Gathering

November 30, 2019

My faith was born and nurtured in an independent fundamental Baptist church. Admitting such these days comes across to some as damning as confessing to being guilty of racism or domestic violence, but the fundamentalism I grew up with was theological, but not separatist. Westside Baptist church gave me roots that have kept this old tree upright through many a storm. One of the sources of that rootedness was the hymn book. 

I feel sorry for young people growing up in churches today. For many of them, all they know are the contemporary songs and choruses that are the fruit of the Jesus Movement of the 60’s and 70’s. While some very good music and lyrics has come from the contemporary Christian music movement, music that has reached boomers and millennials in ways the old hymns could not, much of it has proven to be pretty anemic, to the ultimate detriment of those for whom it is their only diet.

I remember my friend Beverly Renner excitedly showing me a Christian LP she had picked up. “J.T. Adams and the Men of Texas” had a single track that hinted at the musical revolution to come: “Rock-a-My Soul.” The rest of the album was pretty ordinary, but that song which today wouldn’t even earn a second glance, opened a door to a new kind of Christian music at the same time the Beatles were storming the States with “I Wanna Hold Your Hand.” Before this album, the only “contemporary” Christian music came from Southern Gospel groups like the Statesmen or the Stamps.

But I still had the hymnal and the Sunday night song service, with music that the entire congregation sang enthusiastically. When it came time for the sermon, you could hear the pages rustling as people looked up in their King James Bibles the Scriptures our pastor was using as he preached. Scrolling through a Bible app on a phone just isn’t the same. 

On any given Thanksgiving Sunday, three hymns inevitably made their way into the bulletin. “Now Thank We All Our God” I wrote about a couple days ago. The second was, “We Gather Together,” originally of Dutch origin, although I didn’t know it at the time. It was written in 1597 by Adrianus Valerius to celebrate the recent Dutch victory over Spanish armies at the battle of Turnhout, although the victory was won more by English and Scottish allies than by the Dutch troops which hardly even got into the battle. The hymn was originally popular because under the Spanish occupation, Dutch Protestants were forbidden to gather for worship. It was first published in a collection of patriotic and folk songs in 1626, and was translated into English in 1894. How it became associated with the Thanksgiving holiday, I cannot tell, but it has been a staple in my life since my teenage years. 

We gather together to ask the Lord's blessing;

He chastens and hastens His will to make known.

The wicked oppressing now cease from distressing.

Sing praises to His Name; He forgets not His own.

Beside us to guide us, our God with us joining,

Ordaining, maintaining His kingdom divine;

So from the beginning the fight we were winning;

Thou, Lord, were at our side, all glory be Thine!

We all do extol Thee, Thou Leader triumphant,

And pray that Thou still our Defender will be.

Let Thy congregation escape tribulation;

Thy Name be ever praised! O Lord, make us free!

In times of uncertainty, it is the prayers for God’s blessing coupled with the certainty of his ability to protect and guide his people that sustains us. We Americans too often take for granted our freedom to gather for worship, neglecting it for the silliest of reasons. This old hymn is a reminder to treasure this blessing at all times, and I am grateful that along with the modern Christian music that reaches the heart, I have this old hymn that has reached into my soul for nearly sixty years.

Condemnation

November 29, 2019

“When I’m in the woods, I feel peace...God’s presence with me.” I can’t tell how often I’ve heard words to that effect from avid hunters; the ones who can spend an entire day sitting in one spot waiting for the trophy buck to wander into view. I’m not one of them. When I am in the woods without the distractions of work, friendships, family, or media, I start to think, and the thoughts are rarely uplifting. 

I envy those whose thoughts naturally run to the goodness of life and the loving grace of God. Mine run to all the ways I’ve fallen and continue to fall short. I remember past sins, areas in my life where I could have done better, opportunities lost, and all the “what ifs” and “if only’s” that assail the gates of my mind. I don’t need the Bible to tell me that “all have sinned and fallen short of the glory of God” (Romans 3:23). I know all too well how far short I fall; my conscience reminds me on a daily basis. St. Paul commands us in 2 Corinthians 10:4-5 to “take every thought captive to Christ,” a task akin to corralling stray calves that prefer to run free. It requires a constant effort on my part to rope those wayward thoughts, drag them to the corral of the mind of Christ, and make sure they stay there.

This morning, a friend posted a meme quoting John 3:17. The sixteenth verse is one of the most oft-quoted verse of Scripture—“For God so loved the world that he gave his only begotten Son, that whosoever believeth in him should not perish, but have everlasting life” (KJV). The context of that verse is too often neglected. Here’s the entire section:

“As Moses lifted up the serpent in the wilderness, even so must the Son of Man be lifted up, that whoever believes in Him should not perish but have eternal life. For God so loved the world that He gave His only begotten Son, that whoever believes in Him should not perish but have everlasting life. For God did not send His Son into the world to condemn the world, but that the world through Him might be saved. “He who believes in Him is not condemned; but he who does not believe is condemned already, because he has not believed in the name of the only begotten Son of God.” —John 3:14-18 NKJV

Twice in this passage, we read the words, “whoever believes in him should not perish but have eternal life” (verses 15 and 16). The seventeenth verse gives us the purpose of Christ’s sojourn on this world—to save, not condemn. Jesus died on the cross to give us eternal life. His death is what saves us from condemnation. Believing in Christ is what actuates that eternal life, that freedom from condemnation. Here is where I get tripped up. Faith is the source of that freedom from condemnation, not the result of it. I tend to want to feel uncondemned before I believe, instead of after. In other words, I expect the feeling before the faith, which is getting the cart before the horse.

