Strange

April 30, 2019

He was a rather distinguished-looking gentleman, about my own age, judging from his grey hair and closely-clipped beard. When we struck up a conversation in the waiting room, the conversation quite naturally turned to work. “You must be retired,” he said, to which I responded that he was partly right. He asked, and I told him my profession, which caused a slightly lifted eyebrow. “Really? I was a pastor, too. Baptist. Where’d you go to seminary?” When I told him, he said, “I know it. I went to seminary not too far from there.” He gave me his name, which sounded strangely familiar, but when I told him mine, his eyes widened. “We attended the same church and you once had my wife and myself over for dinner.” 

When he moved back to the area to be near family, there weren’t any pastoral opportunities for him, so he did his ministry as a corrections officer in one of the area facilities. He knew of Park church and that I had been there for an unusual length of time for a Methodist pastor. It was soon time for my appointment, so we shook hands and parted company. 

Who’d have guessed? An ordinary day suddenly made extraordinary by a blast from the past and our common faith in Christ. It just goes to show; you never know who you’ll meet at the audiologist’s. 

St. Augustine

April 29, 2019

By almost any measure, I have it pretty easy. Neither I nor any of my immediate family are facing imminent trauma. We are healthy, reasonably functional, living in relative peace and prosperity when compared with most of humanity past and present. There are certainly momentous issues of our day that will likely affect my children and grandchildren more than myself, issues about which I pray, but also about which I can do little else. Our society is increasingly polarized, its institutions are collapsing, and I hear people pronouncing doom and gloom all the time.

Then I remember St. Augustine, bishop of Hippo (354-430 AD). He lived in North Africa during the time when the old Roman Empire was collapsing. People were afraid then, just as they are now. They could not imagine anything surviving the invasions of the pagan hoardes from the East; all that was familiar to them was being destroyed right before their eyes. As is usually the case, it wasn’t really the invasion from the outside that spelled the doom of Rome; it was the moral collapse from within. After generations of decadence, Rome was unwilling and unable to defend itself, hoping somehow that appeasement would save them. Sound familiar?

In response to all this, Augustine penned one of his most famous works in which he actually spoke of and compared two competing world views—that of his contemporary society, and the vision of a completely different order which he called the “City of God.” It is a lengthy tome, not light fare by any stretch of the imagination, but it framed the fear of his generation in an entirely different manner. The destruction of Rome, he argued, didn’t signal God’s abandonment of his people, but his establishment of an entirely new order of life based on the Gospel.

We are in desperate need of an Augustine today. It is all too easy to limit our vision to the things we see happening all around us; things over which we seem to have little control. The forces of evil are rampant, those of good seemingly powerless. But like St. John the Divine whose Apocalypse or Revelation was a banner of hope and a shout of triumph in the face of 1st Century withering persecution, Augustine has much to teach us. We would do well to drink deeply at the well of his wisdom and ponder the Revelation of John not as some science fiction escapism tale for a future generation, but as Almighty God’s pronouncement of judgment upon the powers of this world, and the victory of our Lord Jesus Christ over that which appears to be winning today. Jesus Christ is Victor, not just in some far off time and place, but right here and now. For that, we should all give thanks!

Easy blessings

Family blessings can come in unexpected ways. We are blessed to live within walking distance of all three of our children, and of all our grandchildren who are still living at home. Granted, that proximity can be challenging at times; as I’ve often said, in relationships, difference plus proximity equals heat. But it also has its advantages; we are able to be involved in our grandchildren’s lives in ways most grandparents never imagine. Today, a family emergency necessitated our having a couple of our grandchildren overnight. We are not only able to keep them, but to get them to school in the morning. Without even having to adjust our own schedules.

It’s truly a blessing when it’s easy to be a blessing.

My List

April 27, 2019

One of the problems I have with daily putting down in print the things for which I am thankful is the fact that most days are so filled with activity that it’s usually dark before I can even stop to reflect. This morning, Linda and I drove to Grove City College to hear our granddaughter speak to about a thousand prospective students and parents. She had been asked to be one of two student presenters, and did an outstanding job with both content and presentation. 

After the presentation, we drove home, had a quick lunch before I settled in to preparing lessons for when I next go to Cuba. It took me the rest of the afternoon up to suppertime, after which I worked some more on them. I’ve also been working to locate some previous lessons I had put together, but so far, to no avail. So here it is, nearly bedtime, and I’ve given precious little thought to gratitude. I’ve just been working. 

