, Missouri. He was a blessing to me on many levels. He was the pastor who tied the knot for Dayna and me.

My college pastors were also an influence on me. My college church was the First Baptist Church of Fayetteville, Arkansas. My first pastor there was Paige Patterson. Paige took a real interest in college students who were going into ministry. He spent time with us. He gave us a list to build a good minister’s library. He gave us copies of a couple of commentaries he wrote. He was dynamic and very sure of himself. I don’t think he was as good a preacher as Gary or Gil, but he was dynamic and used a lot of big words. These days, he’s much too dogmatic for my taste, but for a college freshman, new to a serious faith and new to ministry and theology, I needed a person like him who spoke with such certainty on issues. God used him in my life.

And God used the pastor that followed him too: Nathan Larry Baker. Dr. Baker took me under his wing early on his ministry at Fayetteville. He gave me a little $50 a week job sorting out his files and visiting new residents in the community to invite them to church. When our Youth and University Pastor left to further his education, Dr. Baker gave me that job—my first regular staff position in a church. He was patient with me, coached me, helped me on many levels. I learned a lot from Dr. Baker. He left FBC, Fayetteville, to go teach at Midwestern Baptist Theological Seminary in Kansas City. I had planned to go to Fort Worth, Texas to seminary, but changed my mind and followed Dr. Baker to KC. Even there, he gave me opportunities. I was his grader. I got to spend some time with his family in their home. He helped me get my first ministry job as a seminary student too. I owe a lot to Dr. Baker. Dayna and I were so grateful for the way he helped me get started in ministry, that we named our son Nathan after him. We still stay in touch as well.

The last pastor I had was Bob Meade at First Baptist Church of Lee’s Summit, Missouri. In the summer of ’79 I was hired to be a summer youth minister there. That became a permanent Associate Pastor job when summer was over. Youth ministry was my primary focus but I got to do a lot of hospital work and preach for him occasionally too. He was not a very popular pastor in the church. Folks complained about him a good bit—some didn’t like his preaching, others didn’t like the way he ran things or the way he handled his schedule. Others complained that he played favorites with certain members of the congregation. And eventually, the church basically forced him to resign. That was a painful time for all of us—my first experience with how mean churches and Christians can be. Bob told the other staff member and me that we should resign along with him. We loved him, but we didn’t feel God leading us to do that. I think he understood. But he turned bitter over that whole episode. I learned a lot from that experience about church and about ministry. And I got the opportunity to preach every Sunday morning for almost a year during that interim period until I was called to my first pastorate. But here’s what I like to remember most about Bob. He knew I didn’t have much money. He knew I didn’t have a winter coat. He took me to the mall one day and bought me one. He did the same thing on another occasion to get me a sports coat. He was always kind and generous to me. He was always supportive of me. He believed in me. Bob died about five or six years later from a nasty stomach cancer—I think in part from the bitterness over the way things ended at Lee’s Summit. He deserved better.

So there you have it: my tribute to all the pastors I’ve loved before. I know this is long and probably not a very interesting read for most of you. But I guess I didn’t really write this for you; I wrote it for me—as a way to say thanks to God and to these faithful men who were my pastors along the way. I don’t have any gifts to give them. I won’t be sending any cards. But here’s my hope: that if by providence they know something of my ministry across the years, they can take great pleasure in knowing that any fruit I’ve born for the kingdom of God has been greatly influenced by the seeds of love, teaching, encouragement, and example they sowed into my life. Thank you, pastors. My life and ministry is better on earth because of your life and ministry. And if I gain any rewards on the other side, you share in those too. “Therefore, my dear brothers, stand firm. Let nothing move you. Always give yourselves fully to the work of the Lord, because you know that your labor in the Lord is not in vain” (1 Cor. 15:58).

Happy Anniversary, Baby, Got You on My Mind

Thirty-three years ago today, Dayna and I stood before God and a congregation of family and friends and said, "I do." I don't remember a whole lot about the ceremony. I was nervous and rather out of my element. But it was one of the best decisions I've made in my life.