Jesus doesn’t condemn; that’s what the devil does, accusing us night and day (Revelation 12:10). If I am feeling condemnation, it’s because instead of listening to the voice of Jesus, I’m listening to Satan’s voice. And my emotions play right into it. If I am living by my emotions, I’m not living by faith. Faith trusts instead in the promise of God in Scripture that because of Christ, I am not condemned, no matter how I feel.

I am thankful for the words of Scripture and the faithfulness of one of his children who posted it, not knowing I needed that word today. Tonight, I choose faith.

Thanksgiving

November 28, 2019

Today is a day of national thanksgiving, a tradition that began with our nation’s birth and the signing of the peace treaty ending our Revolutionary War. It was George Washington himself who declared the third Thursday of November to be a day of national giving of thanks to, as he put it, “that great and glorious Being, who is the beneficent Author of all the good that was, that is, or that will be” for the conclusion of the war and the formation of a new government. (See https://www.intellectualtakeout.org/article/george-washingtons-thanksgiving-proclamation-what-different-era). We would be hard pressed to imagine such a proclamation being made in today’s climate of politically-correct scrubbing of any vestiges of Christianity. Things were different not so long ago. 

For many, it’s a day of feasting and football, an edible prelude to the gluttony of Black Friday shopping. Facebook will be filled with photos of overloaded tables groaning with turkey, potatoes, stuffing, squash, and pie. Many who sit around those tables will be groaning later in the evening as the enormity of the day’s consumption takes hold. Sadly, tomorrow many of us will promptly forget the gratitude and get back to our normal grousing and crabbing about all that irritates us. In that vein, I think it would be good to remember one of the classic hymns of thanksgiving and the circumstances in which it was written.

Martin Rinkart was a Lutheran minister who came to Eilenburg, Saxony at the beginning of the Thirty Years' War. The walled city of Eilenburg became the refuge for political and military fugitives, but the result was overcrowding, and deadly pestilence and famine. Armies overran it three times. The Rinkart home was a refuge for the victims, even though he was often hard-pressed to provide for his own family. During the height of a severe plague in 1637, Rinkart was the only surviving pastor in Eilenburg, conducting as many as 50 funerals in a day. He performed more than 4000 funerals in that year, including that of his wife. (Wikipedia). This was hardly the likely soil for one of history’s greatest hymns of thanksgiving, but Rinkart was not only a pastor, but a poet and musician as well, penning this verse in the midst of the plague. We don’t live in constant fear of starvation, the plague, and invading armies, and are already quite a bit more fortunate than he, so why is gratitude so hard to conjure up? May these powerful words be an inspiration to us all on this Thanksgiving and on each subsequent day we draw breath.

Now thank we all our God,

with heart and hands and voices,

who wondrous things has done,

in whom this world rejoices;

who from our mothers’ arms

has blessed us on our way

with countless gifts of love,

and still is ours today.

O may this bounteous God

through all our life be near us,

with ever joyful hearts

and blessed peace to cheer us;

and keep us still in grace,

and guide us when perplexed;

and free us from all ills,

in this world and the next. 

All praise and thanks to God

the Father now be given;

the Son, and him who reigns

with them in highest heaven,

the one eternal God,

whom earth and heaven adore;

for thus it was, is now,

and shall be evermore.

Thanksgiving Tablecloth

November 27, 2019

You know you are blessed when you have to add to the Thankful Tablecloth. For sixteen years, we have gathered at our daughter and son-in-law’s for our family’s Thanksgiving celebration. We have a sumptuous feast of chicken cordon-bleu after which the table is cleared and the Tablecloth comes out. Every one of us from the eldest to the youngest writes what they are most thankful for in the past year, after which we ceremoniously light the leg lamp. You heard it right; son-in-law Todd has a leg lamp, complete with packing crate. We play that part of “A Christmas Story” where the father wins a major award, following which we recreate the scene, complete with fully memorized script. With the lighting of the lamp, Christmas season has officially begun for us.

Today was extra-special for Linda. All the grandkids came over to help her decorate by setting up her carolers, the creche, and Bethlehem village. This year, she had them label which ones they wanted when she’s gone. We don’t expect that day anytime soon, but knowing now who wants what will make it easier later on.

Finally, after sixteen years, the Tablecloth is filled, hence the extra piece. Sixteen years of blessings, a visual record of the goodness of God to us. It all began when we were going through the worst year of our lives, at the end of which I was thankful to still be standing. It is a tapestry of births, growth, laughter and tears, but mostly of God’s faithfulness. In many ways, Linda and I like Thanksgiving Eve even more than Christmas, which perhaps is as it should be. Instead of receiving, we are giving thanks for what we have received. Seventeen more entries were recorded this evening, and we give thanks for each one.

A Good Day

November 26, 2019

God’s timing is never too early or too late. This past week he’s been prodding me about my critical spirit, causing me to ask for his help in becoming more accepting of people. God accepts us as we are, but refuses to leave us in our brokenness and alienation. Getting from where we are to where we need to be can be a challenge. Preachers tend to address that challenge by pointing out the sin and shortcomings, then pointing people to Christ and exhorting them to repent and believe. The problem with this method is how it engenders the tendency towards having a critical spirit. At least, that’s how it has affected me.