I suspect most of us live in a similar world. It’s not that we want to be ingrates; we just put our heads down and push our way through life. We aren’t necessarily dissatisfied or complaining; we’re just forgetfully busy. So tonight, I give thanks for that busyness, for stuff that is always on the list, needing to be done. When the last item on that list is checked off, it’s probably time to check out, and I’m not ready for that yet. My list keeps getting longer. I’d say it’s a sort of job security, only with life, but I know it doesn’t work that way. Someday I’ll hear God’s call; it may be soon, or it may be many years from now. I just hope when it comes, there are still things on my list. If there are, I just might leave that list in my will. 

Archie

April 26, 2019

You can see it in his eyes. 

Two photos of Archie Peck hang in the Sinclairville library. I see them every Friday when our writers’ group meets. Archie was a soldier in the United States Army who received the Medal of Honor for his actions during World War I. While serving as an infantryman in the U.S. 77th Division during the Meuse-Argonne Offensive, his unit found itself surrounded in the German lines. The unit would subsequently gain the moniker "The Lost Battalion" as a result of this incident. This was the bloodiest battle of the war involving U.S. troops. When two of his unit were wounded, private Peck recruited another soldier to help him retrieve them. The other soldier was killed, but Archie managed to bring the wounded men back to his own lines through withering machine gun fire. He later said that it was his small size that saved him; he wasn’t a big enough target to get hit. 

He later settled in Sinclairville, opening a grocery store that is the predecessor of the present day Superette. His son operated Peck’s Custom meats for years, providing part-time employment to many young men in the village, including my son. His grandson is a good friend and member of the church I pastored for many years. 

It’s the eyes though, that tell the story. In the first photo, young Archie is standing with other recruits, not yet tested in battle, not yet subjected to the horrors of trench warfare. The second photo is the one that captures my attention. He is wearing his Medal of Honor, but the smile is gone, and the eyes are no longer bright and merry. They have seen too much. 

Every time I enter the library, I see those photos and am reminded of the sacrifice of those who have gone to war on our behalf. If they make it home, they come home changed, scarred, branded in their souls. I once remarked to a friend who was in Vietnam that I at times felt guilty that I was never in the military, never did my part for my country. It was the lottery years, and my number never came up. My friend said to me, “Jim, don’t ever feel that way. Be thankful you didn’t have to go, that you didn’t have to see and do what some of us did.” I am thankful. Not only that I haven’t had to wrestle with the demons of war, but also that others did. For me. So Archie, and to all my friends who were placed in harm’s way, thank you. Your nightmares are the price you paid for our sweet dreams, and we owe you more than we can offer.

An Odd Mind

April 25, 2019

Sometimes I wonder what’s the matter with me. I’m in an online Bible reading plan shared by 70-90 others from Park church. The readings take us through the Bible, catching the highlights while skipping parts apparently deemed boring or not quite important enough. Part of the plan includes the opportunity for people to comment on what the text is saying to them. I’ve noticed as I read that the things that catch my attention are usually quite different than what everyone else sees and comments on. 

For example, today’s reading was from 1 Samuel 1 and 2; the story of Hannah’s distress at not being able to conceive, her prayers at the house of God, and the priest Eli’s chastisement and later blessing of her. The New Testament text was from Philippians 4:6-7, which tells us that prayer instead of worry is the path to peace. Those who commented on the readings commented on the Philippians text, but what caught my attention was this phrase from 1 Samuel: “Eli the priest was sitting in his place by the door.” (1:10 GNB). 

My comment was, “Often in Scripture we read of God’s servants sitting. I wonder how long Eli sat there day by day, and what he thought about as he sat. Did he pray, or talk with those who came to worship? One thing we know: he wasn’t playing games or scrolling through Facebook on his phone! With all our relentless activity what we are missing because we can’t sit still long enough for God to guide us?”

When I mentioned this interesting fact to Linda, oddly enough, she didn’t seem surprised. She even suggested that perhaps I sit too much, but I just chalk that up to jealousy; she couldn’t sit still if her life depended on it. I still think it’s worth pondering. There are precious few who have given themselves completely to being in the presence of God. We love to quote Psalm 122:1–“I was glad when they said to me, “Let us go into the house of the LORD,” or Psalm 84:10“For a day in Your courts is better than a thousand. I would rather be a doorkeeper in the house of my God Than dwell in the tents of wickedness,” but there aren’t many of us who are actually willing to do it.

I wonder how the Church or our families might be better off if we slowed down and sat by the door of God’s house. Of course, it isn’t a panacea; Eli’s sons were undisciplined and profligate, so just sitting isn’t enough. But it might be a place to start. But in the meantime, I still wonder what’s wrong with me that I notice such odd stuff. Apparently I’m in my own little world, but that’s OK; I like it here.

