Why There Must Be Justice; Thank God for Mercy…

I was in Oklahoma City this week for a conference, which happened to be the twenty-sixth anniversary of the bombing of the Alfred P. Murrah Federal Building. 

To refresh your memory, on April 19, 1995, Timothy McVeigh drove a Ryder rental truck loaded with 4,800 pounds of explosive materials into a drop-off zone under a day-care center located in the building.  A few minutes earlier, he had lit a fuse.  He locked the truck and walked away. 

The bomb exploded at 9:02 AM that morning.  Within seven seconds, one-third of the Murrah building collapsed.  One hundred and sixty-eight people died, including three pregnant women.  I was told by a local pastor that the church he served, located across the street from the Murrah building, had its building lifted nine inches off of its foundation and then slammed back down.   

Timothy McVeigh and his accomplice, Terry Nichols, were quickly apprehended.  They were tried in federal court for murdering federal officers.  McVeigh was convicted on eleven counts of murder and conspiracy, sentenced to death, and was executed on June 11, 2001.  Nichols was found guilty of constructing a weapon of mass destruction and eight counts of involuntary manslaughter of federal officers.  He was sentenced to life in Federal Prison. 

Shortly after Nichols’ conviction, family members of other victims began to agitate for a state trial.  Their contention was the crime of murdering Federal Officers had been recognized, but their loss also cried out for justice. 

Wes Lane was the District Attorney for Oklahoma City at that time.  Since retired, he spoke at the conference I attended.  He talked about the pressure he faced.  “It seemed like everywhere I went in Oklahoma City, people wanted to talk to me about bringing charges against Nichols.  Many people had grown weary of the tragedy and wanted to move on.  Victims’ families said they could not move on until there was justice.” 

As he spoke those words, I understood.  Though I have never lost a family member to such a tragedy, it was not hard to feel profound empathy for victims’ families.  Imagine kissing your spouse goodbye in the morning, not realizing in ninety minutes their life would end and your world would change forever.  There would be daddys’ chairs forever vacant, mothers who would never again hold their children, and little children who had just begun to walk, who would never take another step.   

You cannot let a crime like that go unpunished.  There is something in our souls that demands justice.  The most fundamental understanding of justice rests on the idea of equality.  If you make things unequal between yourself and another, say, by robbing another person, justice demands repayment in the form of money or time.  If you rob another person of their life, justice demands something to equalize the relationship. 

Wes Lane told us the decision to prosecute Nichols was his alone to make.  He decided to prosecute Terry Nichols in State Court on 161 charges of murder.  A jury of twelve took five hours to decide he was guilty of all charges.  They deadlocked on the question of the death penalty.  Judge Steven Taylor sentenced Nichols to 161 consecutive life terms without parole;  Nichols will never leave prison alive. 

After the trial, the daughter of a woman killed in the blast came up to one of the prosecutors and said, “Thank you.  Before now, no one has been held accountable for my mother’s murder.  Thank you.” 

A heinous crime demands justice.  We see it so clearly in the cases of McVeigh and Nichols.  But imagine you are a God who is pure, without fault.  You create a perfect world, put people in it.  You give them one rule.  They break it.  You reach out again and again.  They keep breaking your rules.  They deny your existence.  You offer love and grace.  They laugh at you.  You send messengers.  They ignore some and kill others.  Finally, you arrive on the scene yourself, having taken a human body.  The best legal system of that time and the best religious system of that time conspire to murder you. 

What does justice require?  How can the relationship be equal?   

This is where we all start.  Paul, the great thinker, said it like this, “All sin and fall short of the magnificence of God.”  It means in my own way, and in your own way, we make our relationships with God unequal.  You and I have known the right thing to do and done the wrong thing anyway.  We make rules for ourselves that we cannot even follow (“I will never drink that much again…”).   

So God, who is rich in mercy, lets his own death, the death of Jesus, be the payment to bring the relationship back after we have broken it.  He knew there was no possibility we could pay the price to make the relationship whole again, any more than Terry Nichols can serve 162 life sentences in a row.   

If I compare myself to Terry Nichols, I can feel good about myself.  When I compare myself to God, I realize how far I fall short.  It takes God’s mercy for both of us. 

When you realize this, you begin to understand how rich God is in mercy.  If you do not understand that God has enough mercy to cover Terry Nichols’ sins as well as your own, you really do not understand mercy at all.

Care Enough to Correct…

I grew up in a small town where everyone knew everyone else and you were kin to most of them.  In my childhood, it seemed like every adult I knew felt free to correct me.