God is faithful. Free evenings are few and far between in the Bailey household, but tonight was one of those rarities, and I checked the movie listings. We don’t attend many movies; most of what Hollywood produces holds little interest for us, but tonight “It’s a Beautiful Day in the Neighborhood” was playing, and we decided to go. The timing was perfect. One day God convicts me about my critical spirit, and the next, we go see a movie about one of the least judgmental men of our time. One of the best ways to learn is by seeing an example of the behavior to which we aspire. Mr. Rogers always looked behind the behavior for the reasons and held up a vision of the person he saw, which was often quite different from what that person believed. He genuinely liked people, was fascinated by them, and took the time to genuinely listen to them. I could do worse than follow that example, so tonight gave me a good deal to ponder, for which I am thankful...and for God’s perfect timing, too.

Pride

November 25, 2019

Breathtaking in its beauty, this particular diamond sparkled, its refracted light shimmering hues of red, violet, yellow, and green. This one above all the others in the king’s treasury was the centerpiece, reflecting the skill of the cleaver, each facet perfect in form, with no imperfection marring its magnificence. But it was a mere stone, shiny, but hard and cold. It had no life or light of its own, able only to reflect that which was shone upon it. Apart from that external light, it was no different than the other stones; only harder.

Isaiah tells of Lucifer, the crown of God’s creation, beautiful in splendor, perfect in every way...until. Until the day his beauty caught his own eye and he decided he could match the glory of God himself. Before that fateful day, Lucifer—the Morning Star, sang duets with Jesus Christ, the eternal Son of God (Job 38:7). But singing harmony was not enough; he wanted the lead, the solo part, and his pride caused his downfall. 

The wicked queen of Snow White fame gazed into the magic mirror asking who was the fairest of all, believing it to be herself. Surface beauty masked the ugliness within until it could no longer hide the truth. Pride is the mirror by which we deceive ourselves. It can conceive of no rival for its self-indulgence. But the stone is but a stone, without life, and apart from the Light of Christ, is merely dark and cold and hard. 

There is a mirror that reflects the Truth, revealing ourselves as we really are rather than how we perceive ourselves. That mirror is the Word of God that convicts, but also converts, forgives, corrects, and heals. Last night came the conviction; tonight begins the hard work of listening to Scripture that renews my mind till I am transformed. For that Scripture I am grateful; it is God’s instrument of grace and hope for this old sinner.

Confession

November 24, 2019

Six years ago, Ann Voskamp, the author whose writings prompted me to begin the discipline of giving daily thanks, spoke of what she called “hard eucharistos,” blessings that are disguised as problems. Sometimes those problems come disguised as convictions. People often think of God as an indulgent grandfather who winks at our sins when in fact, he is ruthless in pursuing us, exposing our sins so they can be confessed and forsaken. He doesn’t give up till he has us cornered, with no means of escape. We like to think we are searching for God, when the reality is, we are running from his embrace because we fear the exposure necessary for our healing.

I’ve noticed lately that in my heart I’ve been critical of people. They act differently than I act, they worship differently than I worship; they are too excitable or too sedate, they’re too refined or too casual, their theology is deficient, their sin is evident...the list goes on and on. The problem isn’t them; it’s me. Pride has slithered into my heart as surely as the Serpent’s lies coiled around Eve in the Garden. A critical spirit is a sure sign of a proud heart, and although it may not always be seen by others, like high blood pressure, it is a silent and sure killer.

If there is any good news in all this, it’s that all is not lost. The Holy Spirit has been nudging me—no, he’s been chasing me down, beating me about the head with conviction: “You’re the Pharisee praying to himself, complimenting himself that he is better than the publican beating his chest and crying for mercy.” 

I don’t know how to change my attitude, but I also know God isn’t about to let up till I do so. Step One is acknowledging the problem. Step Two is to pray. Not to say my prayers, but to pray—really pray for wisdom to know what to do, but even more for the Holy Spirit to soften this hard old heart and to give me his heart for his people. Conviction of sin is a blessing; a hard blessing, but a blessing nonetheless, and tonight I am thankful for this first step to becoming a man after God’s own heart.

Lights

November 23, 2019

The good news is, I didn’t fall off the roof. The bad news is having to be on the roof in the first place. I suppose it’s my own fault; I chose to not take down last year’s Christmas lights. They’ve hung since last November through snow and rain, cold and heat. The strings on either end finally couldn’t take it any more and refused to shine. Linda has been nudging me for over a month to replace those errant strings before the weather turned cold. She has a point. When I first put them up, the snow was blasting nearly horizontal as I tried to get my numbed fingers to operate. Most of the garage is easy to access, but the end nearest the house is home to a huge rhododendron that I refuse to cut down, so I had to wedge a ladder between it and the garage to string the lights. It was not fun.

So this year, I figured the easiest course of action would be simply to climb the ladder to the roof and lean over the eaves to fasten the lights. And I was right; it was easier. Until one of the strings I had just installed blinked and went out. Having tested it before installation, I was NOT pleased! Crabbing my way along the edge on my belly, I carefully removed the lights I had just installed, and put up a second new string. It was only then that I remembered these Chinese lights have little fuses in the plugs; sure enough, a new fuse was all it needed, but I was not about to remove the ones I had just put up; No sirree! 

The string at the other end of the garage went pretty smoothly. Linda even moved the ladder for me, but couldn’t get it upright so I could use it. Really...walking back to where it originally was, was not a big deal! 

