Light up the Dark

October 31, 2018

Things have changed over the years. When we lived in the middle of Sinclairville, and then on the Main Street of Cassadaga, it wasn’t unusual to have upwards of 250 Trick or Treaters on Halloween. From little kids to grown ups, they would come marching up our sidewalk, the little ones dressed as the latest children’s heroes, the older ones usually made up in ghoulish style. 

Back in the 80’s and early 90’s, the morning of November 1st would find toilet paper strewn over the telephone wires, pumpkins smashed in the street, and perhaps the remnants of a bonfire in the main intersection of town. The occasional car sported signs of the eggs that had been lobbed from behind bushes. Funny how when our boys graduated, all that seemed to stop. 

Nowadays it’s pretty sedate. We live on the very edge of the village, so the only kids that stop are our grandkids and a few of their friends. We have mulled cider and donuts, coffee and cookies, and great conversation around the table while the kids search for Halloween bags hidden throughout the house. It gets pretty raucous, but it’s over before we know it. This year, granddaughter Gemma even brought treat bags for Linda and me, while her older brother tried for a new record stuffing nine TimBits in his mouth at once, while Linda and Jen gagged.

There’s been a lot of debate in Christian circles about the appropriateness of observing Halloween. It certainly has taken on sinister and occult overtones through the years. The scary movies I grew up with have morphed into celebrations of the macabre and of gore for the sake of gore. The classic Frankenstein and Dracula tales are actually stories of redemption. There is no redemption in the modern tales; only survival.

Growing up as an independent Baptist, I was pretty illiterate about wider Church history, and it wasn’t until later in life that I learned of the significance of this date as the day 501 years ago when a young monk took hammer in hand and pounded his convictions onto the door of the Wittenburg church. Martin Luther had no intention of setting off the firestorm that ensued, but it was on October 31, 1517 that the Reformation was born.

I think it’s fitting. While we have been taught to eschew the occult, neither do we fear its dark powers that are celebrated tonight. We can face the darkness because a candle was lit that set Europe ablaze with the Gospel, and it continues to burn brightly. Protestants and Catholics alike have benefitted from Luther’s bold confession concerning faith and Scripture alone for salvation: “Here I stand; I can do no other!”

Tonight, I am thankful for the joyful light of salvation that we celebrated around our table, and for this historic day when the darkness must bow to Gospel light.

Respite

October 30, 2018

Sixty five degrees and sunny at the end of October in Western New York; it’s a gift! After finishing the grouting of the bathroom floor, I took the bike for a short spin to warm up the oil before changing all the fluids for winter. One more decent day, and I’ll change the front tire and take it in for inspection in case we have a thaw in January. Gotta be ready for any eventuality! 

Tonight the fire is toasting my toes as the cat rests at my elbow obstructing my typing, while the dog is stretched out before the stove. Sometimes my life is like a Hallmark movie, but without all the drama. This morning I read the following Scripture, “Let us not grow weary of doing good, for in due season we will reap, if we do not give up.” (Galatians 6:9). Days like today are a welcome respite from the work I thought I had put behind me. Tomorrow I’ll be back at it, trying to not grow weary, for I do want to see the harvest for which I have been sowing seeds. When it comes, I will give thanks. In the meantime, I am grateful for the strength and ability to keep sowing.

Enjoying Myself

October 29, 2018

“I had a delightful evening.” 

“That’s good.”

“No; that’s bad.”

“You’re rethinking your decision, aren’t you?”

“Yep.”

I had just returned home from an evening visiting a woman in the hospital and a gentleman scheduled for tests Wednesday. My goal was to minister to them, but in fact, they were the ones ministering to me. Between the both of them, we talked for a couple hours, and when I finally turned the key in the ignition to go home, it was with a full heart. I’m pretty much an introvert, but as Inigo Montoya said in the Princess Bride, “You keep using that word. I do not think it means what you think it means." I’m an introvert; It isn’t that I don’t like people. It’s that I don’t like crowds. One on one, I am fascinated by people, and tonight’s ministry was definitely a two-way street for me.

I’ve often wondered why God called this introvert into this business. I watch pastors who are at home in the crowd, working it like a master politician. I stumble and stammer before retreating to the sidelines where I can fade into the wallpaper. With only one or two, it’s an entirely different game, especially if that one or two loves to talk.