Alvin Simmons lived up the road and worked for my mother.  He took my brother and I with him while he did chores.  I remember discovering if I yelled “Help” loud enough, there was an echo off a dense bunch of trees.  I yelled it over and over until Alvin told me stop.  He said, “Somebody might think you are really in trouble.  Never yell help unless the trouble is real.”  Since that day, I have never yelled help unless I really needed it.

Bert Calder cleaned house and watched me while my mother worked in town.  I had a little toy pistol, the kind that with a roll of caps that made a noise when you pulled the trigger.  For some reason, we didn’t have a roll of caps, but it didn’t matter.  I would point the pistol at whatever I wanted to shoot and yell “Bang!”  One day I made the mistake of pointing at Bert.  “Bang” was barely out of my mouth when she snatched my pistol away from me and told me never to point a gun at anyone.  I must have been four or five, and even at that age I knew the difference between a real gun and a toy.  I protested, “It’s just a toy.”  Bert shook her finger in my face and said, “Toy or not, never point a gun at anyone.”  Since that day, whenever my hand holds a gun, I hear Bert Calder’s voice and I am mindful never to point it at a person.

My Aunt Iris kept my brother and I sometimes.  Aunt Iris was close to six feet tall and solid.  She wasn’t fat, mind you, but she had a no-nonsense way about her.  When I was seven, she told me to sit still on the couch.  In a fit of original sin, I said, “Make me.”  She snatched me up and put me on the couch and sat on me.  Aunt Iris brought a lot of gravity to bear on the situation.  In this instance, I cried help, because I needed it.  My brother Steve was laughing at me.  Aunt Iris stood up and I gasped for air.  “Are you going to do what I tell you?” she demanded.  “Yes Ma’am,” I gasped out.  Since that day, when someone tells me to sit still, I do.  Aunt Iris really made an impression on me.

Wayne Collier would take my brother and I cow hunting.  I rode a one-eyed Shetland pony my Uncle Larry had procured for me and tried to keep up with the big people.  I was riding behind the cows as we pushed them up to the pens and one of the cows turned back and ran right out.  I froze.  Wayne yelled, “Don’t let her get by you Clay.”  She got by me.  Wayne and Uncle Earl rode after the cow and Wayne roped her.  He drug her back to the herd.  I was a little bewildered.  Wayne rode up beside me and said, “Son, I’m sorry I yelled at you, but when a cow starts to turn back on you, don’t freeze.  You’ve got to put your horse broadside to her and turn her back.”  Since that day, every time I worked cows and one made a break for it, I heard Wayne’s voice in my head.  I might do the wrong thing, but I do something.

These people were not my parents.  I suppose in some circles today, a parent might have said, “You have no right to talk to my child like that.”  Back in those days, children were community property.  Everybody in my community thought it was their job to look out after children and teach them things they needed to know – like not to cry for help when it wasn’t needed, or never point a gun at a person, or sit still when you’re told, or even don’t let a cow turn back on you.

American bison typically run when they sense danger, but when predators approach without warning, bison form a multilayer circle of protection. The females form a ring around the young, and the males form an outer ring surrounding the females.  For a predator to get to the most vulnerable of the herd, they have to get through the whole herd. 

There is something to learn from the bison.  Our children need our protection.  They need every adult to take ownership and teach them things they need to know.  This is not a job we can leave to a smart phone or assume one teacher take up the slack.  Our children need all of us to protect them, advocate for them, support them, and show them the way. 

I think when you step in and teach a child something they need to know, even if that child is not yours, you are doing God’s work.  Every child deserves a circle of adults who care enough to correct.

Cravings…

I’ve stood with the refrigerator door open, searching for something to satisfy my hunger. I see carrots and apples, but I’ve craving something sweet. Or salty. Or fatty. What’s inside is not what I am craving.

I’ve opened the cabinet and inventoried the contents: crackers, chips, cookies, peanut butter. There is an old Southern expression: “I’ve got a hankering…” There’s good stuff in the cabinet, but that’s not what I have a hankering for. I’ll sample a couple of items, but nothing seems to satisfy.

I’ve seen a sign for a restaurant on a highway, remembered the taste of their food, and before I know it, I’ve turned into their drive thru. I wasn’t really all that hungry, but their sign triggered a memory. I was convinced I needed and deserved that taste.

I’ve taken my family to a special restaurant, where the prices are high, and the food is tasty. I was taught never to waste anything, so I eat everything put before me. Even if I am full, I call for more free bread so I can get full value.