All’s well that ends well, and we again have lights. They are two different brands, and look a bit wonky together, but that’s OK. I am once more planted on good ol’ terra firma and intend to stay that way. The day had a few other kinks in my plans, but that’s life. Jesus promised his followers that they would face all kinds of trouble far more serious than recalcitrant Christmas lights. When after Thanksgiving I hook them to the timer, I will once more give thanks for health and safety, but even more for the life I’ve been given. I had planned on going hunting this morning, but fixing breakfast for three grandkids took precedence. While putting tubes in some tractor wheels, the oldest granddaughter popped in on her way home from college. The lights are up, I have no broken bones, a happy wife, and therefore, a happy wife. It doesn’t get much better than that!

Courage

November 22, 2019

I’m lying on the bed beside the littlest grandchild, almost-eight-year-old Gemma. She’s tucked in for the night after a few rousing games of Peter Rabbit (think Chutes and Ladders), and Old Maid. With the exception of sister Eliza and cousin Madeline, the other grandkids are scattered across two states tonight. Alexandria, the eldest, is in her final year at Grove City College and wondering what her future holds. The uncertainty at that stage in life can be somewhat unnerving, as graduation ushers in the repayment of student loans at a time when most aren’t sure what the next step in life should be. 

For Gemma, that is all in a future she can’t even imagine, which is probably a good thing. She sleeps unworried by the uncertainties that drive grown men to drink. I wasn’t much older than her when I began to realize the enormity of the responsibility my father carried on his shoulders, just to provide for his family. I couldn’t begin to comprehend how someday I would find myself in similar shoes. 

I’ve been fortunate. I’ve never been destitute to the point of wondering how I would feed my children. My mother used to tell stories of growing up in the Great Depression, of her parents going to bed hungry so their two girls would have enough to eat, of having to live with grandparents on the farm because her parents couldn’t provide for both girls, and the sense of abandonment engendered by literally being “farmed out.”

The world into which Gemma will grow is far different from that of my childhood. It is tempting to see the past in golden terms while the future conjures up a dystopian world fraught with danger. I wish I could protect her from the heartache, disappointments, and even tragedy that is sure to come, but none of us have that ability. The best we can do; that which we must do, is to teach our children and grandchildren what it means to have faith, to be faithful, and how to bounce back from the troubles they cannot avoid. 

Last week, I read the following: “As Joshua prepared to lead God’s people into an uncharted land and future, the Lord said to him: “Be strong and courageous. Do not be frightened, and do not be dismayed, for the Lord your God is with you wherever you go” (Joshua 1:9). This command came to Joshua before he began facing Canaanite enemies. The Lord called him to choose courage before he needed courage. This is because courage does not earn the provision of God—it positions us to receive it. If we will not go into battle, we cannot experience the presence and power of God in the battle.”

Gemma has not yet had to face situations requiring a great deal of courage. Sure, there are things scary to her, but courage—real courage—is yet to come. I pray she will seek and find it so she can dwell in the presence of God.

Nathan

November 21, 2019

The Christian church had barely gotten started when problems arose. I’ve often heard people say they wish we could go back to New Testament times when the church was more pure and holy than today. Unfortunately for such imagination, the church has never been pure and holy. From the beginning, it was populated by weak and often selfish sinners, just like today. Our prayers should not be, “Lord, help us be like them,” but “Lord, help us; we are like them.” 

One of the earliest problems they faced was jealousy. The early church consisted of mostly Jews, but there were different branches of early Judaism. Some were native to Palestine, while others were of the Diaspora, what we call Hellenized Jews. These were those who worshipped the Jewish God while living scattered throughout the known world. They were often considered second-class by the Palestinian Jews, an attitude that didn’t magically evaporate when Christ was claimed. 

The early church did a pretty good job taking care of their poor and needy, especially widows. Without governmental or social programs in a highly patriarchal society, a woman who lost her husband was often immediately thrust into dire circumstances. The earthly church picked up the slack and made sure they were provided for. Therein lay the rub. The Hellenized converts complained that they were being shortchanged in the distributions. The apostles met to consider the problem, and instead of tackling the distribution themselves, appointed deacons to handle the practical side of the work with the explanation, “but we will give ourselves continually to prayer and to the ministry of the word.”    —Acts 6:4 NKJV

The pastors here chose to devote themselves to feeding the flock, which then in turn was tasked with doing good works. When pastors are running around doing all the good works, the flock doesn’t get fed, and the pastor eventually runs out of steam and the whole endeavor collapses. The Twelve has it right, devoting themselves to prayer and study.

Christians often act like the pastor is being paid to be their representative Christian, and too many pastors run themselves ragged trying to handle all the various responsibilities. Our United Methodist Book of Discipline’s pastoral job description is a nightmare of impossibilities, and we are not alone in our expectations. The squeaky wheels get greased, but often at the expense of the essentials. And the Scriptures are crystal clear about what those essentials are—prayer and the Word of God. Any pastor who for whatever reason skimps here robs the church, dishonors God, and ultimately dooms his ministry to failure. There is no substitute. Our primary job is to feed the people. It’s how disciples are made. It’s how the church grows strong instead of fat. 

