Preaching

July 31, 2019

“Your story of the car was the best preaching advice I ever received! It did more for me than any of my seminary preaching courses. I’ve also used it as I’ve mentored other budding preachers.” I was sitting in Starbucks waiting for my friend to arrive when I saw Jim and Susie at the counter. They moved from the area some years ago and are now living in North Carolina where he pastors a church behind the Outer Banks. They were up for a short visit and happened to stop in while I was there. After ordering, they saw me, came over and sat down. It was good to see them again, a wonderful young couple who faithfully proclaim and live the Gospel. I was not expecting the accolades he gave.

When God called Jim into ministry from teaching in the public school, he started out with the Lay Speaking Class I happened to be teaching for our district. I only had one preaching class in seminary, but it laid the foundation for nearly fifty years’ of standing before God’s people, Bible in hand, proclaiming its truths and pointing to Jesus. What I taught in those classes was simply stuff I had learned in that single class. 

Preaching is really pretty simple, which is not the same as easy. Doing it right is hard, but doing the right things is not. I compare preaching to getting in the car for a drive. Most of the time when we get in a car, we have our destination already in mind. We don’t often hop into the front seat and go “wherever.” Sermons are like driving; if you don’t have a clear destination in mind, you wander, and everyone gets lost. I used to tell my budding preachers to study the text, then figure out exactly where it leads you. Get your destination set, then go for it, no side trips, no distractions; just go to the destination. 

You have to get people on board, which is what the introduction is all about. It may be a short story or the lyrics to a song—perhaps even a video, but once you get the congregation on board, go straight for the goal. Too often, preachers take sudden and unexpected turns, and the congregation (which contrary to traffic law isn’t belted in), gets chucked out the door as the preacher rounds a bend a little too fast. Every so often, the preacher needs to stop and give people who’ve fallen out a chance to get back on board. 

If the goal isn’t crystal clear to the preacher, it will be total mud to the congregation, so I would tell these young preachers to put their sermon into a single sentence with subject, verb, and predicate. If they couldn’t do that, their goal wasn’t clear enough.

I haven’t taught that class in years, and it was a pleasant surprise and affirmation when the first words out of Jim’s mouth rolled back the calendar some two decades. I am thankful today that along the way, something I said hit its mark and continues to do so in a new generation of preachers.

Remembering

July 30, 2019

When you have to be up early in the morning, remembering at 10:10 the night before that you forgot to drop the car off at the garage for the morning’s appointment is not the way you want to end the night. Both of us had to get out of bed, get dressed, and drive to Cassadaga, watching for deer all the way. Now we’re wide awake, and morning’s appointments are still early. 

It’s not like we were wasting time through the evening. We were privileged to have granddaughter Abi stop in for dinner after her lifeguarding shift, after which I finished repairing the cider press. Getting everything to fit took some fiddling, but it’s done and ready for fall. One more project checked off the list. But morning will come early. 

At least we have the vehicles we need to be able to drop one off and not be stranded at the garage for the day waiting for it to get fixed, and we have the money in hand for the job. We are healthy enough to be able to hop out of bed upon remembering the morning’s appointment, and can laugh at our oversight. Our marriage is strong, life is full of activity (almost too full!), and we live in as much security as this world allows. Being up late and rising early is nothing; millions of people would trade places with us in a heartbeat. It’s taken a lifetime, but we’ve learned to count blessings instead of irritations. It’s a good habit to get into.

It’s About Time

July 29, 2019

Though he was the most powerful man on earth, the king was worried, uncertain about his grasp on that power. When you sit at the top, you become keenly aware of your vulnerability. One who would remain king of the mountain must diligently guard against usurpers. You don’t know who you can trust, and wonder which one of the sycophants who surround you is secretly plotting your downfall. Sleep for such a man can be troubling, dreams filled with bogeymen. Nebuchadnezzar dreamed such a dream, a reflection of his unrest. Upon awakening, he wanted answers, and called his counselors together for a little face-to-face. It didn’t go well.

When they couldn’t give him the answers he wanted, he resorted to threats. “You’re stalling for time,” he raged, worried that they were waiting for an opportune time to stage a coup. “You have agreed to speak lying and corrupt words before me till the time has changed.” (Daniel 2:8-9).

“Time” is an important word in the First Testament book of Daniel. Nebuchadnezzar’s fear was that his time was running out, coming to an end, even though his rule was outwardly uncontested. His unrest and uncertainty is our blessing. Through his fear of time, Daniel speaks of a time to come when the kingdoms of this world shall become the kingdom of Christ. I’ve listened to many a preacher whose message seems to focus on the the blessings of this world that come with following Christ. Like Nebuchadnezzar, they imagine there is security in power, riches, and fame, but ask anyone whose health is shattered, who is staring Death in the face, and you quickly learn the inestimable value of time.

Daniel answered [the king] and said: “Blessed be the name of God forever and ever. He changes the times and the seasons; He removes kings and raises up kings.” (Daniel 2:20-21 NKJV) That time is yet to come, and when it does, the fears of this world’s power brokers and the hopes of God’s people will will be realized. In the meantime, time itself is God’s gift and blessing, to be invested for the day when “time shall be no more.” (Revelation 10:6).

Just Say “Yes”

July 28, 2019

Another Sunday has come and gone. Following worship in Dunkirk, we were treated to a luncheon in my honor for having served there for the past two years. I should be thanking them. 