I’ve been known to drink five to six glasses of tea at a meal. Maybe it’s a result of growing up in Florida, but I drink a lot of tea. More than once I’ve jokingly told the waiter to bring me a glass of ice, a pitcher of tea, and twenty Sweet and Low packets. A waiter once told me it was a good thing I was hooked on tea and not beer.

I’ve been on a diet (more than once) and sat down to a meal where some favorite item is being served – my sister’s fried corn bread, or guava cobbler, or Paula Deen’s mashed potatoes – and have eaten myself sick. The diet is forgotten in the face of food that is special. Because I can’t get these things whenever I want, I overeat when they are available, until there isn’t any left. I seem to be missing a stop button.

Now for an amazing reality: within a few hours of trying to satisfy my cravings, I was hungry again. I’ve actually walked out of restaurants and stopped to get something to drink at a drive through (especially after Chinese or Japanese food. MSG makes me thirsty).

That’s not so unusual I suppose. I’ve also known people who have sacrificed hours and hours to get a degree and few days after graduation, they feel kind of flat. I’ve known people who wanted wealth, got it, and wanted more. I’ve known people who wanted a certain kind of house, finally got it decorated the way they wanted, and then they started over. I’ve even known people who prayed for kids, got them, and then spent as much time as possible away from them. I’ve known people who desperately wanted to be married, got married and found it wasn’t enough to heal the hurt in their heart. I have other friends who, if they start drinking, they can’t stop. The craving isn’t satisfied. Other people I know are always looking for attention. They can’t get enough. Your soul can crave a lot of things.

We keep searching for something to fill us up: achievement, relationships, food, possessions. It doesn’t work. We get hungry all over again. The cravings take hold. Whatever we’re looking for to fill the hole in our soul isn’t big enough; we keep putting stuff in, but it just passes through – sometimes literally.

Jesus said, “I am the bread of life. He who comes to me will never go hungry.”

Maybe Jesus is saying if you chase your cravings, you will never get full. If you follow Jesus, the big hole in your soul finally gets filled. Whatever your craving and whenever it hits, first pause, and talk to Jesus. Tell him what you crave. Listen. It might surprise you to hear him say, “Satisfying that craving will only make you feel good for a while. I will fill you forever.” Maybe that’s what Paul meant when he talked about the “peace that passes all understanding.” That is a peace only Jesus can bring, a peace that stops you from being controlled by the cravings.

Does It Really Mean That?

I was the substitute teacher for the oldest ladies Sunday School class.  When you are the pastor of a small church, you are also the substitute teacher for every class, as well as the part-time janitor, occasional soloist, and professional exterminator.

I was called in one Sunday when the regular teacher called in sick.  I think she was faking it.  Sure she was 92, it was winter, flu season, and there was two inches of snow in the ground, but she could have made it if she had wanted to.  With little notice, I walked into a class of six older women who had braved the cold and the flu to be in church. 

Any one of these ladies could have taught the class.   They had all grown up in that church, accepted Christ in that fellowship, and been baptized in the name of the Father, the Son, and the Holy Spirit.   They had heard countless sermons, Wednesday devotionals, and sat in Sunday School longer than I had been alive.

That church was near one of the finest seminaries in the world.  Through the years, seminary professors had served as part-time pastors.   Some of the finest preachers Baptists ever produced preached from the pulpit.  Starting after World War II, a procession of doctoral students served as pastors, living in the stone parsonage the church had constructed next door to the historic building.  One former pastor read the text from the original Greek each Sunday. Pastors were often measured not by how well they did as pastor, but what they went on to do afterwards.  These brilliant students became professors, missionaries, denominational executives, and pastors of prominent churches.  Somehow, I wound up in that long, distinguished line.

So, there I was, twenty-five years old, teaching eighty- and ninety-year-old women on a chilly Kentucky Sunday morning.  The lesson was on the Sermon on the Mount, the part in Matthew 5 where Jesus says, “Love your enemies, pray for those who persecute you.”  As I taught through the passage, I noticed the attention of the women was slipping.  One class member looked out the window, one seemed to be studying the picture of the Last Supper behind my head, and a third was asleep.  I knew this because her upper plate had slipped, and her false teeth hung precariously in her open mouth.

I knew these women had heard all this before, so I went to the tried and true tool of every teacher to re-engage the class.   I asked them to name their enemies. 