When I was pastor of Park church, my son Nathan was ministry director. I cannot count the times he said to me, “My job is to free you to pray and study the Word.” He did that faithfully, and does it today for pastor Joe. I am thankful tonight for my son who understood his job often better than I did, and who regularly reminded me of what my job was. I benefitted from his faithfulness, and as a result, the church benefitted, too. Every pastor needs his or her own Nathan. Pity those pastors who have no one determined to make sure they have the time they need to pray and preach well.

Hell

November 20, 2019

“Save us from the fires of hell, lead all souls to heaven, especially those most in need of thy mercy.” I was reading an article on the role hell and damnation play in Christian faith, and came upon these words which were part of the author’s daily family prayers. We don’t speak much of hell these days. Perhaps we’re too sophisticated, or maybe we have come to believe in participation trophies in matters of faith as much as we love them for our children. But if there is no hell, why should Christianity concern itself with the notion of salvation? If everything will somehow magically turn out all right in the end, why not just forget all about evangelism and good works? And why this talk of the Cross? 

Hell is not a pleasant, nor an easy subject, but it cannot be ignored without doing damage to Christian notions of salvation. Skeptics and critics ask how a good God could allow people to go to hell when the real question is how can we? It is more of a practical than a philosophical question. 

This author’s prayer strikes me both in its simplicity and its mercy. In it is the desire for personal salvation, with its recognition of the gravity of our own sin. But there is also the longing for everyone to know the bounties of God’s grace, and especially those who are living further from it than most. It isn’t hard to pray for those we know and love; it’s another story when it comes to praying for our enemies, as Jesus commanded. “Especially those in need of mercy.” The blatant and unrepentant sinner, the persecutor, the atheist and mocker of religion—these are singled out for special prayers that God will snatch them from the gates of hell around which they congregate. 

I must confess that my prayers haven’t always included the salvation of those most in need of mercy. I lean towards justice...when it comes to others. For myself, I prefer mercy. May God mold me after his own heart in this matter, so that I may both pray and act to save others from the fires of hell...especially those most in need of God’s mercy.

For Granted

November 19, 2019

“Don’t ever take it for granted.” We were standing in the doorway of his heavy equipment garage. I had driven five hours to Massachusetts to buy the backhoe he had advertised on Craigslist, had hooked it up to my truck to tow it home, and now we talked. Paul is a few years younger than me, recently retired, having recently sold his medical equipment business. He purchased 150 acres of Massachusetts woodland to carve ATV trails for the kids in the area because there’s no place available for them to ride, and he doesn’t want them growing up with thumbs glued to their phones.

When I told him of our kids living nearby and grandkids who can walk to our house, he said, “I am envious. My kids are in California and except for the occasional visit, I only get to see my twin grandchildren by Facetime.” I assured him that I give thanks every day for having family close by, and that we are healthy enough to enjoy them. He looked me up and down before telling me I looked in pretty good shape for 70. 

“When I started preaching fifty years ago, I buried old people. Now I’m burying friends, and I don’t like it,” I said. “The longer I live, the more I realize how precious this life is; I treasure it and guard it carefully.” We parted, and on the way home, I marveled at the magnitude of the blessings I’ve received. Sometimes it feels like my life has been enchanted. It is filled with people who have blessed me far more than I can have blessed them. 

I had plenty of time on the drive home to pray, so pray I did; mostly prayers of gratitude for the life I’ve been privileged to live. And no, Paul; I don’t take it for granted. It is a life not granted to many.

Breaking Formation

November 17, 2019

Last Sunday and this morning, I had the privilege of preaching again. My retirement is actually kicking in, with a six week off and two week on schedule. It’s a good pattern for me. I have a hard time reading the Bible devotionally; it feels like I’m skimming the surface of the Scriptures, and I often don’t get much out of it. But when I read for sermon preparation, I’m digging into a specific text, looking for patterns and sequence to help me unlock the meaning and message. For two weeks now, I’ve been examining 2 Thessalonians, and have been fascinated by what I’ve found.

In the third chapter, Paul tells us that if someone is unwilling to work, he shouldn’t eat, a rather provocative statement that seems to cut against the Christian command to love one another and care for the poor. But in this same chapter he speaks of people who are “disorderly.” (Verses 6, 7, and 11). This is a specific military term that meant “keeping formation.” Roman fighting strategy made heavy use of the “Testudo,” or “Turtle.” In Ephesians 6, we read the command to take up the shield of faith. The Roman soldier had 2 different shields. One was the “Clipseus” or “Parma,” a small, round shield used in hand-to-hand fighting. More common was the Scutus, a large curved rectangular shield. In formation, the soldier covered 2/3 of his body, and 1/3 of the soldier next to him, with spears jutting from between them. The most common assault formation was the “Testudo,” or Tortoise, which used the shields to protect the men from front, side, and above. It was essentially, a human tank. If a soldier in the Testudo broke rank, the entire formation was endangered. That’s what Paul is speaking about here.

When he says some are busybodies and disorderly, he is saying, “They are breaking formation and endangering us all.” His “if anyone doesn’t work, neither should he eat” isn’t about being heartless to the poor, but of the survival of the Church in a hostile world. The Church was the Vanguard of care for the poor. But it couldn’t afford to tolerate those who were lazy, with nothing better to do than stir up trouble. To survive, Christians need to stick together.