Some years ago, our family attended the Chautauqua County Sports Hall of Fame banquet. Linda’s father was racing NASCAR when Daytona was still on the beach. Kyle Petty was the featured speaker for the evening, and since Linda’s dad had raced with Kyle’s grandfather, they were seated together on the dais. Kyle told us after the program that sitting with Lloyd was like talking with his grandfather again—he told the same stories Kyle had heard as a child. 

Kyle’s presentation for the evening was about more than racing. Of NASCAR, he commented, “I don’t know which is crazier; us driving around in circles, or you paying to watch it.” His passion however, wasn’t racing. It was Victory Junction, a camping experience for chronically ill children he and other NASCAR drivers support. With full medical services and a complete summer camp program, they provide an experience these kids seldom get, and they provide it free not only for the child, but also for the child’s entire family.

Kyle and his wife got involved in Victory Junction after his son Adam was killed in a qualifying run for a NASCAR race. Adam had gotten involved, and his parents decided to build on their son’s passion. Kyle concluded his presentation that evening with these words: “All I did was raise my hand and say, “Yes.” It’s something anyone can do, and when you do, God does miracles. Just raise your hand and say, “Yes.””

All I did in Dunkirk was raise my hand and say, “Yes.” It’s nothing special. God is special, and he isn’t as interested in our ability as in our availability, so when we offer it, he does amazing things. To him be all glory!

Stuck

July 27, 2019

It was supposed to be two weeks. That was the initial agreement, to which I added another four. But when I asked the Boss what the plans were following those four, the answer was, “Would you be willing to stay till next July?” I was, and when that July was approaching, again I asked the Boss what the plans were. “Would you stay another year?” I did, agreeing at the end of it to stay on till other arrangements could be made. 

And so here I am, working on year three at the Dunkirk church. It wasn’t my plan, but as so often happens, the interruptions are blessings in disguise. I’ve learned a lot, never having pastored a city church before. The cultural mix of Hispanic, Black, and White, has been interesting, even exhilarating, and the people I met I’ve grown to love. I’ve said it privately, but I’ll say it publicly: I wish I had come here years ago. My age and energy is working against me; the only thing I have going is my love for the people and my belief that God is far from done with what he wants to see happen here. When I first came, I told them that I didn’t come to preside over an ecclesial funeral. We’re not dead yet; in fact, there’s a lot of life here. 

Every Saturday night, I scroll through my list—

“Did I prepare enough?” —No.

“Did I pray enough?” —No.

“Is the sermon clear enough?” —No.

“Do the people deserve better than this?” —Yes.

“Isn’t there someone who could do a better job?” —There must be.

There’s more to it than that, but you get the idea. I guess God figures bumbling willingness is worth more than capable unwillingness. No one has held a gun to my head to keep me doing what I do. I just happen to believe it amazing that God would not only allow me to partner with him, but actually choose me to do so. It wouldn’t take much for him to find someone more capable and qualified. Some day, I’m sure he will. Until then, these poor folks are stuck with me, and I am stuck with them...for which I am thankful tonight.

Plane Truth

July 26, 2019

The cider press Linda gave me last year for Christmas needs a bit of work. The grinder box was made from plywood which had delaminated at some time, so a couple weeks ago, I took it apart in order to make patterns for a new box made from solid wood. I still have some of the oak table leaves my grandfather bought at an auction for ten cents apiece back in the fifties, so I figured a couple of them would be the cat’s meow for the project. They needed cleaning up first. 

As luck would have it, last week I borrowed a portable planer from a friend for another project, and hadn’t returned it yet. Having a bit of time on my hands this afternoon, I figured it was now or never. I fired up the planer, and started in. 

Softwood like pine is pretty easy, but oak is a different story. Living as we do in a fast food and microwave world where we expect everything to happen almost instantaneously, projects like this snap us back to reality in a hurry. For millennia, people have had to have patience that is hard to come by today. Fields were cultivated by horse-drawn plow and harvested by hand. Books were written laboriously, inked word by word, and meticulously bound by skilled craftsmen. Cathedrals took hundreds of years to erect, stones cut and shaped by mallet and chisel, beautiful stained glass windows leaded together piece by piece. Furniture was crafted one piece at a time and smoothed with broken glass or a piece of shark’s skin. An electric planer would have seemed a gift from heaven.

But even a planer requires a bit of patience. After running a board through, the motor is shut down, the lock is released, and the bed is raised the minutest fraction of an inch before the board is fed through again. With hardwood like oak, the temptation is to raise the bed too much at a time, which stalls the machine, leaving a hump in the board. About a quarter of a turn of the crank each time raises the bed about 1/64”. Sometimes even that small amount is too much. It takes numerous passes, but finally the work is done. Tomorrow I’ll cut the boards to pattern, and shortly thereafter, I can re-assemble the grinder.

I often wish I could see major progress in my life. I’d like to be able to grind off the rough edges wholesale, to shave the imperfections in great chunks, but God’s work in me is usually almost imperceptible. On top of that, it is repetitious. I’d like to think God could take one or two passes and I’d be smooth and clear, without warp or imperfection, but it doesn’t seem to work out that way. He has to run me through his spiritual planer time after time. His divine blades whirr and whine (maybe it’s me doing the whining!), and ever so slightly I begin to conform to his plan. Around my feet lie the shavings of my old self, but his work reveals beauty heretofore hidden beneath layers of dirt and shame. I guess like me with the planer, if he tries to take too much off all at once, everything would stall and shut down. So I take my time, bit by micro bit, and trust that God is doing the same with me, and is just as determined to finish the project as I am. “He who has begun a good work in you will not cease to perform it until the day of Jesus Christ.” —Philippians 1:6

Pray Believing

July 25, 2019

The call came out of the blue. “I didn’t want to say anything till we got the scan results, but It’s cancer.” My friend went on to relate a few of the details, which were not very encouraging. He is planning on stopping by tomorrow on his way to his brother’s home in Buffalo. I had expected to be away, but changed plans. I want to be here to pray with him. 