The two or three women who were hanging with me, looked puzzled.  One of them spoke up and said, “I don’t believe I have any enemies.”  Something about the word “enemies” woke up the one sleeping woman.  She clicked her teeth back into place, and said, “Well I have had several enemas and believe they are no fun.”  The woman next to her poked her in the side and shushed her, saying, “He said enemies, not enemas.”

Things they never taught me in seminary: how to help older women know the difference between enemies and enemas. 

Sometimes when I preach or teach, thoughts come into my head.  I’m not always sure if they are from the devil or from God.  At this moment, a thought crossed my mind, and before I could stop, my mouth started moving: “An enemy is anyone who means you harm.  Someone who gossips about you (I knew this crowd had a black belt in gossip).  Someone who steals what you own or steals your husband.  Someone who wants to harm your country.  Someone who wants to hurt you and doesn’t care that you hurt.  Jesus says to love them.  And Jesus said we ought to pray for them.  How much of your prayer time is praying for people you don’t like?”

This actually seemed pretty obvious to me. 

There was stunned silence for a moment.  Apparently, despite all the great preaching and teaching these women had heard through the years, this was a new thought.  After an uncomfortable few seconds, Mrs. Sue Flowers, the matriarch of the church, fixed me with a stern gaze and pronounced, “Well, it doesn’t mean that.”

Funny how you can sit in church for decades and still not hear the plain meaning of Jesus’ words: “Love your enemies.  Pray for those who persecute you.”  Funny how people want to simply deny the plain meaning of words when the words make them squirm.

Mark Twain supposedly said, “Some people are troubled by the things in the Bible they can't understand. The things that trouble me are the things I can understand…”

I think Jesus meant what he said.  Whether it troubles us or not.  So, think the people who really get on your nerves.  People who have hurt you.  People who disagree with you politically.  Your obnoxious neighbor.  Your ex.  People who want to attack our country.  Jesus said Love them.  Pray for them.  The only question left is what are you going to do?

A Daughter Takes the Plunge…

Her father abandoned her family when she was a child. Unless that has happened to you, you cannot know the pain and confusion it causes a six-year-old. She wondered if it was something she had done. She longed to hear her dad’s voice, to have him explain why he left. A girl needs her daddy.

Contact through the years was sporadic. A phone call now and then. Lots of missed birthdays and Christmases. Like a lot of girls with father pain, she sought comfort in the arms of boyfriends. She was willing to do anything for their love. She got pregnant, married fast, got divorced, remarried. Her Dad was not there to guide her, encourage her, or stand by her.

Now she is forty-eight, and the call comes: Her dad is dying. Does she want to see him one last time?

There are many reasons to say “no.” The rest of the family has said “no” with a finality that deafens. Old memories and hurts flood her soul. She thinks about all the times she could have used a dad and he was not there. But something has changed for her. She found Jesus. She prayed to forgive her Dad. She tried her best to release her hurt. So, she makes the long trip to see her biological father one last time.

God was not in his picture, but death was. His steady decline was accelerating. Death was not at the front door, but it was walking up the sidewalk. She knows her Dad never went to church, never had a relationship with Jesus. Something in her soul says, “Tell your Dad about Jesus.”

So, she asks the “significant other” of eighteen years if she could talk to her father about Jesus. Bewildered before death, the woman said “yes.” In forty-eight-years she has never tried to lead another person to Jesus. She has heard the sermons, been given the material, but never has she felt the urgency like she does now. Her prayer is blunt, honest. It is not, “God, help me know what Jesus would do;” but “God, help me remember what my pastor said when my husband accepted Jesus.”

There is fear, naturally. But she takes the plunge. As best she knows how, she tells her Dad about Jesus, about God’s love, grace, and forgiveness. Her father listens. Then he indicates he wants Jesus in his heart. She leads him through a prayer. This man who hurt her so much asks God to forgive him and to take charge of his life.

An amazing moment follows. Her father’s other family, that she does not know, most of whom do not know Jesus, join hands, and she leads them all in prayer.

Three days later her father dies. Are there still issues? Of course. Part of the family is spitting mad at her. How could she go to their father’s side when he had hurt them all so much? They have not yet done the hard work of forgiveness. Part of the family is bewildered. They only know in his final days, the old man turned to God. It sounds too good to be true, that God would forgive a man like him.

But she can face the funeral because she has a peace. She took the plunge. She shared Jesus. Her Dad accepted grace.

I know this woman. She is a regular person who has hobbies and children and bills. She is an ordinary person, just like you. Just like me. But at a crucial moment, she summoned courage to take her next step – and help her father take his. She shared Jesus.