Parting the Mist

April 24, 2019

Sermon preparation often feels like driving in a heavy fog. I creep along, not seeming to make any progress, when suddenly the mist parts and a great shape begins to materialize right before my eyes. It has happened so many times I’ve lost count, but it never ceases to amaze me. One moment I am despairing, the next, it all becomes clear and I find myself writing frantically, trying to put it down on paper before it all passes and fades once more into the mist. Ah, but I’ve captured it, and all is well in my world.

Sermons are not the only things that work this way. For a couple months now, two pastor friends and I have been talking about doing an event in the park across the street from the Dunkirk church this summer. We meet weekly for prayer and have prayed and talked, prayed and talked, but that is all. Until the mist parted this morning. 

Last week, pastor LeeCroft Clark hosted a luncheon for north county pastors to share with us the work of the Addiction Response Ministry. This has been his passion for a number of years as he has worked untiringly to serve and redeem those lost in the fog and despair of drug and alcohol abuse. At the meeting, a paper was passed around for us to give contact information. I took a photo of it and contacted the pastors who signed it, inviting them to our prayer and planning meetings. This morning, we doubled our attendance, and after prayer we talked about the possibility of working together to minister to kids throughout the summer. Next week I’ll be contacting the city officials for a permit for a kickoff celebration involving at least four area churches! 

I’m sure pastor Clark didn’t have a summer kid’s ministry in mind when he spoke to us last week, but God has expanded his vision beyond what he saw to include these kids. Perhaps we can be instrumental in preventing someone from taking that first step down the road to addiction. We never know when we start what the journey will bring, but I am grateful that when we persevere, sooner or later the mists part and we see the shape of good things to come rising before us.

Carbs

April 23, 2019

For the most part, I think we eat pretty healthy. We don’t have much junk food in our house other than pretzels and some candy that takes forever to get eaten. We don’t eat out often, and when we do, it’s rarely fast food. But we are (ahem!) older, and the metabolism isn’t what it used to be. Linda is religious about exercising; I used to be, but am finding with early morning meetings three times a week, I don’t get in the workouts I need. 

On a long drive home this evening, we got to talking about our health; we don’t take it for granted as we once did. Our son Matthew started on a low carb diet awhile back, and combined with his jiu jitsu workouts, has lost about fifty pounds. While we’re not likely to take up jiu jitsu, a bit more exercise and a change in diet might help us shed the extra pounds that tended to accumulate over the years. Forty nine years ago when I married Linda, I was as tall as I am now (maybe even taller if we figure in the shrinkage factor), but weighed only 135 pounds. Yeah, I was that skinny. Nearly fifty years later, I packed on that same fifty pounds Matt lost. I discovered that when I top 175, I get heartburn, and in the last year, it feels like arthritis is testing out my wrists and ankles. I need to get moving more.

I could chalk all this up to old age, except for my mother. She’s 96, and whenever I ask her if anything hurts, she pauses to consider before responding, “No...nothing hurts.”

“NOTHING?” I ask. 

“No, nothing.”

She has twenty six years on me, and no aches and pains. Sure, she’s slowed down considerably, but nothing hurts. Genetics is on my side! And so is my wife. We decided together to monitor our carb intake, encourage each other with exercise, and she promised to feed me smaller portions at dinner. It can’t hurt anything, and we might even like our new look and feel. I am thankful tonight for good genes, for good health, for research that shows us healthy life patterns, and for a wife who encourages me in all this. I’ll keep you posted.

Monkey Bar

 April 22, 2019

Sometimes an accident can be a gift from God. Some months ago, my friend Harry gave me a leaf rake, the kind that you drag behind the lawn mower. Why he didn’t want it, I don’t know, but he was happy to get rid of it, and I was happy to get it. A couple weeks ago, it came in real handy in my back yard along the creek where last fall’s leaves got covered by the snow before I could get to them. That machine saved me two sore shoulders and about three hours’ of hard labor.

While at our family/neighborhood Easter egg hunt Saturday, I noticed the carpet of leaves in son Nate’s back yard, and offered to rake them up, weather permitting. Weather permitted today, so I hitched up the rake, drove over, and proceeded to clean up the leaves under the big maple by his picnic pavilion. That maple has a couple swings and a monkey bar hanging from it.

On my fourth or fifth pass beneath that tree, the tractor roll bar caught on the monkey bar, breaking one of the chains and cracking the limb that held it. Usually, you don’t want to break something while doing a good deed, but when I stopped to examine the damage, I could see that the weak link had already rusted almost completely through. That section of chain was clad in plastic which held in the rainwater. Definitely a bad design, and definitely a stroke of mercy. Better that the chain broke while I was raking than when a kid was hanging upside down from the bar.