We’ve shared some wonderful experiences over the years since I first met him, and have also shared some of our deepest struggles and disappointments, all in the context of our faith in Christ. We talked many times of how we might partner together for the sake of the Gospel, and now it looks as if those plans could vanish like the morning fog. I am always somewhat conflicted with news like this. It’s easy to pray for something you’re pretty certain will work out anyway. Praying for someone to recover from the flu—we can do that with confidence. Cancer? Well, that’s another story. We tend to hedge our bets, tacking “if it be Thy will” to the tail end of our petitions to cover our backs if it doesn’t happen. 

Over the years as I have prayed for many people and seen miracles and complete prayer flops, I’ve learned a few things, the most important of which is, I don’t need to protect God. I no longer pray tentatively when confronted with what look like impossible odds. If God actually answers prayers, nothing is impossible, and hedging my prayers with unbelief and doubt doesn’t seem to be a good practice. So I pray boldly for healing...even when the odds are stacked against it. Time will tell if God has other plans or if we’re dealing with an end of life situation. Generally speaking, I have to believe that God wants people healed; that’s what salvation is all about—healing of body, soul, and spirit. How God accomplishes that is his business; mine is simply to pray believing, which prayer I offer for my friend tonight.

My Part

July 24, 2019

Sometimes you just need the group. I’m sitting up in bed as I write these words; to my left stands my upright bass, a beautiful old 1936 King with spruce top and curly maple back and sides. My mind keeps playing the melody to “Have You Ever Begun to Wonder,” one of the songs from last spring’s Cassadaga Valley Musical, “James and the Giant Peach.” The music was, to say the least, challenging. The pianist for that production was a music teacher who had accompanied scores of musicals; he told me that this was by far the most difficult musical he had ever done. Apparently, I cut my musical teeth on gristle and bone. 

I had to work at it. Hard. Even after four performances, there was one song where I never was able to find my place, and for most of the others, my playing was hit or miss, with the emphasis on the “miss.” But I worked at it. Hard. And bit by bit, though I never got good, I got better. Now, every time I pick up that bass, one of the first things I do is run through the intro to “Have You Ever Begun to Wonder.” I never fully mastered it for the musical, but it is such an interesting line that I kept working at it till I got it right. Most of the time. 

Playing bass is an interesting pastime. Unlike the flute, clarinet, or trumpet, the bassist rarely carries a melody, which makes practicing a bit of a challenge. Practice often consists of playing a run of notes that by themselves make little sense. It’s only in the context of the entire band that bass lines come into their own. The bass is rarely the star; that honor belongs to the horns, the keyboards, the lead guitarist. The bass is, along with the drummer, the foundation of the band, and as in buildings, foundations are rarely flashy, and only draw attention to themselves when they fail. Otherwise, they are often unnoticed. They need the rest of the band to make sense of the music, and the band needs them to keep the beat.

The musical is long past, and without that context, I find it hard to practice. I’m pretty much a hack, and need instruction and direction that I’m not getting right now. As I reflect on it, my playing the bass is analogous to my Christian life. Much of it doesn’t make sense if I’m just by myself. I need the context of being a part of the “band,” the Church, the people of God, if the odd notes I’m playing in my life are to have any meaning. It’s only with the rest of God’s people that the part I am playing begins to fit into a larger melody that I cannot discern when I’m living this life all by myself. I live better, pray better, think better, and love better when I am with others. Tonight I am grateful for my bass; it’s a beautiful old instrument that deserves a better musician than I am. But it’s not just the instrument; I am thankful for how it reminds me how I need to live my life in the context of the Body of Christ if any of it is to make any sense, and if there is to be a melody of praise worthy of the Composer and Maestro.

One Better

July 23, 2019

There is a special joy in having your children enjoy the same activities you enjoy. When they were younger, I took all three of my children canoeing in Algonquin Provincial Park in Canada. We paddled, portaged, and camped our way through the wilderness. They all loved it, except for the October I dumped son Matthew in the drink. He looked like a drowned rat, and was none too happy with me. Son Nathan loves guitar. Jessie is a writer, while Matt loves to ride motorcycles and shoot. The interesting part is I love the very same things, but whether it’s music, writing, or shooting, they are all better than I am. 

Nathan borrowed my acoustic guitar to take lessons in college. I never got the guitar back, but he catapulted beyond me in playing the instrument. I have the edge on him in bassoon, but that doesn’t really count for much. Jessie has published four books, and her ability to imagine plots and develop characters amazes me. And Matt...well, let’s just say he could outshoot me blindfolded (him, not me). 

So this afternoon when we went shooting and Matt missed his last clay bird, Mattie’s fist pump and accompanying “YESS!” along with an ear-to-ear smile was curiously satisfying. It meant she outshot her dad, no small accomplishment. I wish I had had my phone video turned on to record the joy on her face.

I’ve watched my grandchildren and many of their friends share their faith more openly and boldly than I have ever done. They have accepted faith challenges that put us older folks to shame. Of course, not all kids are like that, but if even a few rise to the challenge, there is great reason to hope for the future.

I believe most parents hope their children can stand upon their shoulders, see further, and accomplish more than they were able to do. I know that’s what I have wanted for my children, and to see my grandchildren kick it up another notch, whether it be following Christ or shooting trap, warms my heart and gives me cause to give thanks tonight.