There are times when I long for retirement. Going back to work has put a crimp in my plans; the bathroom remodeling project in which I’m immersed should be done by now. Instead, it’s going to be another couple weeks at least before it’s done. My mind was made up; it’s time to pull the plug. In one of this evening’s conversations, I was asked what I did for those three years I was retired. “I enjoyed myself.” 

“You didn’t even have to think about that,” my friend responded, laughing. Truth is, I’m enjoying myself now, too. I love preaching; spending time with my people gives me a sense of fulfillment. 

“Have you prayed about this, or did you just make the decision on your own?” Linda has the biggest stake in all this. My continuing to work impacts her more than anyone else. The responsibilities of the job place constraints on her as much as on me. She asked the question, and my answer was that I haven’t really prayed about it. I just know that sometimes I get tired of the responsibility and work. Then there are those other times like tonight, when the work is sheer joy. So, I’m back in the land of indecision. I guess it’s time to start praying about it. In the meantime, I’m grateful for the opportunity I had tonight to spend time with some wonderful people, talking and praying together. They thanked me for coming. I thank them for sharing their lives with me. They aren’t just church members; they are friends, and I am blessed by them. 

Camoflauge Men

October 28, 2018

Today was “Camo Sunday” at Park church, where everyone was invited/encouraged to wear camouflage to church. I don’t recall the reason, other than Pastor Joe is an avid hunter, as are many of our members. It was quite an experience walking into church this morning! Jerry greeted us dressed from head to toe in camo, and even had his face painted. Husband and wife team of Fred and Linda were wearing their winter camo, complete with head gear. All you could see of them were their eyes. And our son wore his ghillie suit. For the uninitiated, a ghillie suit completely covers the wearer in what looks like weeds, grass, and twigs. It’s what snipers wear to keep from being seen.

I don’t own any camo, but I had the perfect solution. I have to leave Park church’s worship halfway through the service in order to get to Dunkirk in time to lead worship there, so I texted my son Matt the following message with instructions to pass it along as Joe would be commenting on all the camo at church: “Joe, I slipped out during Nate’s prayer to put on my camo. You can’t see me. Pretty good, I’d say!”

It was all harmless fun, and I can say this: Park church has a greater percentage of men worshipping and working together than any church I’ve ever seen. It’s not about camo; it is about making church accessible to men, a place where they feel they fit.

It’s all gotten me to thinking. Why are so many men wearing spiritual camo these days? They just can’t be seen. Church programs are invariably geared towards women. Bible studies, often the music, even the decor shouts “This place is for women only!” Churches have men’s programs, but they are usually pretty poorly attended compared to the women’s offerings. 

It wasn’t always this way. Church history is filled with stories of courageous men who “through faith subdued kingdoms, wrought righteousness, obtained promises, stopped the mouths of lions, quenched the violence of fire, escaped the edge of the sword, out of weakness were made strong, waxed valiant in fight, turned to flight the armies of the aliens...others were tortured, not accepting deliverance; that they might obtain a better resurrection; Others had trial of cruel mocking and beatings, of bonds and imprisonment: they were stoned, they were sawn asunder, were tempted, were slain the the sword; they wandered about in sheepskins and goatskins, being destitute, afflicted, tormented...(Hebrews 11:33-37)

The Church has no shortage of heroes, but if you look at most American churches today, you wouldn’t know it. David Murrow even wrote a book about it entitled, “Why Men Hate Going to Church.” A few years ago, I attended a Promise Keepers event in Cleveland. Various Christian publishers were there promoting their products. I approached one of them with a question.

“Most of the men’s programming I’ve seen is produced by large churches or organizations that are primarily upper Middle Class. It’s academic in nature. My men are blue collar. They read, but usually only the newspaper and technical manuals for their work. I need men’s resources that are apprenticeship based instead of academic based.”

The vendor looked at me like I had two heads. “Nobody’s ever asked me that before.”