It began one summer Sunday evening in 1972. I was working at Ken's Pizza in Branson, Missouri, when about three or four families came into Ken's around 8:30 or so. Dayna was the teenage daughter of one of those families. I learned it was their ritual: go to Sunday evening church; head to Ken's Pizza afterwards. Even though we lived in a small town, even though Dayna and my little brother were in the same grade, I had never seen her before (or at least I had never noticed her before). But when I saw her, she took my breath away: blonde flowing locks, cute face, pretty smile. Even though it's been 38 years, I can still see her walking outside of Ken's in front of the window after she had eaten and was killing time waiting for her parents to quit visiting and take her home. I think she was walking so I would see her. I felt something for this girl I didn't know. Though no words were exchanged, I think she felt something for me too.

In time, I found out all about her: she would be a freshman when school started, she was a good girl, a Baptist church-going girl from a Baptist church-going family. And I heard her parents were pretty strict: they wouldn't even let her go to a dance. I also heard she was pretty shy. No problem there: so was I—around girls anyway. I would be a junior in high school that September and had never been on an official date.

I finally got up the nerve to talk with her at Ken's. I called her a time or two. But there would be no dating, said her parents, until she was sixteen. Bummer. But we found some other ways to be together in groups. And then I stumbled upon a way to see her that her parents couldn't object to: I started visiting her church. I can honestly say that those visits were more about teenage hormones than Jesus, but I think Jesus was okay with that.

And what do you know? Her parents soon relented and let her date me before she turned 16. Those were good times. We went to movies. We went to the Dairy Queen, ate a little, and listened to music from the juke box. We eventually did a little parking out by the lake (but did nothing out of bounds in the process). I was taken with her—my first real girlfriend. I would sometimes drive by her house in hopes of catching a glimpse of her in the window. Later I gave her my class ring when we officially decided to "go steady." It was nice.

But it didn't last. For the next three years or so we were off again, on again. She knew how to break my heart. One of my friends even called her "ruthless." She wasn't really, but you know how teenagers have a penchant for making melodrama out of everything. To make matters more difficult, I had started attending her church faithfully, got serious about my relationship with God, and began to go there for Jesus instead of Dayna. But I saw her there every time, and that always hurt a little. I dated another girl for a while. Dayna had interest in another guy for awhile too. Teenage stuff, you know.

But after I headed to college and was gone for a year, I guess we realized that we really did love one another and wanted to have a future together. We wrote a lot of letters back and forth. I wrote her some poems and played my guitar and sang love songs for her. Before long, we started talking marriage. And that's where it all gets a little weird. I never officially proposed. I was too afraid to ask her dad for her hand, and I never did. For some reason he let me get away with that. As to the proposal, all I remember is that one night we were sitting on her couch (a couch that once gave way while we were making out after her parents went to bed—but that's a whole other story), and she pulled out a calendar, and the next thing I know we've got a date for a wedding: October 8, 1977. I did have enough wits about me to make sure we set the date on a Saturday the Razorbacks weren't playing. From there it was a whirlwind: get the rings, get the invitations, select the wedding party, make the plans, get some counseling, rent the tuxes, and "get me to the church on time."

I don't remember much about the ceremony. It seems like it was brief. I do remember she looked beautiful as we stood at the altar. We were married in First Baptist Church, Branson (when it was downtown). We had the reception there too. And then it was off to Tulsa for a big weekend honeymoon. Yeah, what can I say? I'm a big spender. Some grooms take their brides to Hawaii or Jamaica or New York City. I took mine to Tulsa. We only had Saturday night and Sunday. I did take Monday off from school but was back at it on Tuesday. We were poor. We did the best we could. I did spring for the Honeymoon Package at the Tulsa Hilton. It was a package deal. We got our choice of a bottle of champagne or a fruit basket. Since neither of us drink and since Dayna wasn't even legal drinking age yet, we opted for the fruit. What a disappointment. It was little more than a couple of overripe bananas and a bruised apple or two. And to make matters worse, our room was full of fleas. Having stayed in a hotel maybe twice when I was growing up, I didn't know to go demand another room, so we endured the fleas. We went to the zoo on Sunday. We ate at Casa Bonita. And before we went home, she left her purse at McDonald's and fifty of our few precious dollars were stolen from it. Good times!