The Rock Remains

July 22, 2019

The rocks remain. A stroll along our creek this evening got me to thinking. The flow of the creek is pretty predictable, with the same eddies in the same places, the narrowing of the stream as it bounds around the bend, deep pools and shallow riffles. If I look again tomorrow, it will look the same. It will be different water, but the same patterns. Until another storm comes along, it won’t change much. Even with a storm, the underlying shale bedrock will be in the same place next year. The gravel beds will have shifted, but they’ll still be there.

The DEC says it’s illegal for me to take any gravel from the creek. I have to let it wash downstream to the commercial site where I can pay for the gravel that was in the bend behind my house last year. It doesn’t have to make sense; it’s the law.

Life is a lot like that creek. We move along through time, experiencing new people, places, and things. Others will bump and glide over the same rocks as we. Storms of war, economics, politics, and religion will shift the gravel of human society this way and that, but the bedrock of Christ remains, unchanging, and solid. I am grateful tonight for this assurance. We cannot trust in human systems, we can’t always rely on others; often we are so fickle and weak that can’t even trust ourselves. Like the shale beneath our creek, the Rock Jesus Christ remains.

Sunnyside

July 21, 2019

I’ve seen her sitting alone on our lawn down by the swimming hole twice now. Whenever I’m home and see cars parked alongside the road, I walk down to introduce myself and size up what’s going on. Owning the access to what has for generations been considered the community swimming hole has its unique set of challenges. Most of the time it’s pretty innocuous, but we’ve had people spaced out on drugs, some who when told it’s private property act amazed and border on belligerence, and I’ve cleaned up everything from beer bottles to dirty diapers and weird votive candles and cultic paraphernalia. We’ve had cops visit us, spent time with EMT folks; let me tell you—owning swimming hole access is an education!

But there she was again this evening, sitting quietly, watching her two grandsons as they swam and played in the water. She doesn’t look old enough to be a grandmother, but she is. Her daughter, the boys’ mother, died last year from a congenital heart condition, and she’s doing her best to raise them right. I know her parents, but hadn’t met her until a few days ago when I wandered down to check things out. She’s a talker, so when I saw who it was, I knew I’d be down there for awhile.

She lives in Jamestown, works part time buying and delivering groceries for shut-ins, trying to make ends meet while raising her grandsons. There’s not a lot to go around, but she’s used to it; her grandparents are poor, too. But there was no complaining. She just wants her grandsons to grow up safely. In the past year, there have been three drug raids in nearby houses by fully-armed SWAT teams. After trying to explain things to her grandsons, she decided to move, but when she told me where, I know her new neighborhood isn’t much better. 

It’s a dilemma that poor people know all too well. Drugs and its accompanying crime riddle their neighborhoods, and law enforcement can only do so much. They don’t like it, want to end it out or get out of it, but end up living like prisoners in their own homes.

I wish I knew the solution to such problems. Widespread revival has in the past made sweeping changes in communities, but I’m not seeing signs of that happening today. There is something I can do, however; I can keep the grass mowed, keep policing the banks of the swimming hole, and keep encouraging people like this young grandmother so she can bring her grandsons down for a bit of fun and relaxation before they have to go back into their neighborhood once more. Maybe it will give her just enough breathing space to gather up her energy for another day raising these boys.

Emptiness

July 20, 2019

The Saturdays the grandkids stay overnight start early and go steadily till about 11:30, at which time their parents usually pick them up. When the full crew is here, they wake up and eat breakfast in shifts, starting with Nathan, who is normally first awake. Little Gemma is usually the last up, which happened again this morning, although we hadn’t finished round one of breakfast before she made her appearance. With vacations and summer camp, we only had the two of them, so the morning went pretty quickly. 

On the way to a friend’s house to borrow a planer for a project, I began to feel uneasy. In the busyness of the morning I hadn’t taken time with the Lord, and somehow everything felt empty inside. Before investing 45 minutes to stain the stairway panels for the last time, I knew I had to stop, read, think, and pray. The empty place inside me began to fill up.

I don’t know how people can feel fulfilled apart from Jesus Christ. I have plenty of faith questions—things I don’t understand, things that don’t make sense to me. I know people who seem to continually feel the presence of God. It doesn’t work that way for me. Walking with Christ is just that—a walk. Sometimes it’s pleasant, like a stroll along a shady path. Other times it feels like Christ is leading me into a desert where the sun beats down and I am parched and burnt. Still again, it’s like climbing a mountain, picking my way through boulders and outcroppings, having to be extra careful where I put my foot so I don’t slip into an abyss. I live as a Christian because I believe the Gospel, not because I always feel it. When the path is dark and difficult, like Peter who when Jesus asked if he was going to defect like so many others had, I say, “Where could I go? You have the words of life.” And tomorrow when I stand before my people, I will do my best to proclaim those words faithfully and clearly, because they are words of life, and who knows who might be there who is dying inside.

Change of Plans

July 19, 2019

Sometimes you just have to go with the flow. The morning was invested in our grandson’s basketball camp finals, followed by a quick visit to the watch repairman to pick up my father’s watch and a great uncle’s antique pocket watch, then lunch with my wife at her favorite restaurant, and a quick run into Walmart. It’s beastly hot outside, so coming home to a house that’s naturally cool without air conditioning was a treat. The plan was to varnish the stairwell cabinets before the grandkids came over for the night, but when I opened my varnish, I discovered it had all gelled. Original plans out the door, so new ones have to be devised. Writing the day’s reflections earlier than usual offers the benefit of spending time with Nathan and Gemma (the only two grandkids who aren’t on vacation or at camp) without interruption or distraction. 