“Well, I’m asking,” I replied. Predictably, he had nothing to offer. And just like me this morning, in most churches, the men are wearing camo. I don’t know the answer, other than it’s not going to be found in a packaged program where men sit around tables discussing the Bible in an academic setting. Men’s discipleship happens when men get together around a project or mission to which they can give themselves even if they aren’t good readers. Years ago, I had decided that when I retired, I would work on putting together a viable approach to men’s ministry that leaned more on apprenticeship models than academic ones. I tried retiring, but it didn’t last long. Next time I retire, I’m going to dig into this. Until then, I’m praying into it, thankful for what little insight I’ve been given into all this, and looking forward to the opportunity to actually try to do it.

Same Old

October 27, 2018

Like most people, my life is pretty ordinary. I’ve never done anything heroic, don’t live dangerously, and haven’t done anything particularly stupid today. Sometimes that makes it difficult to write. Friends at our local writer’s group tell me they read my blogs every night as somewhat of a devotional. I’m humbled by this and encouraged to keep writing even when I don’t think I have much to say.

Our writer’s group consists of other ordinary people like me, except many of them have done some pretty extraordinary things. Retired college professors, published authors, a retired pilot...and me. When we go around the table with our accountability report, some will talk about where they are in editing of their manuscripts, or how the publishing business is going. Me? I simply say, “Same old, same old.” They tell me it’s extraordinary to write every day. I just see it as how I self-discipline. I don’t always feel like writing, but if I depended on my feelings, I’d never do anything in life. 

Maybe that’s tonight’s devotional. Just do it. Years ago, a college professor occasionally laid little platitudes on us. Dr. Floyd McCallum gave us his “McCallumisms.” His most memorable: “Emotion follows Motion.” People often tend to believe that they can only do what they feel like doing. Dr. McCallum told us the truth: If you do good even when you don’t feel like it, you’ll start feeling good. 

I don’t always feel like writing. Sometimes I ask myself why I started putting my thoughts out for the world to see. Sometimes I feel like saying, “It’s been fun, but now’s the time to draw it to a close.” The truth is, I write for me. Writing keeps me looking for grace in ordinary circumstances. It forces me to think, which often is the source of thanks. So tonight I write. I am grateful to be able to do so, and even more that once in awhile it seems to be helpful to others`

An Ordinary Day

October 26, 2018

In the news today: A male stripper is arrested for sending bombs through the mail to leading Democratic political persons, and the media’s response is predictably blaming the president. The caravan of Guatemalans and Hondurans seeking asylum here in the states is growing in numbers as it crawls along through Mexico. Honduran authorities meanwhile have arrested some of the wannabe illegals for human trafficking. More young black men are murdered in Chicago with no one even noticing, and the Russians are still trying to influence American elections. The stock market is still strong and unemployment is still down. Liberals are rabidly furious at Trump, while Conservatives praise his accomplishments. Los Angeles is actually ahead in the third game of the World Series.

Reading most of the newspapers, we would have no idea what’s happening in Great Britain, Germany, or China. Momentous events often have innocuous beginnings. Who knows what might trigger a major war, stock market crash, or revival? 

Meanwhile here in Sinclairville, the sun rose and set, Linda and I had a leisurely breakfast with good coffee and conversation, I fixed the wobbly supports of our bedframe, our granddaughter had a good swim meet, and our dog Emma was glad to see us when we got home. The remodeling project is going well, jazz band rehearsal was fun. Our home is warm and dry, we are in good health, Jesus Christ is the heart of our home. The little ghosts made from cloth-covered lollipops sitting on our kitchen table were gifts from six year old Gemma. 

Nothing of seeming importance happened today, but who knows? The movers and shakers in Albany and Washington woke to the same sun, but not necessarily to the same peace and joy that is mine every day. An exaggerated sense of self-importance afflicts many of them, and lately I haven’t seen an angrier bunch as they trade verbal blows while they vie for supremacy. I am thankful tonight to be living on the outskirts of a backwater town with people whose names those movers and shakers will never know, much to their own impoverishment. St. Paul told us to set our affection on things above where Christ sits at the right hand of God. Isaiah said, “Thou will keep him in perfect peace, whose mind is stayed on Thee, because he trusteth in Thee.” (26:3) Wealth, fame, and power don’t hold a candle to peace. The movers and shakers will soon enough sleep the sleep from which they will not awake, while God lives forever. It is the perspective that gives me reason to be thankful tonight.