And so began our 33 years together. They've been good years for the most part. Like any couple we've had our ups and downs, our seasons of passion and our wintry seasons too. We've even sought counseling a couple of times along the way. Coming from a broken home, I had nothing to go on as far as being a husband, no models to learn from, so I was kind of winging it. Sometimes I did pretty good, sometimes not so good. Dayna grew up in a hugging family; I didn't. Believe it or not, after 33 years of marriage, I'm still uncomfortable holding hands with my wife in public. Honestly, when the pastor said, "And you may kiss the bride," I'd have been a lot more comfortable if we could have just shaken hands on the deal. Dayna also grew up in a family that took care of one another; I didn't. That's why I have always had a hard time in any close relationship. It's hard for me to invest much beyond the surface. It was easier for me to just be married to my work—a work Dayna has always supported 100%. And like my two brothers, I have always been fiercely independent and therefore, even to this day, have a very hard time letting people in and letting people do for me. I don't like this about myself, and I try to work on it, but I'm still pretty much the same old me.

And yet Dayna has persevered with me through thick and thin. I've wondered over the years if I had made the right choice to marry Dayna. I've wondered if I made the right choice to get married at all. But I can't imagine my life without her. She has loved me unconditionally and with much patience. She could have done a lot better than getting stuck with me, but she would never say it. I guess as much as anything, she has taught me grace. Though I don't talk much, she listens when I need to talk. She gives me good counsel. And she keeps our scattered family connected. She has always been a good mother to our kids, and there is no better grandmother on the face of the earth.

And that's why we're not together on our anniversary. That's why I'm writing this blog instead of celebrating with her in a night on the town. Our daughter just had a baby a few days ago and Dayna is staying with her a little longer. I was down for a couple of days, but had to come back what with Sunday and all. The picture at the top is from our time together yesterday. We've talked a couple of times today, but there will be no celebration for a few more days. Thus the title of this blog. It comes from the opening line of Little River Band's 1970s hit, Happy Anniversary, Baby. I've got you on my mind today, Dayna.

And I want to say thank you for sticking with the one you're stuck with for these 33 years. How you've done it, and how you've done it with such grace is beyond me. When I think of all the marriage sermons you've heard me preach, there were any number of times you could have shouted "Ha!" in the middle of them. And you would have been right too. But you refrained. Thank you for that. And thank you for your faithfulness and support for all these years. You deserve a medal or something. I wish we had the money to buy you a new diamond or a precious stone that you would love and that you deserve. But unfortunately, all you get is more years of me. Some reward, huh? And yet I know what you would say about it. You'd say, "That's enough for me."

The wisdom writer in Proverbs said it well: "Many women do well, but you surpass them all. Charm is deceiving and beauty is fleeting, but a woman who fears the Lord is to be praised." Happy anniversary, baby. I've loved you for more than 33 years, and I will love you till I die.

When I'm 54

You remember this Beatles song off the Sgt. Pepper album? Will you still need me / will you still feed me / when I’m 64? The dude was a little worried about getting old. Well, I’m not 64, but yesterday I turned 54. I have no memories as a kid of ever thinking about getting this old. I do remember once, in fifth-grade, the teacher asked us to do the math to figure out how old we would be in the year 2000. My calculations told me I would turn 44 that year. That was ten years ago, and I don’t think I ever thought about being a day older than 44. And even then, I didn’t think about 44 for long; I was more interested in recess and lunch and the blond girl named Ann a couple of desks over.

Yet here I am at 54: that’s half-a-century plus 4; that’s 11 years short of the standard retirement age of 65; that’s an age where you are sometimes the oldest guy in the room; that’s an age where you find yourself married to a grandma; that’s an age where the wild eye brows and ear-hair that start sneaking up on you in your 40s mount an all out attack; that’s an age where you talk more with your spouse—not because you have more to say but because you have to say everything twice because of gradual hearing loss for the both of you; that’s an age where the annual visit to a doctor means he does something with a glove and his finger that’s not going to make the day of either one of you; that’s an age where you grew up in a very different world than the one you live in now; that’s an age where you’re beginning to have almost as many friends in heaven as you do on earth; that’s an age where you see more of your life in the rearview mirror than you do in the windshield.

Some of you reading this are chuckling right now, thinking to yourself, “Fifty-four? Why I can’t even remember 54. The boy’s still a pup.” (Thank you for that, by the way.) Still, while I may be a pup to some, I’m Papa to my grandkids, and I’m my kids’ old man.