For someone who regards ordinary with almost rapturous delight, a change of plans can be a bit distressing, but I’ve learned that there is no sense fretting about things we cannot change. Years ago, I was told that there are problems to be solved, and situations to be endured. Wisdom is knowing which is which. Too often, we waste the precious gift of time fretting over situations we cannot change, which saps the energy needed for changing those matters within our power. Alongside that, Linda once brought me up short when an evening I had all planned out fell apart, and so did I. “Don’t throw away what you can have on account of that part you can’t have,” she wisely told me. I don’t remember how well I received it then, but I know how well I remember it today. 

So I will adjust, and the evening will be better and I will be thankful because of it.

Pilgrim

July 18, 2019

Sitting with Linda on our patio watching the fireflies and a movie on the iPad settles me. With her, in this place, I am content. The past four days I’ve spent with my mother near Rochester so my brother could have a few days’ vacation. Linda was with me for the first two days, but came home early due to prior commitments, so we’ve only been apart for one day. After 49 years, we just seem to belong together. I regularly travel to Cuba, and we have different interests we both feel free to pursue; we’re not joined at the hip, but we are at the heart.

On the way home today, I got to thinking about Abraham and his progeny who lived in tents “look[ing] for the city whose builder and maker was God” (Heb. 11:10), confessing “that they were strangers and pilgrims on the earth.” (Heb. 11:13). I’ve been communicating with my Christian brothers and sisters in Mongolia. They literally live in tents, “gers” made of felt that can be dissembled in about an hour, moving from place to place across the sparse Mongolian landscape. How different my life is. I am not wealthy by our country’s standards, but I’ve lived long enough in one place to accumulate quite a lot of stuff that would take me a lot of work and quite awhile to move. I hardly travel light in this world. If God were to tell me as he did Abraham, to pull up stakes and move to a foreign land, it would take me awhile to obey. 

The real question boils down to “Who owns what?” Am I the owner, or does the stuff own me? Is my grip so great that God would have to pry my fingers away from the things I hold onto, or do I grasp things with open hands that allow God full access not only to my heart, but also to my holdings? I am thankful tonight to have had time while driving to ponder Scriptures that challenge me and call me to a deeper devotion and a looser connection to the things of this world.

Joy

July 17, 2019

“You Americans have it all wrong!” My friend Willie was speaking. “You spend millions on elections every four years. Look at all the money you could be saving: we haven’t spent a single peso on elections in fifty years.” Coming from a single-party country, Willie was speaking somewhat tongue in cheek, but he has a point. No matter what political persuasion you are, the dysfunction in government is pretty disconcerting. Years ago, Will Rogers quipped, “We have the best politicians money can buy.” This morning I received an email from one of the parties calling for revenge against the other party. Revenge! I’m not sure why I get emails from both parties, but I do. I wonder when our representatives will begin to actually represent us instead of spending all their time trying to destroy those of the other party. Will Roger’s other oft-quoted statement is apropos: “It’s a good thing we don’t get all the government we pay for.”

Some time ago, a person I’ve known for years unfriended me on Facebook when I private messaged her and asked if her constant posting of political memes was giving her joy. I know the temptation; it’s easy to imagine we are convincing others with the clever quotes and sarcastic comments, but most of the time we’re preaching to the choir, no matter which side of the debate we’re on. I think I hit a nerve. But it’s a nerve that has come back to bite me occasionally.

The good news in all this is what I learn when I search the Scriptures. My hope isn’t in politics or the educational system. It’s not in capitalism, as much as I believe it’s the best system ever devised for lifting people from poverty. My hope is in Jesus Christ, by whose grace and mercy my sins are forgiven, my life is redeemed, and my future is secured. There’s one caveat to all this: we have to keep our eyes on the goal. Inundated as we are with 24/7 information on tv, radio, and internet, we have to make a conscious decision to filter what we allow to capture our attention. It’s not a matter of choosing ignorance, but of what we allow to become the focus of our hearts. Psalm 37:4 says, “Delight yourself in the LORD, and he will give you the desires of your heart.” We all want our heart’s desires to come true; it only happens when we first delight ourselves in the Lord, which requires constant vigilance due to the wandering nature of our hearts. Tonight, I set my heart once more on the Lord, who is my hope.

Talking

July 16, 2019

“The Baileys aren’t much for talking.” Mom’s words were no real surprise to Linda, who is pretty good at it. Linda isn’t one for sitting around, which is about all one can do while away from home taking care of mom. After a morning spent weeding the garden out front, cooking up a batch of homemade chicken noodle soup, and reading till she couldn’t stand it, I told her to get in the car and drive up to North Chili, an almost straight shot north of where we were in Churchville. 

“Take the road out front as far as it will go, turn right, then take a left where it T’s into the road that takes you to North Chili.” Linda thought that was a good idea. There’s a nice gift shop there, and it would give her something to do. So did getting lost.

The call came about twenty minutes later. She turned left where she should have turned right, and couldn’t figure out how to program her destination into the map app on her phone. “Just turn around and go back the way you came,” I told her. Then, I waited. She called about 45 minutes later to tell me she found the gift shop and was on her way back. Mom got a laugh out of it, which makes it all worthwhile. There’s not much to laugh about when you’re confined to a chair all day. She did rouse herself up enough to briefly step outside into the sweltering heat to admire Linda’s work in the garden.