I gave Nate a ride in the bucket so he could saw off the broken limb, we cleaned up the pieces then I helped him stack some wood. It was a good afternoon; I’ll gladly replace the old chain with new, and soon one of the kids will be hanging on that bar under a different limb. God is good, and I am grateful for a mishap redeemed.

Feeling Faith

April 21, 2019

Polly almost always wore a smile. She wasn’t unfamiliar with heartache and trouble. She knew her share of tragedy and trials, but through it all somehow managed not just to force the corners of her mouth skyward, but to genuinely break into a smile that lit up her eyes. She was kind, and had the kind of simple faith I often envied. I would watch her and wonder what it would be like to feel cheerful most of the time, and what was wrong with me and my faith that I was more familiar with melancholy than merriment.

I don’t suppose anyone desires to be melancholy, but that seemed my lot until I learned the power of gratitude. Even then, I have to work at it; to force my mind towards the good for which I am thankful. It took me a long time to understand that if my focus is on my happiness, the focus is on me instead of Christ. If I am the focus, he is not; I’m not worshipping him, but myself. I suspect much of the unhappiness people feel is the result of a misplaced focus of our attention. We believe the lie that tells us that happiness is a worthy pursuit instead of the byproduct of a worshipful spirit.

Easter is a good time to focus on the root of our faith instead of merely the fruit of it. In 1 Corinthians 15:3-4, St. Paul declared what he considered to be of primary importance: “I passed on to you what I received, which is of the greatest importance: that Christ died for our sins, as written in the Scriptures; that he was buried and that he was raised to life three days later, as written in the Scriptures;” He goes on to tell us that if Christ isn’t raised from the dead, our faith is empty, and we are of all people to be pitied. In other words, the death and resurrection of Jesus Christ is the very core of our faith. Without it, we have no faith.

And yet so much of our worship, so many of our prayers, so much of our attention is centered in ourselves—how we feel and what we want—instead of on what God did for us 2,000 years ago in Jesus Christ. We talk about our relationship with Christ as if that were the most important thing. It’s not. It’s not the center of anything except our own little world. Jesus Christ is the center of all God does, not me, not you. What he did on the cross and in his resurrection changed everything for all who by faith become partakers of his grace. 

A little over 230 years ago, James Madison penned the draft of what became the US Constitution. I don’t feel giddy or oozy-woozy over it, but that piece of paper has literally changed the lives of those privileged enough to call themselves citizens of this country. It’s not how we feel about it that makes the difference; it’s the fact that it was written and enacted, and that I live under its tenets that makes the difference.

The same is true about Jesus Christ. It’s what he did and the fact that by faith we enter into that new reality that makes all the difference. We may feel elated and joyful; at other times we may feel hard pressed, and still other times we may enjoy peace or come under conviction. Our feelings can be all over the board, but it’s the reality of what Jesus did that makes the difference. Today we celebrate what he did, not how we feel. And THAT makes all the difference! Polly was usually upbeat; me, not so much. But we both put our trust in what Jesus Christ did on the cross and in his resurrection, and because of that, Polly is with him, and I bow before him today. Christ is risen! He is risen indeed!

Holy Saturday

April 20, 2019

For well over a thousand years Christians have been affirming their faith in God by reciting the Apostles’ Creed. Trinitarian in formula, in three sections it states our belief in God as Father, Son, and Holy Spirit. The bulk of it concerns Jesus Christ; his incarnation, death, resurrection, and ascension. One phrase in particular stands out today—“he descended into hell.” It’s not found in all the ancient texts, and it is often omitted when the Creed is recited today. I think its omission is a mistake, especially on this day the Church calls Holy Saturday.

The basis for its inclusion in the Creed are two rather cryptic statements in 1 Peter 3:18-19 where Peter declares that “Christ suffered for our sins, the just for the unjust, that he might bring us to God, being put to death in the flesh but made alive by the Spirit by who also he went and preached to the spirits in prison,” and Ephesians 4:9 where Paul states, “Now this “he ascended”—what does it mean but that he also first descended into the lower parts of the earth?””

These Scriptures have been interpreted by some to mean that we are given a second chance after death to repent and be saved; “after all, Jesus preached to those who had died,” they say. I don’t believe that is the meaning of these texts, nor of the words of the Creed.