Someone once described the four ages of a man: he believes in Santa Claus; he doesn’t believe in Santa Claus; he is Santa Claus; he looks like Santa Claus. Thankfully, I’m just a stage three Santa. But, if I live long enough, stage four is on the way. I’ve been blessed with good genes, I guess, because most people tell me that I don’t look my age—which is either a compliment on my looks or a disparagement of my age. I still have plenty of the red hair I was born with (a little less on the crown but pretty thick everywhere else). My hair is turning a bit in its color however. My wife tells me it’s turning gray. The lady who cuts my hair says it’s turning blond. I told my wife that I hate to disagree with her but that I was compelled to believe the view of my haircutter because she’s a professional. So my hair’s turning color a bit and I’ve got a few more wrinkles around the eyes. But stuff like that happens when you’re 54.

All in all, however, I’m in pretty good shape for the old man I’m becoming. I eat smarter than I have in my whole life. I work and play at keeping fit too. Fact is: thanks to FBC Fitness, P90X, and Insanity, I’m in the best shape of my life. Just to prove it to myself, last night before I went to bed, I dropped to the floor (on purpose—you have to clarify that statement at my age) and knocked out my age in pushups. That’s right—54 pushups on my toes, without a break, the last six harder than heck but I touched my chest to the floor on all six! Booyah!! I went to tell my wife, and she said, “Oh yeah, let’s see you do 54 pull ups.” (Did I mention that she's becoming more of a smart-aleck in her old age?) So I told her that I could easily do 54 pull ups, that I’ve done well more than 54 pull ups many times, but that it would take me 5 sets to get them done. Shoot—I may just do that today to spite her. And I plan on doing something else too: I’m going to run (jog, that is) 5.4 miles as another little fitness test at 54—not 54 miles now, but 5.4 (never has a decimal point been more important). I guess I'm in agreement with the guy who said, "I’d rather wear out than rust out." I guess I’m trying to stay young.

But it’s not because I fear aging. I fear weakness. I fear dependence on others. But I don’t fear the aging process itself. So far, I find mostly humor in it. Danny Gokey sings in a popular song: “Age ain’t nothin’ but a number.” (Have you ever noticed how young people find that very easy to say?) But he's right: age is really nothing but a number, and whether that number for me is one year or thirty years more, I’m not going to fret it or sweat it. I’ve had plenty of good years, more than a lot of folks, and for all I know, as Gokey also sings, maybe “my best days ahead are ahead of me.” But whether my days and years ahead on this earth are good or hard or whatever they may be, I’m going to deal with them just fine because my very best days await me yet when my body gives out and I wing my way to heaven. I owe that to Jesus (who only had 33 years on the earth) and what He did for me in His cross and resurrection. And knowing that helps me live whatever years, and whatever kind of years, I have left with confidence. It's very comforting to know I’ve got a safe place to fall when I drop to the floor for the last time in this world.

So here I am at 54. And here's my prayer: "Thank you, God, for 54 years. If you take me today I have not been cheated; I have only been blessed. So thanks for 54." Sure, I’ve got some regrets, and I’ve also got some plans. I want whatever years I have left to count for something larger than myself. I want to have a lot of fun in the process. And when I stand before God, I pray I’ll hear Him say something like this: “Welcome home, old man. You lived a faithful life. You did pretty well. And you left it all on the field.”

What Is This Guy Thinking?

His name is Terry Jones. He is a pastor. Last July he announced that his church would hold an "International Burn a Koran Day" at his church on September 11, 2010, the ninth anniversary of 9/ll. In spite of opposition from President Obama, General Petraeus, and too many rank and file Christians to count, as of now Pastor Jones is still planning on burning Islam's holy book.

He is pastor of a tiny church in Florida called the Dove World Outreach Center. Dove? More like "Hawk." And here's my simple question: what is this guy thinking? Our military leaders believe this will spur the recruitment of more radical Islamic terrorists. Our missionaries fear this will make their work in Muslim countries harder and more dangerous than it already is. Other leaders with political savvy see this action as something will only reinforce the idea that many Muslims have that America is not just engaged in a war on terror; it's engaged in a war on Islam.