As mom turned in tonight, Linda prayed with her, bringing tears to her eyes (not a very difficult task). I could hear them talking and laughing in the other room. I wish I were a better conversationalist, but I’m not good at small talk and run out of things to say pretty quickly. Linda once claimed that I couldn’t carry on a decent conversation without notes. She’s not far wrong. Fortunately, she is good at it, and kept up a pretty steady patter with mom whenever mom wasn’t taking a snooze. I’ll miss her tomorrow when she heads for home. Tonight, I had better start taking notes so I don’t run out of things to say. And I’ll be thankful for a wife who loves my mother and can keep up a running conversation with that particular Bailey who isn’t much for talking.

Father Time

July 15, 2019

At least I can read. And go for a walk. Or any of a thousand things that have become history for my mother. She sits, and with great effort rises to use the bathroom and shuffle back to her chair...to just sit. The television may or may not be on, but even when it is, she can’t hear much of what is happening, and the images are fuzzy and blurred. So she sleeps a lot, rising late, napping in the afternoon, and going to bed around 8:00.

And so one day melds into another, and another, an unbroken litany of inactivity. When Linda and I visit, we try to bring her up to date on what’s happening in our lives, but she is unable to reciprocate much. It’s no wonder when she wakes every morning, she is disappointed to still be here. She is confident in her faith, and eager to meet Jesus, but until then, she sits.

I hate to say it, but I’m probably looking into my future. Hopefully, it will be another twenty-five or more years, as it has been for her, but already I can feel it in my wrists and back. Father Time keeps a steady pace, and like it or not, we are walking side by side. A few days ago, Linda and I were talking about growing old. “Does it bother you?” she asked. 

“Not really,” I responded. “Most of the time, I don’t think about it, and even when I do, there’s nothing I can do about it.” I try to keep active, to work out and eat right, but I know ultimately, it’s a losing fight. Hank Williams sung his mournful tune before he tragically died at only 29: “No matter how I struggle and strive, I’ll never get out of this world alive.” I don’t feel mournful about it, but it’s a reality that stares me in the face every morning when I look in the mirror and see grey instead of brown. Facing mortality for me means doing what I can to make every moment count, to live fully the life God has given me, and to do all I can to be an encouragement, guide, and witness to those around me. I can never be the judge of how well I’ve done that, but only I can truly know how much of myself I’ve given to it. Tomorrow is another day, and no matter what it brings or even how I feel about it, I’m going to receive it as a gift and live it as a trust.

Insider

July 14, 2019

What makes an outsider an insider? Does it come by crashing the party and forcing one’s way inside? Can the outsider become an insider by slipping in unobtrusively? Maybe if a law were passed, the government decreeing that the outsider be taken in. 

None of these would really work. A person can physically get inside, but to really be included, the insiders have to freely welcome the outsider in. 

Today was a banner day! After church, the Bailey clan gathered at Wright Beach in Dunkirk for our annual beach birthdays, celebrating the July birthdays together. It’s one of my favorite days of the year. We weren’t sure if we could pull it off this year. In years past, the beach stretched for almost a mile along the breakwater, reaching out some thirty yards before the you could wet your toes in the surf, but this year’s springtime rains have raised the water level at the beach, completely wiping out most of it. With the recent steamy weather, I figured by the time we arrived after church, the little beach that was left would be completely overrun by people seeking relief from the heat. When Linda and I arrived however, we were pleasantly surprised to see the beach almost deserted. The thermometer took a dive this morning, so apparently, people stayed away. It was sunny, but cool enough that even I, the shade lover, sat in the sun.

As we were cooking the burgers and dogs for lunch, a young man in a semi cab pulled up and motioned to us. I walked over, and he asked where he might park his cab. I pointed to the end of the short road, and he drove off. Soon, he was walking back towards us on his way to the beach, but he stopped to look over my sidecar motorcycle. We talked for a few minutes and I learned he is from Atlanta, and was taking the day off before delivering his load in the morning. I handed him one of the Gospel tracts I had printed up for just such occasions, and a few minutes later, he walked back to his truck.

I got to thinking, “Here we are, about to enjoy a meal together, and he’s all by himself in his cab.” So I walked down the road and invited him to dinner. A few minutes later, he shows up and spent the afternoon with us. “I’m on the road a month at a time, with four days home. It gets lonely, especially for a Black/Jamaican man,” he explained over a hamburg and potato salad. 

“Well, you don’t have to be lonely today.” Linda and I introduced him to the family, and we prayed over our meal, thanking God for his blessings and for our new friend, and as we sat, we talked about family. He was amazed when we told him we have been married for 49 years, and our kids for 25, 20, and 17, respectively. Later on, he asked me, “Are you followers of Jesus?” 

“We sure are!” I told him. Later in the afternoon, he asked how long I have been born again. When I told him since I was twelve, he responded that it’s been about seventeen years for him. He talked at length with our son Nate, and with Alex, our granddaughter. I invited him home for the night so he could sleep in a real bed, but he thought he should stay with his cab. We gathered around him to pray and bless him before we left. 

On the way home, we stopped in Cassadaga to catch the concert on the beach and spend some time with our granddaughters Abi and Izzi who were lifeguarding, which led to conversations with about a dozen other friends before it was time to go home. What an amazing day! I preached about it this morning, and got to live it this afternoon: God is good, all the time.

Why Not Me?