Haven’t you had someone who you trusted who “broke formation” & abandoned you? Who betrayed you? When Chelsea Manning broke formation and went AWOL, it cost the lives of soldiers who went to the rescue. When in a church someone goes off on their own, it can be devastating. That’s why heresy is so bad—it’s a defection that hurts others, and is why Paul says to separate yourself from those people. Heresy is not merely goofy beliefs; Christians can believe a lot of strange things and still be genuine Christians. But when we get it wrong about Jesus—who he is, and what he did—we strike at the heart of the Gospel and endanger the salvation of those who listen to us. False teaching is not just a defection; it’s an infection!

We live in a world hostile to the Gospel, so it is essential to stick together, everyone doing his or her part. This isn’t just about laziness, but faithfulness. We are in this together; Paul says, “Don’t break formation. There is work for everyone, we can’t afford an attitude of privilege and self-aggrandizement.” There are people depending on your faithfulness, your witness, your support. 

I am grateful tonight for this message from the Scripture. It’s a reminder of how much I need my brothers and sisters, and how much they need me. There are no Lone Ranger Christians; when I am tempted to strike out on my own without considering those around me, I will likely do just that—strike out. But when I faithfully keep in formation, I become part of a nearly invincible force—the Church of Jesus Christ against whom even the gates of hell cannot stand.

Bass is Best

November 16, 2019

“Bass is best!” I tell that to my students every class. Understand, I’m far from proficient, but teaching only requires me to know more than the students, and so far, I’m ahead of the game. Of course, my students are middle school and just starting out, so part of their education is understanding that the bass is the foundation of the band. “Bass is best!” 

I started about fifteen years ago when our church worship team found themselves without a bass player. I’d fiddled with guitar since I was a teenager and knew the bass is the four lowest of the six strings on a guitar. “From six to four—how hard can that be?” I asked. I found out. I can sing while playing guitar; when playing bass, that’s all I do. The celebrated “bass face” is simply a product of the concentration needed to do the job. Those who can play and sing at the same time are my heroes.

A few years ago when I got the opportunity to take lessons on the double, or string bass, I jumped at it, and have fallen in love with the instrument, wishing I had started playing years ago. I’m not that good at it, but when you’re the only game in town, that doesn’t matter. Like tonight. I had been asked to join the team playing for Holy Hour for the Koinonia weekend. Usually, it’s just acoustic guitars, but not tonight. I bumbled my way through, making mistake after mistake, but had people telling me how wonderful it sounded. That’s the beauty of this instrument; it’s such low frequency that most people only hear the thump that keeps the beat. No one heard the mistakes, or if they did, they’re too polite to say so. They heard the foundation, and it added a solidity to the music. So I am thankful for this instrument and the opportunity to use it to praise God. It’s been a good evening...and bass IS best!

Not My Fault!

November 15, 2019

“It really wasn’t my fault!” I protested to deaf ears on the other end of the line. Linda and daughter Jessie were laughing maniacally as I related how son-in-law Todd was greeted by a low-hanging pall of smoke as he walked into the kitchen. It’s hard to mess up tater tots and chicken nuggets, but if anyone can do it, I’m the man for the job. The smoke however, was wafting from the oven through any gap in the seal, and hit me in the face with an energetic puff when I opened the oven door. Oddly enough, neither the tater tots nor the nuggets were burning. It was the remnants of the overflow from last week’s scalloped potatoes. Linda had set a clever trap! 

After dinner when we were going around the table with “high-low,” Izzi opined that my chicken nuggets and tater tots were actually quite good. I’ll take that as exoneration after thirty years of culinary abuse! It didn’t hurt that in addition to the nuggets and tots, I had ordered a pizza from the Superette, and the kids were able to wash it all down with some of my fresh-pressed cider.

The Bailey saga began when our kids were young. Linda had decided (with much encouragement from moi) to go back to grad school, so the rest of us needed to pick up some slack, aka chores, around the house. On this one particular evening, knowing my culinary prowess, Linda had set out a couple cans of chicken noodle soup. It didn’t look like enough, so I added some Lipton’s, and then some Ramen Noodles. It still looked a bit thin, so I broke a couple eggs into it for egg drop soup. Son Nathan took one look and said, “Let’s get pizza; I’ll treat!” Such is the origin of my famous pizza recipe: three different kinds of noodle soup, a couple eggs, and voila! Pizza!

Linda is gone for the evening, enjoying some long overdue mother-daughter time with Jessie, so I have the grandkids all by myself. Aside from the smoky entrance, it’s a good evening; pizza, nuggets, and tots, bound together by lots of laughter. Tonight however, my cooking isn’t at the center of the hilarity. Well, maybe a little bit. The real heart of it however, is the love, for which I am grateful tonight.

Plumbing

November 14, 2019

First floor plumbing is easy-peasy; an occasional drip from the sink can’t do much damage in the basement. Second floor plumbing however, is an entirely different beast. Last night Linda informed me that the plunger for the upstairs sink drain was stuck; the water wouldn’t drain, and she couldn’t raise the plunger. I fiddled with it to no avail, and this morning dismantled the unit. It’s pretty standard stuff—should be a piece of cake. SHOULD be! I’ve learned over the years that any job that they say takes a half hour actually takes a half day. Or more. At least two runs to the hardware are required, plus an additional trip to return all the stuff I bought but didn’t need. One more jaunt to bring the receipt I forgot the last time. If I can actually find the receipt, for which odds are at least 50-50.

I’m not sure why the old drain wasn’t working; everything looked fine, but replace it, I did, getting everything wiggled into place and tightened up. Success! She used it to wash up, and all was well. Or so I thought.