The Fish Store

October 25, 2018

“This is the fish store without any fish.” Dione was escorting us through town, pointing out the different stores and businesses. He was smiling at the irony of the situation. We were looking for vegetable oil so his wife could make supper for the evening. He had been out earlier checking all the groceries to no avail. On this second excursion, our luck held—still no oil. We waited in line to get into a small bodega. Every so often the doors would open, letting half a dozen people inside. When they were done, the doors would be unlocked again to let them out and the new customers in. I wondered what Dione would think if he could walk through a Walmart or Wegmans. We lived in two very different worlds.

We walked through a crowded farmer’s market overflowing with potatoes, beans, bananas, mangoes, peanuts, and much more. Being the capital city, the market rarely lacked for produce. Other towns were not so lucky. The government made the decisions about where the produce went. This was not a free market economy.

“This is the way things are here. We don’t complain; we’re a pretty happy people,” Dione explained. It was true. The people we met were generally happy and uncomplaining, unlike so many Americans who have so much more, but are never satisfied. Perhaps it’s our belief that things can be better. Where Dione lives, it doesn’t make much difference whether or not you work hard. They have a saying, “We pretend to work, and they pretend to pay us.” There, we’ve looked through a dozen stores for small items that can be had by the bucketful here.

The fish store without any fish is today’s reminder to be thankful for the abundance of all we have, and for the opportunities I’ve been given to experience other countries and cultures for comparison. A lot of politicians and their followers seem intent on remaking our country in the image of other places. “Their way is better,” they tell us. I’ve seen it, and I don’t believe it. We have plenty of problems, but we are also blessed beyond belief. If you don’t believe it, just ask Dione. On the other hand, as he said, “We’re a pretty happy people,” proof that stuff doesn’t make you any happier. 

Dry Wells

October 24, 2018

Every preacher with more than a few sermons under his (or her) belt knows the feeling of trying to draw water from a dry well. Sunday after Sunday, we are called upon to slake the spiritual thirst of our congregations by pouring out what we’ve drawn from the well of God’s Word. Sometimes, no matter how vigorously we ply the handle, nothing happens. The well is dry. Or perhaps more accurately, the pump needs priming. Anyone who has tried to get water from a hand pump knows that water has to be poured down the well to soak the leathers till they swell and seal the casing. Without the prime, even a high capacity well will not give up its treasure. 

The Word of God is high capacity, but too often we get so busy that we forget to prime the pump with prayer and study. Sometimes even though we’ve studied hard and prayed long, we still come up dry. There are lots of reasons, but the result is the same: a weak, anemic sermon. 

Over the years, I’ve learned that a decent sermon takes a week or more to produce. Sermons are not meant to be fast food; they have to simmer, often for days at a time. My first approach to the week’s text usually doesn’t produce much. By midweek, I’m beginning to wonder and worry if I will have anything worthwhile to say. Prayer intensifies. But when I persist, sooner or later there is a breakthrough, and the pieces start falling into place. 

I suspect the same happens in most worthwhile endeavors. There are few overnight successes. “Good luck” is usually found at the end of years of long days and sleepless nights, blood, sweat, and tears. I am grateful to have lived long enough to learn this lesson, and for the countless times God has proven faithful when I have done the same. And when I haven’t.

Beginning

October 23, 2018

It was December 28, 2012 when God convicted me of a sin that had been a part of my life ever since I can remember. 1 Thessalonians 5:18 says, “In everything give thanks, for this is God’s will for you in Christ Jesus.” I had read that verse countless times, it never dawning on me that this was as clear a command as “Do not commit adultery,” or “Do not murder.” I had been spending a great deal of time on complaining and criticizing, and very little on praise and thanksgiving. It was no wonder I lived under a continual cloud of mild depression and discouragement. God cannot bless us when we are disobedient to his Word. I decided then and there that I would change, and one of the tools at my disposal was a calendar that gave me three gratitude prompts each day. This was the beginning of my nightly gratitude posts.