July 13, 2019

It’s an old ruse. “If God is good, he could prevent evil. If he is all-powerful, he would prevent evil. Evil exists, therefore either God is not good, or he is not powerful.” It all sounds so logical, but ignores a few realities. First, the only way God could prevent evil completely would be to make it impossible to do wrong. But to do this, God would have to force us into obedience, which eliminates love. If I have no choice but to love, it isn’t love; it’s compulsion. There are plenty of women who understand all too well what forced love is like. It isn’t love at all. Even if it is benign, the inability to choose removes the element of love. 

But what about natural disasters? It’s one thing to argue for human freedom as necessary for love, it’s quite another to assert God’s goodness in the face of natural catastrophes. I must be careful here. I’ve been fortunate enough to have avoided most of the ills of this life. I live in a comfortable home, am surrounded by family and friends, have almost no health concerns. I have however, known a certain amount of trouble and suffering, and the question that comes to mind when difficulty crosses my path isn’t “Why me,” but “How does God want to use this situation to make me more clearly reflect his character?” I must admit that this is not always the first question that comes to mind, and that I often have to bite my tongue and do a lot of talking to myself and to God, but I have learned that the Scriptures are true, and when St. Paul said that “all things work together for good for those who love God and are called according to his purpose” (Romans 8:28), he meant it. God did, too.

So tonight, although I have no idea what tomorrow will bring, I know who brings it, and I will with gratitude, accept it by faith, and trust that whether I see it as good or ill, I will allow God to shape me according to his wisdom and plan in Jesus Christ.

Change

July 12, 2019

We know it won’t stay this way forever; in fact, it’s already changing. It’s the second Friday night of the month, the first “Meema-Beepa” night. Linda’s mac and cheese (the genuine article, not the fake stuff from a box) is an expected staple, followed by “high-low,” where we go ‘round the table with the best and worst thing that happened through the day. Everyone has to have a high; lows are optional. I had three highs which turned into four by the end of the evening. I had lunch with my daughter, got good news from the watch repairmen about the antique pocket watch from my great-grandfather. It was missing its hands, but when I showed it to the repairman, he said, “I was just going through my old parts, and I have an original set of hands for this.” How cool is that?

The third high was getting the new stairway cabinets stained this afternoon, and the fourth was having all the grandkids except Ian for the night. Ian is working at Bethany Christian camp, so was unable to join us. Dinner followed by a campfire and prayers before sending them all to bed is a perfect ending to a great day. Over the summer, different ones will be gone on vacation, and before long, Alex and Abi will be back to college, trimming our crew down to eight. Sports and friends will claim different ones through the year, and in a couple more years, the attrition will accelerate till only Gemma is left. Then, there will be none.

I suppose it’s just the old man in me speaking, but I am ever more aware of the reality from that old hymn, “O God, Our Help in Ages Past,” which says, “time like an ever-changing stream bears all its sons away.” God willing, it will be some time before I’m borne away, but life changes, and part of the secret of living is understanding and bending to the change. Too many of us create our own unhappiness trying to forever hold onto that which is destined to slip through our fingers. We waste so much energy wishing for the past, dreaming of the future, all the while ignoring the beauty of the present that is right before us. The day was filled with accomplishment, and our evening with relationship, both of which are ephemeral, but also beautiful gifts from a gracious God.

70

July 11, 2019

Ahh...Seventy. So far, so good.

Fireflies

July 10, 2019

They wink their way through the deepening dusk, tiny neon signs flickering in our yard. Linda and I were sitting on the patio watching the fireflies advertise their availability for a mate. They’re pretty amazing little critters. Scientists have studied them, investigating the chemical composition of their abdomens, trying to figure out their secrets. I haven’t kept current with their investigations, so I haven’t a clue as to how they do it. I don’t think I’d be any less amazed if I could rattle off the explanation behind their glow.

When I was a kid, we’d chase them through the darkness, catching them in mason jars with holes punched in the lids with ice picks. We’d watch them till we tired of the sport, then let them go. I doubt if I could even find an ice pick in any of our drawers today. 

It has been a beautiful evening. I pitched kickball for the kids in the park for nearly two hours. I wasn’t sad when the pickup teams slowly drifted away; the kink in my back was protesting steadily by the time we were done. But when I got home, Linda was sitting on the patio reading. “Want a cup of coffee?” was her much welcomed greeting. So we sat and talked and watched the fireflies; a simple thing, but a peaceful gift many never experience. The light faded into darkness, the sensor on the flagpole kicked in, illuminating it and the garden below in a soft light reflecting the glow in my heart, and I am thankful.

Gratitude

July 9, 2019

Some time ago, Psalm 34:3 caught my attention. “Come, magnify the LORD with me and let us exalt his name together” is a call to a corporate worship that empowers us. A magnifying glass doesn’t make the object viewed any larger; it only makes it look larger. Magnifying God doesn’t make God any bigger; it just helps us see more clearly and in more detail. When we worship together, we see things about God that we might miss if all we do is our private devotions. Like looking through a telescope or peering into a microscope, features that were unobservable by the naked eye pop into view, and we see.

But corporate worship doesn’t always produce greater clarity or deeper insight and devotion. Church fights are all too common for us to imagine that there is anything magic or automatic about corporate worship. Psalm 69:30 provides a clue to probing the depths and intricacies of God: “I will magnify him with thanksgiving.” It is gratitude that unlocks the door to a deeper walk with God. Personally and corporately, only gratitude does this. “Worship” without gratitude is no worship at all. People can and do come to church to complain, to boast, to further their own agenda. Even pastors. I’ve known many. An angry pastor who uses the pulpit as an opportunity to grind a particular political, social, or religious axe.