What was happening during the time Jesus’ body was in the tomb? Was Holy Saturday a Sabbath for Jesus, a day when nothing actually happened? I believe Jesus was very busy on this day, that indeed he did descend to the place of the dead and preached. He wasn’t giving the unbelieving dead another chance; he was proclaiming the Gospel. When the Creed says “he descended into hell,” it isn’t speaking of a place of torment, but is reflecting the Jewish understanding of the place of the dead as a shadowy, ghostly place. It wasn’t torment, but it wasn’t the bliss of heaven, either. I think of it as a spiritual holding cell where the spirits were held without bail awaiting trial. Jesus entered that place to tell how in his death, God the Judge passed judgment so those who had believed were set free, while the others finally knew of their eternal doom.

His descent into hell was nothing more nor less than the fulfillment of Paul’s quote of Psalm 19:4 whee, “their sound has gone out to all the earth, and their words to the ends of the world.” (Romans 10:18) There is no place where Good News has not been preached, the highest heaven and the lowest hell have received the Good News that all has been accomplished for our salvation. When we declare that on this day, Jesus descended to the dead, it is our recognition that the job of salvation is complete, and hell’s gates have been breached, so there is no place we can go that is beyond the reach of salvation. We cannot stray too far nor sink so deep that the love of God is unable to find and rescue us. And tomorrow we will gratefully sing the song of salvation, for he has reached into our lowest hell to set us free.

Holy Moments

April 20, 2019

When you can tear kids away from the tv, tablets, and phones to play a real live interactive game together, it’s not a time to squander the moment. Eight of our nine grandchildren were sitting in a circle in the living room laughing, as one by one they tried to guess the secret the others shared. By my reckoning it was a holy hour, and I didn’t want to leave. When I finally stood up to go, it was already 7:10. 

The auditorium was filled; except for the line of people slowly walking to the front where the table was set for them, they were silently sitting in the dim light of candles and the glow of the emergency exit signs. Not a word was being spoken. After finding a seat and offering prayers of repentance for a few minutes, I joined the line, received communion, and returned to my seat. Soon the readings began, recalling the last hours of Jesus Christ as he determinately approached the Cross. 

We left in silence and I came home to the kids still playing the guessing game, still laughing and enjoying the chaos of the moment. I joined in until it was time to get ready for bed. We prayed with them, and now it’s quiet. I’m the only one up, and I feel strangely unsettled. I don’t like missing Good Friday services. Easter Sunday makes no sense without Good Friday; after all, there can be no resurrection unless there’s been a crucifixion. Easter is meaningless apart from Good Friday. I actually miss the early days of ministry when the area churches held ecumenical three hour Good Friday services from noon till three o’clock. The liturgy was built around the seven last words of Jesus on the Cross; there would be seven sermons as pastors preached one after another on one of the words. All would be interspersed with hymns and prayers. They were powerful reminders of the price Jesus paid for our sins.

Coming in late tonight, I felt like I was desperately trying to catch up. I was there, hearing the words and receiving the grace, but it wasn’t the same because I didn’t have enough time to truly prepare my own heart. Partial worship isn’t much better than no worship at all. God is always ready to save, ready to meet us where we are, but we are not always ready to be saved and be met. It takes time, and when we take shortcuts, we don’t always end up where we need to be.

I am thankful tonight for this reminder that I cannot just waltz into the Presence of the Almighty God as if I were sauntering into a pool hall. The Almighty has invited us to come, has humbled himself in the Incarnation, even to the extent of dying on the cross for us. The least I can do is take him seriously enough to be on time and to prepare my heart to bow before him. My time with our grandchildren is holy business, but not more holy than my time with my Lord and Savior, Jesus Christ.

Make Someone’s Day

April 18, 2019

Sometimes it doesn’t take much to transform an ordinary encounter to something extraordinary. Four years ago when I switched hearing aid providers due to the retirement of my previous audiologist, Jamie was assistant to my choice of a new audiologist, who in turn retired last year. She took over the business with a passion for service that kept me coming back even when I could have gone elsewhere.

One day a couple years ago, I had ridden my Ural in to the appointment. She happened to see it and was eager to go for a ride. Circumstances prevented it, but today was exceptionally warm for the season, so I drove it to her Westfield office and parked out front. When I walked in, the receptionist rose from her desk and looked out the window. “That’s different,” she exclaimed.

“Tell Jamie that today is her day, if she finishes early.” 

“I heard that!” drifted from the back room. We made the necessary adjustments, Jamie looked at her daybook and said, “I have a half hour before my next appointment. Let me change into my gym shoes.”

I donned my leathers and walked outside to the curb, removed the tonneau and pulled my extra helmet from the tub. Jamie appeared in a jacket, put on the helmet and climbed in, grinning from ear to ear. I took one of the main routes out of town till we came to a crossroad that took us on a delightful ride winding through woods and vineyards, past stately houses and farms, and back into town. “I could do this all day,” she said at one intersection. 