Within a year, that cloud that for years had hung over my head had dissipated. During that year God patiently and persistently cleaned out all the ingratitude detritus that clung to my soul. It amazed me how difficult it was to let go of the criticism and negativity. I was continually tempted to respond with “correction” to people whose perspective was different than mine. I had to learn the discipline of ignoring angry and ignorant comments. In the years since, the struggle for positivity has continued. Paul says in Ephesians 4 to “let no corrupt communication proceed out of your mouth, but only what is good for building people up.” 

It amazes me how easy it is to fall back into bad habits, and how often I still need gratitude prompts. Today’s is “three things begun.”

God’s work in me is begun. It is far from finished, but he promises to keep at it till I am completely whole (Philippians 1:6).

My bathroom remodel is begun and coming along well. Hopefully, I’ll be done in a couple weeks.

I’ve begun Linda’s Advent story. Not very far along, but it’s early, and once the bathroom remodel is done, I’ll have more time to write.

Beginning is half the battle. The other half is finishing. I am thankful for the beginnings, and even more thankful for God’s promise of finishing what he started. Knowing that he doesn’t quit or give up is a great reassurance when it feels like I’m so far from the goal.

Soul Gazing

October 22, 2018

What would people who know me only casually say at my funeral? That was the question posed early on at our men’s Bible study this evening. The guys probably thought I was being moody, but I couldn’t get that question out of my mind. To be honest, I don’t know. Unlike some pastors I know, I don’t make friends easily, and don’t wade into crowds of people with a smile and a story. Casual acquaintances would probably think I’m stand-offish or snooty. Those who have taken issue with me over ministry matters might have some harsh things to say. Hopefully, those who know me well would speak kindly of me.

The second question was a similar thought-provoker: “What would I want people to say about me?” As I’ve pondered these questions, the answer to this second is, “It doesn’t matter.” What matters is what Christ will say. He’s the one who sees into my heart and knows me better than I know myself. The real question is, “Am I allowing the One who knows me best question and challenge me to be better than I am?” 

He challenged me tonight. I can have at times a pretty critical spirit. I may not always say what I’m thinking, but it can be there. Talking with my friend Harry tonight, I told him of a situation where that critical spirit reared its ugly head, and I asked him to pray for me. He did, and he will. That’s the kind of friend he is; the kind of friend I need. He is a reflection of Jesus Christ in his generous and compassionate heart. He didn’t criticize, chastise, or condemn. He simply offered to pray. Luke tells us that when Peter denied our Lord, Jesus looked at him, causing him to break down in tears. I don’t think it was a look of condemnation, but rather of compassion that cut Peter to the core. I am thankful tonight for that all-seeing gaze of Christ in Scripture that burns like fire in my soul, and for those who minister his grace in prayer. I needed it tonight, and was not disappointed.

The Baton

October 21, 2018

Time was, when I’d have been out there by the woodpile, cutting, splitting, and stacking; but not today. Today was our grandson’s 11th birthday, so I stayed home to celebrate with the family. Our church buys a load of logs each year, and the men tackle the pile which we give away cord by cord to needy families. It is good fellowship, guys bonding over hard work. The schedule conflict allowed me to witness first hand God’s work as a new generation of men came together and got the job done. 

The Gospel is always only one generation away from extinction. Congregations where the only heads seen are gray are usually not long for this world. My United Methodist denomination has been closing more churches than it starts for an entire generation, which doesn’t bode well for the institution.

So when I see young men worshipping and working side by side and little kids running through the foyer, this old balding grayhead is grateful to be part of a congregation that is willing to do what it takes to reach the next generation. Maybe next year I won’t have a schedule conflict, so I can get out there and do my part. Until then, I’ll thank God for these guys who are picking up the baton, and I’ll pray that God gives them grace and wisdom and strength to teach their children; those little kids who are running all over the place.

Tools

October 20, 2018

Tools. One of the benefits of living as long as I have is that I’ve collected some pretty useful tools over the years. That might not seem very important to some people, but I can say with absolute certainty that without the right tool, some jobs are much more difficult, and others are impossible. Turns out, I have quite an assortment. Thirty years ago, our next door neighbor died. Art had been the front end man at the Chevy garage in town, and left quite a collection of tools behind. In the summertime, he would sit on his front porch and wave at all the cars passing by. Our dog Fritz would keep him company. One day the dog catcher told Art he needed to get his dog’s license renewed. “That’s not my dog!” Art told him. Of course, for all intents and purposes he was. About the only thing Fritz didn’t do at Art’s was sleep. At night. He did a lot of sleeping there during the day. 