Privately, if my devotional time is filled only with “what do I get out of it” and is devoid of praise and thanksgiving, how can I say I’ve in any way encountered the living God? All I’ve done is worship myself. Only praise and thanksgiving have the power to lift us above self-preoccupation into the Presence of our God and Savior—the One who saves us from ourselves.

There’s just one caveat regarding gratitude. If I am only thankful for the blessings of this life—things that can be taken away—my gratitude will always contain an element of fear. “What if I lose my freedoms, health, relationships, possessions?” Fear automatically puts a damper on gratitude, tempering and toning it down. The focus subtly shifts from the Giver to the receiver, and joy vanishes. Tonight, I am thankful not only for the blessings of this life—my family, friends, health, and possessions. I am thankful for the salvation—the grace I’ve been shown, the forgiveness I’ve experienced, the guidance for life, and the hope for eternity.

Bent Blade

July 8, 2019

My track record has actually been pretty good. Other than the sumac that nearly knocked me off the tractor when I snagged it with the rollbar a couple years ago, I’ve had pretty good luck with mowing the lawn. Of course, Linda would tell you the reason for that is that she usually mows the lawn, a merely incidental tidbit to the overall picture. To his dying day, my father swore that I deliberately mowed down the red twig dogwood in his back yard when I was about twelve. He even had the audacity to claim it took me three passes to do it, none of which I remember. Neither do I recall his assertion that I stuck the branches back in the ground to cover up the crime. But I digress.

The last time anything like this happened to me was nearly fifty years ago. I was mowing the lawn of our first home, a small parsonage in the little hamlet of Alma, NY, not much more than a wide spot in the road, but a wonderful place to begin married life. Alma was at one time a booming little settlement boasting a hotel as well as the gas station/general store/post office, and tiny EUB church where I served. The hotel had long since vanished when we lived there, but the general store, church, and a one-bay fire department remained. Alma was located on the northern edge of the Pennsylvania oil fields; ancient one-lung engines with their sucker lines snaking through the woods to the wells dotted the landscape. Old oil pipe could turn up anywhere. One particular piece turned up at the edge of our property, rearing its ugly self just in time for me to hit it so hard with the mower that I bent the crank. I can still hear the “Thwang!” of the blade cutting a chunk out of that pipe as the engine coughed and died. 

For nearly fifty years, that incident stood as the sole time I hit anything substantial with the mower. Until today. Being the generous man that I am, I decided to mow my son’s lawn as a surprise for him when he returned from vacation. The first few passes around the yard went fine, and I have to admit I saw the cover for the water valve; it just didn’t seem to sit that high off the ground. My tractor is pretty big for a mower; it’s 26 horse with a 60 inch deck driven by the PTO, but when I hit that valve casing, it stalled the tractor. I started it, backed up, and began to mow again, but looking at the path behind me, I could see one side of the swath hacked nearly to the ground, sure sign of a bent blade. Sure enough, when I took it home and removed the deck, one end of the left blade hung about two inches lower than the other end. Fortunately, I hadn’t thrown out the old blades when I changed them this past spring, so I didn’t have to wait for my son Matt to fire up his forge and heat it up so we could bend it back in place. 

So why do I relate this story? Well, for one, to have done something stupid with a mower only three times in my life I think is pretty good. Also, to be able to fix the damage is a blessing. Last time, I had to junk the entire mower. I was able to get the new old blade on and finish mowing before dark. Compared to the what so many of my friends are facing, this doesn’t even rate as a a blip on the problem radar screen. It even brought back memories of when I was younger and much dumber than today, if you can believe that!

Tile

July 7, 2019

People think I’m crazy because I love laying tile. I can’t remember ever talking with anyone who loves doing it, but there must be some folks who do; after all, someone has to install it. But rank amateurs like myself seem to shie away from anything remotely concerned with tile. 

Tiling is both fussy and forgiving. It’s what you don’t see that determines whether it will be a good or a crummy job. It won’t work if the floor isn’t rock-solid and void of any irregularities like bumps or dips. Perfectly flat fits the bill. If the floor is laid on joists, they need to be strong enough to take the weight without movement. Our dining room and living room will bounce if we jump; no tile there. 

Tile can be laid on plywood, but it’s best to lay down hardee, or cement board to stiffen the floor and provide a good surface for the thinset. Mix it according to the instructions, lay it on and spread it out with a grooved trowel, and start laying it down, making sure to use the right size spacers between the tiles. It’s best if you butter the underside of the tiles, but not absolutely necessary if you make sure they’re pressed firmly into the thinset. Once it’s dry, clean everything up, make sure the grout lines are clean, and start floating the grout. Wipe it off, buff it out, seal the lines, and it’s all done. It actually sounds harder than it really is.

It can be messy, and gives you a good workout, but I love it for one single reason: Once it’s done, you can look at it and say, “It is finished.” For fifty years, I’ve worked with people, and trust me, you’re never finished with that work! The only one who worked with people and could legitimately say, “It is finished,” was Jesus. He finished what he came to do; dying on a cross for our sins. But though he finished his part, the rest of it he left up to us, to take the Good News of salvation to every corner of the earth, to every person on the earth. If that weren’t enough, getting people born again is only the beginning. Then we must train them in the faith—a never-ending job. So when the last tile is laid, the last of the grout is buffed out, I straighten up my back, work out the kinks, look at a tile floor and say, “It’s finished,” I know I can walk away from it. It’s really done. Call me crazy if you like: nothing else in my life is like that, and I am thankful for the occasional opportunity to utter those words with satisfaction.