When we got back to her office, as she climbed out of the tub, she said it reminded her of when she was a kid and her father would take her on rides on his motorcycle. “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to imply...”

“Don’t worry; I’m probably older than your dad.” 

“I can’t wait to tell my husband that I rode in a sidecar.” She was almost giddy with delight. I wasn’t surprised by her thank you, but the hug she gave me caught me completely unaware. Clint Eastwood’s Dirty Harry is famous for his line, “Go ahead...make my day.” Making someone’s day doesn’t have to be a threat, and it doesn’t always require a great deal of effort. Just listening and doing what you can might make all the difference. Jamie’s life won’t be demonstrably better for having ridden in my sidecar, but it’s a day she’ll remember, and that’s good enough for me.

Funny Gravel

April 17, 2019

“Hey, you wanna hear something funny?” 

Son Matt was on the other end of the line, and knowing his keen sense of humor, I said, “Sure.”

“You know that load of gravel you ordered for my driveway?” I remembered easily; after all, it was only a day or two previously that I had called my friend and asked for a load to fill in the low spots of Matt’s driveway—the ones filled with standing water.

“Yeah,” I responded tentatively, suspecting this was not going to be as funny as Matt thought it was.

“Well, he dumped it in the neighbor’s driveway.”

“WHAT? How could that have happened? I told him which place, and he only had to look to see the huge puddles in your driveway!”

“All I know is when I got home from work, my neighbor came over and asked if I had ordered gravel. It was there when she got home from work, so she called her husband to see if he had ordered it. He hadn’t, so they were wondering how they had a pile of gravel in front of their garage.”

I drove over, and sure enough, there was a pile of gravel in the neighbor’s driveway, while Matt’s puddles were as wide and watery as before. In a brief conversation with the very amicable neighbor, I told him I’d move it immediately if needed; otherwise tomorrow. The next day was fine with him, so guess what I’ll be doing instead of my planned activities? 

All in all, it turned out to be no big deal, and I’m thankful for Matt’s gracious neighbors, for the forecast of good weather tomorrow, and that I have the equipment I’ll need to move that pile of gravel without having to resort to a shovel and a wheelbarrow. But next time Matt asks if I want to hear something funny, I think I’ll decline.

Beyond Wisdom

April 16, 2019

“The foolish things of the world God chose in order that he might put to shame the wise, and the weak things of the world God chose in order that he might put to shame the strong, and the insignificant of the world, and the despised, God chose, the things that are not, in order that he might abolish the things that are, so that all flesh may not boast before God. But from him you are in Christ Jesus, who became wisdom to us from God, and righteousness and sanctification and redemption, so that, just as it is written, “The one who boasts, let him boast in the Lord.”” —1 Corinthians 1:27-31 LEB

Pastors are a strange lot. Our “field of expertise” is often pretty vague. Most of us aren’t trained in psychotherapy, we don’t have the technical knowledge of a pharmacist or surgeon, We aren’t trained in law, business, martial arts, culinary, masonry, or mechanical skills. We are taught to preach, often marginally; we’re thrust into ecclesiastical systems that are often far more complex than we imagine. Family, sociological, psychological, and spiritual problems are where we spend our lives, and whether or not we admit it, we are most often over our heads. The good news is, once you’re in over your head, it doesn’t matter how deep it gets. To quote Nemo, we just keep swimming.

Linda and I just finished watching a documentary on the life of Billy Graham. For more than sixty years, he has been in the public eye. Countless observers, pundits, and experts have pondered on the amazing influence this man has had all around the world. Love him or hate him, they had to deal with him, and often mused publicly about the reason for his success. It is simple. He had but one message, and he never deviated from it: “God loves you, Jesus Christ died for you, and if you trust in him, he will save you.” Graham never spoke of what we can do to make the world a better place; he spoke of what Jesus Christ did to make us better people.

Whenever I am tempted to believe success depends on my wisdom, or that my failures and shortcomings will thwart God’s purposes, these verses from St. Paul come to mind. God uses the unusable, and it is Christ’s righteousness, sanctification, and redemption—not my own—that saves the day. God can use whatever wisdom and learning I have managed to accumulate (after all, it is his anyway), but he never needs it. The best I can do in any situation is to help people see Jesus in it. Too often, I offer advice, make suggestions, pontificate, but no amount of counseling or even preaching is ever effective if it doesn’t point people to Jesus. I am eternally thankful that one Sunday evening more than fifty years ago, someone loved me enough to tell me about Jesus. I am thankful that over the years, whenever I strayed from that simple message and began speaking my own wisdom, depending on my own strength, God has been faithful to call me back, straighten me out, and set me again upon the right path. It is far better than I could ever deserve.