When Art took sick toward the end of his life, I visited him in the hospital and talked with him about the Lord. Linda and I often sat and talked with him on his front porch, and had witnessed often to him. But it was in those final days that Art came to know Christ as his Savior. His son is married to a second or third cousin of Linda’s so we’ve known them for years. I offered to organize Art’s tools for the yard sale his son planned. There were some that I wanted to buy, so I started setting them aside till I reached the dollar limit I had set for myself. His son was so thankful that his dad had come to Christ that he gave me the tools I had set aside. I still have them today, even though most everything is now metric, and cars are so complex about all I can do is change the oil and brakes. But when you need a wrench, a pair of pliers just doesn’t cut it.

I have garden tools and carpentry tools, and it’s the latter I’ve been using lately. The chop saw I bought from my sister, the table saw Linda bought me for Christmas a couple years ago, a sawzall for the hard-to-get places, hammers, drills and drivers, screws and nails. Today I put what I hope is the last coat of spackling on the walls of our son’s bathroom. I used a three inch blade to dig the compound out of the bucket, a slotted spreader as a hod, a six inch blade to spread the mud evenly on the wall, and a corner tool for...the corners, of course! 

Without the right tools, none of this would have been possible. I am thankful for inventors, manufacturers, and suppliers for all the tools and equipment that make it possible for me to remodel a bathroom. I pity those who live in apartments where someone is hired to do all the maintenance work. They are missing out on the satisfaction of DIY.

I am thankful also that not only do I have tools, but I can be a tool, a useful instrument in God’s hands. Ephesians 4 says that God gave gifts to the church; then Paul lists a few of them. They aren’t inanimate objects, but people, tools God uses to build people up in faith. 

When my boys were small, they once used a good wood chisel to open a can of paint. When I needed it, the edge looked like a saw with missing teeth. A tool needs to be used properly to avoid hurting the tool, the project, or the user. In the right hands and for the right purposes, the tool does the job for which it was designed. Misuse it, and trouble awaits. My prayer is to be the right tool for the job God has for me, so he can take as much pleasure in this tool as I do in mine.

Grumpy Angels

October 19, 2018

“Have you ever been a grumpy angel?” I didn’t know how to answer, but I needn’t have worried. My friend explained himself, telling how he had recently had a particularly busy day scheduled when he got a call from a veterinary friend needing some immediate help. She was supposed to drive her friend to the airport, but had an emergency call and needed someone to fill in for her. “She’s a friend; I said ‘yes,’ but wasn’t happy about it,” he explained. They arranged for him to meet at the church where he picked up his passenger and headed to Buffalo. Partway there, his passenger said he was an angel from God. “Right then, God turned things around for me, and I received a blessing,” he told me before repeating his question.

“Grumpy angel is my default,” I explained. We had been talking about how busy life has gotten, and I’ve found myself complaining quite a bit to no one in particular. Most of my busyness is the result of choices I’ve made, so it’s my own fault, but when those choices start chipping away at time for prayer and meditation, my inner self starts to get very disheveled and whatever good I may be doing comes from a grumpy heart.

I think that’s still better than acting out that inner grumpiness. Sometimes we have to act holy in order to be holy. People who only act according to their momentary feelings don’t know how to persevere or how to maintain healthy relationships. As my wife often says, “Sometimes you do it just because it’s the right thing to do.” Grumpy or not. The good news is, when we play the part of the grumpy angel, the angel part rubs off on us, often sending the grumpy part packing. 

I’m still busier than I really want to be, but this too, will pass. And when it does, I would rather hang out with the angel part of me than the grump. You would, too. And I’m also thankful for all the grumpy angels who have been a part of my life.

Gusher

October 18, 2018

How we invest is important. My father used to tell the story of a friend of his who invested in Haloid stock back in the forties. It wasn’t much money, but when Haloid became Xerox, dad’s friend made a LOT of money. Dad would say, “If only I knew...” Of course, his friend didn’t know, either, but he made the decision and took the risk. He could have been investing in a dry well, in which case things would have turned out much differently for him.