Last Thursday we used the last of our village garbage bags, so I hopped in the truck, drove into town and picked up a supply. To do so, I needed money, so I went to the safe, and noticed the floor in front of it was wet. How could that be? Looking up, I saw the remnants of a drip at the edge of the molding that was directly under the upstairs sink, and knew the nightmare had begun. I’ve been working on that sink for the past hour, not including the time spent earlier. I blame the cheap plastic stuff, but can’t rule out operator error. Everything is fine until I press the stopper, let the sink fill a bit, then open it up to drain. There is a tiny leak around the ball unit that operates the plunger, and no matter how tight I make it, it still drips. I think a small O-ring will fix it, but that requires...another trip to town!

This is where perspective helps. On mission trips to third-world countries I learned that a simple job like replacing a sink drain would be more than an inconvenience or irritation. It’s likely the parts were completely unavailable, or if they were, there would be no choice of brands, no opportunity to pick a better unit. My time in other countries has made me appreciate the fact that I can go in either direction to find two Home Depots within a half hour drive, not to mention three hardwares and a couple plumbing supplies. I’ll beat this drain, and thank God that I have the tools and time to do it. I was going to add “talent,” but the jury’s still out on that.

Whirlwind

November 13, 2019

ADD doesn’t begin to describe granddaughter Izzi. Most any time she isn’t at school, work, or home, our doorbell is apt to ring twice just before a whirlwind of smiles, laughter, and conversation blows in, sweeps through the house, and out the door again. Boredom is impossible with Izzi around! Tonight around 8:30, the whirlwind struck. Needing a couple eggs to make cookies for a friend’s birthday tomorrow, it turned out she hadn’t yet read the book which assignment was due tomorrow. It didn’t take too much to convince her to let Linda bake the cookies so she could study. 

This is the same Izzi who two years ago would stand on her head and do cartwheels while Linda was helping her with her online homework, which merely required reading a paragraph and checking the multiple-choice questions. If it weren’t going fast enough, Izzi would reach over Linda’s shoulder and speed-check boxes at random. 

Nine o’clock comes around, and Izzi’s sitting at our kitchen table, playing an audio version of the book at double speed, half speed, fast forward...anything except normal speed, all the while fiddling with whatever is in reach on our table. Linda is baking cookies, and we are both laughing at the antics playing out before us as Izzi flits from the table to sitting on the counter to careening around the kitchen while expounding on how she hates to read so maybe instead of teaching at a public school she could teach at an Amish school where she didn’t need any further education. That lasted until we told her about having to wear a bonnet, go without deodorant, or shave her legs. She dreams of being an elementary school teacher, a calling at which she would excel given how she attracts children like a magnet. Soon, she was telling us how boring it was sitting in the woods with a friend who was deer hunting. It lasted till her phone rang.

Soon, she was out the door again and on her way home. Linda and I have often talked about the blessing of having our grandchildren within walking distance. Tonight, that blessing came in the form of our “Busy Izzi,” whom we love and for whom we are thankful.

What Isn’t

November 12, 2019

If we could pull back the curtain of all possible outcomes, what would we see? In the 1946 Christmas classic “It’s a Wonderful Life,” George Bailey, good guy/business failure learns what would have been had he not lived. More recently (1985), Marty McFly learns the same lesson in “Back to the Future.” We often wonder what might have been, had the circumstances of our lives been different, or had we made different choices in years past. 

Some years back when attendance at Park church was booming, I was driving through a nearby city and passed a small United Methodist church surrounded by hundreds of houses. Thousands of people lived within walking distance of that little church, which I knew was struggling to keep its doors open. I got to wondering what might have been different had I been appointed to an urban or suburban church instead of to a little backwater village in the northern edge of Appalachia. “Lord,” I prayed, “What could I have accomplished in the suburbs?”

I didn’t hear any voices, but I know God was speaking because the next words I heard in my head were not anything I wanted to hear. God said, “Jim, I couldn’t have done any more with you there than where you are now. I’m doing the best I can with what I’ve got to work with.” 

“What if’s” and “If only’s” are not usually very productive ways of thinking. There is one exception, however. Linda and I drove home from a volleyball game this evening. Snow was falling, the back roads were icy. I was thankful for what was not. There were no deer jumping in front of the car, no slush on the road, no sliding into a ditch. We didn’t end the day with one of us fighting for life in the ER, and we didn’t lay our head tonight in fear for our lives. Most of all, we aren’t living under the curse of sin, for Jesus Christ paid that price on the cross. We don’t live in fear of death, because he is alive forevermore and promised that “because I live, you shall live also.” Tonight, I am thankful for what is not.

Veteran’s Day

November 11, 2019

On this Veteran’s Day, I honor my father with a tribute I wrote back in 2014. Mom is still with us at 97; dad passed into the arms of Jesus on Father’s Day, 2012.

It’ s hard to imagine when the people we've known as mom and dad were young. This is my folks' wedding photo, taken when dad was stationed in San Antonio during WWII. Dad died at 91, two years ago on Father's Day, frail and worn out with the years. Mom is still pretty active, now at 92. Mom still has the photo albums of dad when he was in basic training, pictures taken of him with his Army buddies. Dad was scheduled to be deployed in the European theater during the war, but a routine physical detected a heart murmur that kept him stateside while his buddies went over the pond, some of them never to return.