This Qu'ran burning will not sit well in the Muslim world. To Jones' credit, he did meet with Imam Muhammad Musri, president of the Islamic Society of Central Florida. The imam, in my view, looks more Christian than Jones because he told the press after the meeting that he held no grudge against Jones. He may not hold a grudge, but many, many Muslims will—especially Muslims in other countries. Having worked a few years with West African Muslims in France and Senegal, I've learned that most Muslims will be more upset about the burning of the Qu'ran than most Christians would be about the burning of the Bible. They revere the Qu'ran. In bookstores it must always be kept on the highest shelf. It must never be treated casually, like throwing it in a backpack or leaving it in a stack of other books. It must not be marked in or defaced in any way. They revere, Revere, REVERE that book.

And don't think Muslims in other countries won't hear about this either. They are more connected than you think—cell phones and computers even in remote places. What possible good could come of this action? Would Jesus give His approval to this Qu'ran burning? Don't misunderstand me: I'm not defending the Qu'ran. I do not believe the Qu'ran is God's word; I believe the Bible is God's word. But I can't imagine why anyone would want to burn a book so many people find holy, a book so many revere. Discuss it? Yes. Debate it? Of course. But burn it? Thus my question again: what is this guy thinking?

I can't answer that question. But I can answer this one: what is this guy not thinking?

• He's not thinking about the well-being of soldiers who serve in Muslim countries.


• He's not thinking of missionaries who are trying to lead Muslims to Jesus and who, if he follows through with this plan, will have to try to explain his actions and overcome a whole new set of obstacles between Muslims and the living Christ.


• He's not thinking about those words of Jesus that call us to love our neighbor as ourselves and to love our enemies and pray for those who persecute us.


• He's not thinking of Jesus' words that we should do to others as we would have them do to us.


• He's not thinking of Peter's encouragement for Christians to "always be prepared to give an answer to everyone who asks you to give a reason for the hope that y9ou have. But do this with gentleness and respect . . ." (1 Peter 3:15).


• He's not thinking, it seems to me, of anyone but himself and his face-time in the media.

Would you join me in praying that God would somehow intervene in such a way as to change Jones' mind and get him to back the heck off of his burning party? There are already enough walls between Muslims and Christians (they build some and we build some). We don't need more walls; we need some bridges. Some are being built in various places around the world through Christian witness and missionary work. But if Jones decides to stick with his plan to burn the Qu'ran, he'll be burning some of those bridges too.

UPDATE HOT OFF THE PRESS

Not two hours after I posted this blog I read an Associated Press story announcing that Jones has decided to cancel the Qu'ran burning. He says he is doing this because he's been promised that in exchange, the proposed mosque won't be built near Ground Zero in New York City. Imam Musri from Florida doesn't think it a good idea to build the mosque there anyway. However, Musri doesn't have the power to make that decision, and the New York Imam who wants to build the mosque may not change his plans. Stay tuned. Anyway, it appears for now that God has answered the prayers of so many who asked Him to intervene and change Jones' mind. Praise the Lord!

A View From the Wall

During my Sabbatical, Dayna and I visited Washington, DC. I’d visited the capitals of six other nations; it was time to visit my own. Being a history buff, I was very much looking forward to it. Soon as word got out that we were going, a lot of people who have been there had a story of “you’ve just got to see this.” We didn’t get to see everything during our day in DC, but we got to see a lot. All of it was impressive: Kennedy’s grave, the Lincoln Memorial, the Capitol, seeing Honest Abe’s top hat in the history museum, and seeing moon rocks in Air and Space. All very, very cool.

But I suppose the site that touched me most was the Vietnam Memorial—the black marble V inscribed with the names of every one of our soldiers who either died there or who are still missing in action. I was touched on several levels. Maybe part of it was because this was the war of my childhood and youth. I saw it played out on television news every night. I saw the helicopters whipping the tall jungle grass as body bags and wounded soldiers were loaded on them for evacuation. I heard it debated and discussed in school and on TV. I read about the protests in the newspaper and saw images of them on the news. Ours was a patriotic family. We supported our soldiers. For a time I planned on enlisting in the Marines so I could go do my part. My older brother did enlist in the Marines in 1971, but thankfully, by that time we were bringing troops home instead of sending more in. He never had to go. And I abandoned my interest in a military life. Maybe these memories are why the wall touched me so.