How we invest in life makes a difference. People throw everything they have into sports, making money, religion, drugs or alcohol, power and fame, all of which are like the proverbial dry well. We’ve all done it; invested in stuff that paid precious little in return. Today I made good investments. Early morning prayer with a group of men who have become like brothers to me, then time with my elderly mother before taking granddaughter Abi out to an early dinner. A two-hour mad dash for home so I could watch granddaughter Jo’s volleyball game was followed by a late dinner with her. Best of all was the time spent listening to their hearts. Linda is usually the girls’ sounding board, but today it was my turn. I can’t say how it was for them, but for me, today’s well was a gusher.

Who Needs Jesus?

October 17, 2018

Who needs Jesus the most? 

He was parking his bicycle as I opened the door. Somehow, he managed to get into line ahead of me, ordering a small coffee which he took to a table in the back where he sat staring out the window. I’ve seen him there before, long dreadlocks flowing from beneath his Jamaican style colorful woven hat over the collar of his tattered Buffalo Bills coat. A few pounds lighter, and I’d think he was Bob Marley resurrected. 

I paid for my breakfast—Tim’s “Two for Four”—bagel, egg, sausage, cheese, and a coffee before picking out a table where I could work as I ate. I couldn’t get him out of my mind any more than I could get him out of sight, so I picked up my Bible and breakfast and walked over to his table.

“Mind if I join you?” He didn’t say no, so I sat down and asked if he had had breakfast. He hadn’t, so I offered him the other bagel. He just sat there saying not a word. When I finished mine, I motioned to the other. “Save it for later,” I said. He thanked me as I left. He appeared to have some mental health issues.

She sat on the other side of the coffee shop working at her MacBook. She was young and pretty, an hourglass figure poured into a tight sweater and pale green tights that had they been tan, it would have been hard to tell if she were wearing any at all. She swayed her way over to pick up her order, and as she turned back toward her table, the young man waiting for his order looked my way with an expression that clearly indicated he’d like to see more of her.

So, who needs Jesus the most? It’s not a trick question, but it is easy to get it wrong. Shabby clothes and mental health issues catch one’s attention, but a lot of broken hearts hide behind good looks and clothes. And that young man’s eyes don’t appear to be leading his heart towards holiness.

There’s another person in the story: me. Each one of us needs Jesus just as much as the other, but in different ways. I doubt if I’ll see the young woman and man next time I stop in for breakfast. “Mr. Marley” is another story. I’ve seen him there before, and probably will again. If so, I’ll offer him another breakfast and try to get him to talk. He no doubt has an interesting story to tell, and I’d like to hear it and maybe have the opportunity to bring Jesus into that story for a better ending. If so, I’ll thank God for the blessing even as I thank him today for the privilege of sharing breakfast with him.

Leaves

October 16, 2018

Riding my bike slowly along the street, I inhaled deeply the pungent aroma of burning leaves. They lay in long rows on either side of the street, smoldering in the afternoon sun while my grandfather tended his side with rake in hand, ever-present fedora on his head, cigarette dangling from his lips. If you looked up and down the street, you would see half a dozen men standing at the curb, leaning on rakes while they watched the leaves burn. My grandfather was small in stature, but big of heart. Long before my time during the Great Depression, he took care of his neighbors who were out of work. As a Linotype operator for the Rochester Democrat and Chronicle, his job was steady and as secure as it could be in those days. 

I suppose it’s necessary that governments have banned the burning of the leaves in the fall. Air quality and all that. According to the ones who make such decisions, burning the leaves is bad for our health, but I wonder how much healthier of spirit we might be if we could once more breathe deeply that satisfying aroma. The pundits keep telling us our air quality is getting worse. If true, maybe we were better off before the bans went into effect. I know that every once in awhile, some renegade touches match to leaves. The breezes carry the telltale sign to my nose; I close my eyes, am carried back to an autumn day more than sixty years ago, and smile as I see my grandfather leaning on his rake, slowly turning the row as the smoke of the leaves mingles with that of his cigarette, and curls lazily around his head. I feel sorry for kids today who have never smelled that peculiar aroma, whose memories will be diminished without them even knowing it. Don’t tell anyone, but maybe tomorrow or the day after, I’ll rake a few leaves into a small pile in the back yard and light it just to inhale that delightful fragrance once more. And with a smile in my heart, I’ll think of my grandfather once more.