One day about twenty years ago when mom and dad were visiting on Memorial Day, he and I happened to be watching a movie on the Turner Classic Movies channel. It was "The Fighting Sullivans," a film about the five Sullivan brothers who were stationed on the USS light cruiser Juneau in the Pacific. The ship was torpedoed during the action at Guadalcanal, and all five of the brothers were lost, along with 682 other sailors. As we watched the movie, I became aware of a snorting sound off to my side. I turned and saw my father in near total meltdown, sobbing like a little child. When I questioned him, he told me of boyhood friends who served and never came home. It was fifty years after the war, and as fresh as the day he first received news of his friends' deaths. 

I've talked with other vets, one who had been a crewman of a WWII bomber that was shot down in Europe and became a POW in Germany. I asked him one day about how it affected him. He came home, raised a family, became a successful local businessman, and even mayor of our little village. He told me of nights when his wife would wake him up to stop his thrashing around from the nightmares he had thirty years hence. 

We are more aware of the tragic effects of PTSD than people knew back then. Everyone then knew ex-soldiers who became alcoholics, abusive, suicidal, but no one seemed to make the connections until Vietnam. Now we are seeing (mostly) men coming home with injuries from which they would have died even thirty years ago to a VA system fraught with fraud and incompetence.  

Today we salute our veterans, and I am grateful for my dad, and all the other fine men I've been honored to know through the years, men who answered the call of duty and served, bequeathing to us through their blood, sweat, and tears the freedoms we enjoy today. It is a gift easily squandered; may we instead value and guard it for the treasure it truly is.

Missed Opportunity

November 10, 2019

“Sold it yesterday.” The message was terse and to the point. Last week I contacted someone on Facebook Marketplace about a piece of equipment he had for sale. I met his price, but told him I couldn’t come to get it till Monday. If it sold between Friday and Monday, so be it. I had hoped it would still be available, but he sold it to someone else yesterday. 

I’m disappointed, but not distraught. There was a time in my life when I would have “what if’ed” and “If only’d” myself into a real funk; Linda would bear the brunt of my growling for days to come. It took years for me to learn to trust God even in the disappointments. It’s not the end of the world; people have to deal all the time with far more serious issues than missing out on a good deal on a piece of equipment. Another will come along, and if not, I know God is still in control, and that gives me peace of mind and a grateful heart tonight. And that gives me a grateful wife tonight.

Why Me?

November 9, 2019

One of the problems with the discipline of gratitude is knowing that there are so many people whose lives by comparison are filled with tragedy, sadness, suffering, and fear. How does one count blessings without feeling guilty for having received so much? I am amazed daily by all God has done for me. Linda and I were talking this morning of how free of drama our lives are. It hasn’t always been this way; we’ve experienced loss, we’ve endured betrayal and slander, we’ve had to struggle financially while raising a family. But we’ve not had to deal with the loss of a child through death or drugs. We’ve not had to work through the pain of unfaithfulness or divorce. We’ve not faced chronic or catastrophic illness. 

Some of the smoothness of our lives has been due to hard choices we’ve made through the years that have yielded dividends of peace and tranquility. Much more has been due to the grace of God for which we can give no explanation as to why us. Back in 1972, Kris Kristofferson was at a low time in his life. He attended a church service led by the Rev. Jimmie Snow, son of country legend Hank Snow. When Rev. Snow asked if anyone was feeling lost, up went Kristofferson’s hand. He met Jesus that night, and wrote the song “Why Me, Lord?” shortly thereafter. In it, he asks the question,

“Why me Lord, what have I ever done

To deserve even one

Of the pleasures I've known?

Tell me Lord, what did I ever do

That was worth loving you

Or the kindness you've shown?”

The answer of course is, “Nothing.” God’s blessings are just that; gifts of grace. Why I have received so much while others have so little, I don’t understand. I would feel guilty except for two things I’ve learned. The first came from my Cuban friend Willie Santiago, who when he speaks to American congregations, tells of the deprivations he and his countrymen have known, compared to the vast material and political blessings we take for granted. Instead of piling on the guilt in order to manipulate us to give, he says, “Enjoy your blessings. Be thankful for them. Don’t take them for granted. God has given them to you, so don’t ignore them.”

The second thing I’ve learned is the Gospel imperative that “to whom much is given, much shall be required.” I’ve been given much, not so I can revel in luxury, but so I can bless others. That’s the way God set it up, and though I don’t know why he chose to bless me as he has, I do know that the life I’ve been given is not mine to hoard and protect. It is loaned to me by God, who will one day require I give account for it. 

Mary Martin, actress who for years played Peter Pan in a television special that aired annually when I was growing up, was coming off stage from a performance when lyricist Oscar Hammerstein handed her a piece of paper. “It’s an idea for a song,” he told her. “Take a look at it and let me know what you think.” She put the paper in her pocket and hurried to change for the next act. She forgot about the note. When a short while later, Hammerstein died, she remembered, and searched through her wardrobe till she found the crumpled piece of paper. On it were written these words:

“A song is no song till you sing it;

A bell is no bell till you ring it.

The love in your heart wasn’t put there to stay,

For love isn’t love till you give it away.”

Hammerstein’s words are the answer to Kristofferson’s question. I am humbly grateful for all God has done for me. The way to show that gratitude is not merely to write about it, but also to be a giver. May I never value the gift more than the Giver, and may I never forget to give as best I can the grace, mercy, and kindness I have received through Jesus Christ, my Lord and Savior.