Or maybe it was because I have known a number of men who fought that war. I have listened to their stories, seen glimpses of their scars, and watched some of them fall apart in a variety of ways some years after the war—post-traumatic stress disorder, they call it. While many died in the war, others died because of the war some years later. I still remember one Wednesday night in the late 1980s as I was leading a Bible study, a ragged-looking man none of us knew came into the sanctuary and interrupted our study by asking a question about how a person like him could go to heaven after all the things he did in Vietnam, all the blood he said was on his hands. He had been drinking and the liquor perhaps had loosened both his tongue and his inhibitions. He broke down in tears, sobs (as I’m almost doing as I remember that man and write this story). I feebly tried to assure him that God loves and God forgives and that the grace of Christ is high enough and wide enough and deep enough to include him too. He wasn’t hearing it. A couple of our men took the initiative to go to him and help him from the sanctuary so they cold talk with him and pray for him. They didn’t get a name, and we never saw or heard from him again. I hope somewhere along the way he found the grace and the peace he was so desperately searching for.

But back to the wall. We walked the length of the wall that day in DC. We saw flowers at the base of some of the panels. We saw and read a couple of the notes and pictures left there too. And we saw two men working feverishly, pressing paper to a particular name on the wall, running the edge of a pencil across that name, hoping to capture its image on their page. I wanted to ask them who this person was to them: a brother, a dad, a classmate, a brother in their platoon? But I didn’t ask. Didn’t want to interrupt the moment. Didn’t want to intrude. I did take a picture as you can see. I felt a little guilty about doing even that, but they were so involved in their mission that they didn’t even notice.

In watching these men painstakingly work with that name, it struck me that the more than 58,000 names on that hallowed wall are more than names. They are somebody’s son, brother, father, husband, sister, friend. It reminded me of the day the twice-a-week newspaper in our small town reported that Branson, Missouri, had lost her first son (I think her only son) in the Vietnam War. For some reason, I desperately wanted to remember his name. I wanted to remember his name and find his name on that wall and trace my fingers across his name and connect my life to his even if the connection was no more than having gone to the same school, having fished in the same creek, and having ridden bikes on the same streets. But his name never came to me. I hadn’t thought about that young man in decades, but I thought about him at the wall. For the life of me, I couldn’t recall his name, but I knew his name was there.

It’s all those names that make this memorial so different from the statue of the seven flag-raisers at Iwo Jima and from most of the other war memorials scattered around our country. It’s the names. Some communities have etched the names of their fallen in their local war memorials, but the Vietnam Wall is a national memorial. It bears the name of every soldier who paid the highest price he could pay: young men (some of them boys really) from Kansas and Maine, New York and Tennessee, New Mexico and Montana, men from my state and from yours. By inscribing all the names, this memorial allows us to grieve not just as communities but as a nation, and to graphically remember the cost of war—a war that destroyed a lot of people in our country and in Vietnam, a war in which it wasn’t just the raw number of 58,195 American servicemen and women who were killed, it was Robert Dale Draper and Kelton Rena Turner and Sharon Ann Lane. It was the boy next door who used to mow your lawn, the young candy-striper at the local hospital, the young man who carried the groceries to your car. The wall reminds us that the cost of war is not just numbers; it’s names, it’s faces, it’s neighbors. The wall won’t let us forget that so many died, and it won’t let us forget just who they were. So many dead. And for what? You’d think we’d have learned from that experience, but subsequent history tells us we have not.

I will never forget the wall. Just as the names of the dead and missing are etched into the marble, that experience is etched into my heart. I knew none of those whose names are on the wall, but as we walked back to the tour bus I thought of their brothers-in-arms I do know—ones that made it out alive. I thought of the men I know—men now in their late 50s and 60s, men who still carry both the scars we can see and the scars we can’t. I thought of them. I thanked God for them, for their courage to do their duty, and for the fact that they lived to grow older and to live the life their brothers or sisters on the wall never got to live. I chose in those moments not to ponder the big questions about why some survived and others didn’t. I will leave that in the hands of God who makes all things right in the end. Instead, I will be content to give thanks for the ones that died and the ones that lived, and I will continue to live in the hope that we worship a God who in His good time will bring about that great day when nations will beat their spears into pruning hooks, their swords into plowshares, and will study war no more.