Short Notice

October 15, 2018

Short notice. Funerals don’t usually give pastors a great deal of lead time. No one likes to think of the demise of a loved one, so although it’s not uncommon for people to make funeral arrangements well in advance, preachers don’t often get more than a few days’ warning. Today, it was even less; I got the call this morning for a service tomorrow morning for someone I’ve never met. I don’t even know how the funeral home got my name. It’s not like everyone in Dunkirk knows me. Nonetheless, the call came in, and I got the phone number of one of the daughters and made the call.

About half an hour later, I was sitting in a small, smoky kitchen with three grown daughters and a grandson. I don’t like burying complete strangers, so I asked them to tell me about their mother. I won’t put in print the exact words they used to describe her and how she raised them, but suffice it to say she was a hard-ass whom they loved and respected. Through tears and laughter, they told the stories of their mother’s life with all it’s glorious warts. It’s going to be an interesting morning, and I’m looking forward to sharing the Gospel, offering the hope that comes from trusting in Christ. 

The Scripture tells us not to be weary in well-doing, but that is exactly what often happens. I’ve been preaching almost non-stop since February 1, 1970, and I have to admit at times, weariness is the best word to describe how I feel. I retired not because I felt it was time to quit, but because I believed the church would be better served by a younger man. I think I was right. But even though at times I wish I didn’t have to push quite so hard, I am energized when I have the opportunity to be with people whose understanding of Christian faith is at best rudimentary. Two things I already know are that they won’t put on any airs to impress me, and they are people loved by God. God has plopped them into my lap to love in his Name, and that is what I intend to do, thanking him all the way for such an unexpected opportunity to offer them Christ. On short notice.

Investing in Eternity

October 14, 2018

“It’s not ours.” Rick was telling his story in his usual quiet, confident manner. He spoke of the debt he had incurred for stuff he didn’t need, and of how God rescued him and brought him to the place where he could give generously for ministry greater than himself. Realizing that all he had really belonged to God and he was only returning to God what was already his own was the beginning of a transformation that has brought him greater joy than he could have imagined.

Others spoke of how God had met them through the ministry of Park church, with humble testimony of grace and kindness being shown to them through ordinary people who were merely trying to live out the love of Christ, of dreams unleashed because someone simply asked what dream God had given them. I looked around the high school gym where we were gathered to make our commitments to the future ministry of the church. Most of the people gathered weren’t a part of the congregation twenty years ago when we took that first step of faith and committed to fund the building we now occupy. We had said back then that we were giving for people we didn’t even know. Many of those unknown people were sitting and listening tonight. 

It is gratifying to look around and see the fruit of your labor in the people gathered in the Lord’s name. Even more is seeing those people taking up the reins of leadership and carrying the Message to a new generation. I’m no longer in the middle of all that’s happening at Park church; Joe is. It is strangely satisfying to be playing a supportive role. And to listen to testimonies of God’s faithfulness is priceless. 

When Rick reminded us that all we have really belongs to God, I thought of the little drawer on the top left of my dresser in our bedroom. It’s an old piece of furniture that once belonged to my great-grandmother. Underneath that drawer is an envelope containing a gift my mother gave me about a year ago. There were three of them; one for my brother, my sister, and myself. Those envelopes contained our inheritance, a tangible symbol of 95 years of life. Years before, dad had lamented that there wasn’t much to leave to us. I reminded him that we already had all the inheritance we could ever want—the example of faith and faithfulness that has been the foundation of our lives. 

I had put that envelope under that little drawer, unwilling to part with this expression of my mother’s love. Until tonight. Tonight it becomes part of a legacy to future generations, to people my mother will never meet, but into whose lives she invests as she continues to do in mine. So, thank you, Rick, for your testimony that reminded me again that it’s not mine. Thank you, mom, for investing in your kids as you did for so many years. And thank you, Jesus, for your gift of grace that is the foundation of all I hold dear.