Promises

April 15, 2019

The problem with making a commitment is having to keep it. Promises are easy; fulfillment is hard. Last week I made a commitment to another trip to Cuba. My friends there seem excited to have me come and I am looking forward to being with them again. Every time I board the plane for home, I leave a part of me there, waiting for the rest of me to return next time around. 

Commitment being made, it’s now time to pony up. The hard part is the preparation, the study, combing through the Scriptures, reviewing notes, praying and deciding what I am or am not able to present to those who will give of their time. It’s always a bit daunting; I’m not much of a teacher, even less of a theologian. I’m a pastor who’ll be responsible for the training of other pastors. It’s a bit reminiscent of Paul’s word to Timothy in 2 Timothy 2:2—“The things you have heard from me in the presence of many witnesses, entrust these things to faithful people who will be competent to teach others also.” Discipleship isn’t done till it’s passed to the third generation. I’ve not taught my children adequately if they fail to teach their children.

The commitment has been made. I’m preparing for its fulfillment and will soon have the frightening privilege of actually sharing with my friends. Frightening because of the importance of the task; possible only because of the call of Christ and the power of the Holy Spirit. I am grateful for another opportunity to do what I’m wired to do. All I need is the connection to the Source of the Power and those for whom it is given.

Which Parade?

April 14, 2019

I’ve often wondered about all the hoopla around Palm Sunday. Jesus’ riding into Jerusalem those many years ago was so significant that it earned mention in all four gospels, something which cannot be said about much of what he did. Even his birth only made the cut in two of the four.

I cannot claim to be an expert on the subject, but I think I have at least part of it figured out. We know the Middle East was a hotbed of tension and violence then as it is now. Jerusalem was almost the epicenter of it all. Rome ruled, but these Jews were unruly people, and uprisings were always a possibility. Peace for the area was as fleeting then as it is today. At best, Rome was able to maintain a tenuous and sporadic truce through brute show of force. 

Passover, that most sacred festival of the Jews, was drawing near. It celebrated God’s miraculous killing of the firstborn of Egypt which precipitated their ancestors throwing off the yoke of bondage to seek freedom in the Promised Land. Scholars tell us that Jerusalem’s population swelled to more than triple its normal size during Passover, which in itself would be a challenge to keep orderly. These Jews were a rebellious lot, and if thousands of them milling around  weren’t enough, the celebration of freedom, wrapped in religious overtones, could ignite like a match to dry tinder. There is no frenzy quite like religious frenzy. 

Historians of the day tell us that as pilgrims came into Jerusalem, Rome flexed its muscle, sending troops and mounted cavalry marching into the city in a show of force. They would have come from the western port of Caesarea, spears glinting in the sunlight, soldiers with their shields clattering in formation, the golden eagles’ crest on banner-draped staffs. It was an impressive show as they marched to the fortress Antonia, the highest point in the city, directly overlooking the temple precincts. Rome ruled, and made sure everyone knew it. Rome promised stability and prosperity. But it came at a price: absolute submission. They would brook no rival authority. Resistance would be met with raw, ruthless power.

Meanwhile, streaming from the Mount of Olives on the eastern side of the city, another parade was forming up. By comparison, it was pretty pathetic, a rag-tag bunch of peasants. There were no costly banners, only palm fronds stripped from the roadside trees, no red carpet rolled out, only patched and threadbare coats of the poor thrown before this itinerant Preacher who rode, not a war horse, but a donkey. It was a pretty stark contrast, and in spite of three years’ preaching and teaching, the crowds that greeted him that first Palm Sunday missed the point altogether.

He was riding a donkey, the Jewish royal beast ridden in time of peace, not of war. The people were hoping for a deliverer like their ancestor Judas Maccabaeus, who two hundred years earlier had driven the hated Greeks from the city and cleansed the temple. People greeted him with palms, shouting “Hosanna”—God save! Maybe this Jesus would do the same to Rome as Judas did to Greece. When he did not, when he refused to cater to their expectations, it took less than a week for the shouts of Hosanna to turn to “Crucify him!” 

Failed expectations do strange things to us. We want to believe we would follow Jesus anywhere, pay any price, be faithful no matter what the cost. Until it’s our prayer that isn’t answered. Until it’s our child who sickens and dies. Until it’s our spouse who walks out. Until we are called on to forgive the unforgivable. Until it’s our pink slip, failing grade, heartache and disappointment. It’s easy to wave the palm branches on Sunday, and easier still to shout “Crucify him!” on Friday. Today is the day of profession; Friday is the day of demonstration. I am thankful for today, but am aware of the day coming when I have to choose in which parade I really march. Rome hangs people on crosses to enforce submission; only Jesus hung on a cross in our stead to earn our submission. Joshua said it centuries before: “Choose this day whom you will serve...” 

Blessings Received; Disasters Averted

April 13, 2019

Much gratitude tonight. First things first, Linda and I had the privilege of attending granddaughter Izzi’s induction into the National Honor Society Thursday evening. She follows in the footsteps of her two older sisters, and like them, is eminently deserving of membership. In addition to academics, her integrity, community service, and compassion are compounded by her energy and spirit for living. We are so very proud of her!

In other news, about two years ago I attempted to change the tires on Linda’s car. It was not a fun job. Apparently in 2013, one of Ford’s better ideas was to wrap the lug nuts in a thin sheet of aluminum or stainless steel, I’m not sure which. They were trying to make everything look shiny and new, but when I tried to remove the lug nuts, the sheathing disintegrated, leaving the actual lug nut a millimeter or two smaller than the socket size called for in the manual. The correct size was too big, and the next size down was too small. I ended up hammering on a mismatched socket, removing the lug, then having to punch out the lug from the socket. Five lug nuts per wheel means that ordeal was repeated twenty times. Talking with my mechanic, he informed me that Ford was aware of the problem, but declined fixing it. 

So I went to AutoZone for some replacement lugs. The only ones they had required a special removal tool which was supplied. Each set of lugs had a different pattern to the hex, so they essentially were locked lugs, something I didn’t want, but didn’t have a choice. I neglected to see where they were manufactured, but after today, I can guess.

Today’s balmy weather seemed made for changing out winter tires for summer treads, so I backed the car out of the garage, dragged out the jack and positioned it under the frame rail, rolled out my set of summer tires and rims, fired up the compressor, and was all set for the job. My compressor isn’t big enough to break the old lug nuts loose, so a half inch drive with an extension bar was commandeered for the task. It took a bit of muscle, even with the breaker bar, but they all popped loose. Or so I thought. When I put the air wrench to them, two of the lugs broke off. If the entire lug came off, it would have been OK, but half of the lug is still fastened to the tire stud, and there’s not enough left to loosen them. Major frustration except for one thing: I am grateful that in all our travels over the past two years, they didn’t fail on the road. That could have been disastrous. God protects us, for which we are thankful, but next time I buy lug nuts, I’m going to make sure they were manufactured in the good old USA!

Laughter

April 12, 2019

Just months before he died, George Younce sang to his friend Bill Gaither a little ditty he wrote about what it would be like to marry someone you’ve never before met. Set to a slowed-down version of “Side By Side,” it reads,

“We got married last Friday,

My girl was right there beside me;

Our guests were all gone, 

We were alone

Side by side.

We were so happily wed when

She got ready for bed then

Her teeth and her hair

She placed in a chair

Side by side.

One glass eye so tiny,

One hearing aid so small;

Then she took one leg off

And set on the chair by the wall.

I stood there so broken-hearted,

Most of my girl had departed,

I slept in the chair,

There was more of her there

Side by side.”

I sang this for our writer’s group a couple of weeks ago, got the expected laughter before posing this question: “Why do we laugh?” 

As far as I know, we humans are the only species that laughs. Animals exhibit anger, tenderness, fear, loyalty. They may mimic a smile, but of all God’s creatures, we alone laugh. I’ve read about and heard preachers preach on what it means to be made in the image of God. They talk of our ability to love, to reason, our conscience, our awareness of our mortality, and our capacity to imagine. I’ve never heard anyone suggest that laughter is part of what it means to be made in God’s image, but I suspect it is one component. The Bible says of God, “He who sits in the heavens shall laugh” (Psalm 2:4). Like all else that God created and called good, laughter too, can be corrupted by sin and used to humiliate and dehumanize people. Laughter can result from nervousness and fear. It is best when like the Holy Scriptures, it strips away our pretense and reveals the frailty and absurdities of life. True, it can be forced and faked. But it is originally good, is always redeemable by the grace of Christ and can be an avenue of redemption.

This evening was a “Meema and Beepa Night,” with the emphasis in the kids’ minds being the Meema part. We sat around the table after supper talking and laughing, followed by raucous games of cards and “Ghost in the Graveyard.” It might seem strange to speak of it this way, but it was a holy time for which I am grateful tonight. The laughter I think was a reflection of God’s enjoyment of his children enjoying their time together.