When God opens the door, when you feel the tug of your heart to speak of Jesus, when you feel the fear telling you to play it safe – take the plunge. It is your next step. Talk about knowing Jesus. Use your own words. Maybe nothing will happen. Maybe a miracle will happen. You never know until you take the plunge.

I know there is one man in heaven who is glad his daughter took the plunge. Maybe there will be someone in heaven who is glad you took the plunge too.

Fathers of the Bible…

Adam was the first father.  He had one son kill another.  Talk about a family feud.  I wonder what he said to Cain when he left home to get away from his reputation? 

Noah had three sons.  They apparently helped with the hundred-year ark building program and stuck by the old man during the year on the ark (the other choice involved a lot of treading water).  But after the flood was over, Noah got drunk one day and made a fool of himself.  One of his sons saw him naked, so Noah cursed his son by cursing his grandson.  Grandson: “Why doesn’t Grandpa like me?” Dad: “Well, he was passed out from drinking too much, naked as the day he was born…”   

Abraham sent his first born (Ishmael) away, because his first wife made him.  It was easier to make the boy and his mother pay the price of his poor judgment than fight with Sarah, his first wife.  Abraham was ready to offer his second born, Isaac, as an offering to God until God stopped him.  That made for awkward family memories: “Remember the time Dad almost killed you as a sacrifice?” 

Isaac had two boys as well, twins.  He learned nothing from the mistakes of his father.  He too favored one child over another.  When he mixed up the blessing meant for the first-born, Esau, giving it to Jacob, the younger, he made no attempt to reverse it.  He figured he would just let them fight it out, which they did.  For decades. 

Jacob had twelve boys from two wives and two concubines.  You thought your blended family was tough.  He favored one of the boys, Joseph, over the others.  His brothers had enough of it and sold their brother into slavery.  Sure, it turned out God was working the whole time to save Jacob and his family, but still, the relationships were strained.  After their father died, the brothers went to Joseph, who was a pretty high-up politician in Egypt, and said, “Dad said not to kill us.” That’s a pretty low bar for family ties.  If someone had ever asked Jacob how to have a close-knit family, I think he would have said, “Danged if I know how.”  

Manoah waited a long time to be a father.  When an angel told him he would be a dad, he asked for advice about how to raise the boy.  He wound up making sure Samson never cut his hair, but he gave in to every demand his son made.  He was a classic enabler.   Maybe he should have asked for a spine instead of wisdom.   

Samuel put his sons into the family business of leading God’s people.  They absorbed none of their Dad’s preaching.  They were supposed to be assistant judges but turned out to judges for sale, ready to sell a decision to the highest bidder.  It must of broke their Dad’s heart, what with him being a preacher and all.   

Saul hated his son’s best friend, David.  The boy drove him crazy – literally.  

David had a son rape his daughter; then another son killed the rapist son, and then the killer son rebelled against his dad. The whole thing turned into a war.  When his son is killed, David weeps, maybe because he realized he’d been such a lousy dad.  For a man after God’s own heart, his heart had to hurt because of the way his kids turned out. 

Solomon had so many wives and concubines he could hardly remember their names.  Must of made for awkward family meals: “Now are you the son of wife number 178 or wife 231?”  If therapists had existed in those days, I can imagine one of his sons saying to his therapist: “My dad didn’t even know my name!” 

I don’t know about you, but compared to these guys, I’m looking pretty good as a Dad. 

Why so many stories about failed fathers in the Bible?  Because none of us can be the perfect Dad.  We can do the best we can, but at the end of the day, we aren’t perfect and we can’t control our children.  It turns out that everyone is responsible for their own choices, their own decisions. 

In the Bible there is one perfect Father.  So, on this Father’s Day, if you are a Dad, accept His grace and ask for His help.  Stop trying to be the perfect Dad.  Admit your mistakes.  Your kids aren’t dumb; they know sometimes you just mess up.   

And cut your Dad some grace as well.  He wasn’t perfect.  No matter how bad he wounded you, try to remember he is a flawed person.  If you need help giving that grace, there is a Heavenly Father who can help you.  He’s the only Dad who ever had a perfect Son.   Because of their perfect relationship, your relationships can be better.  They will show you the way. 

Waiting…

I had a surgical procedure done on my knee this week.  Nothing big, the surgeon did a great job, and I am recovering nicely, thank you.   But with the COVID virus, the pre-surgery routine has changed.  My wife could not go back with me for the pre-op routine. 

For those of you unfamiliar with the pre-op routine, your name is called as you sit in the waiting room.  You follow a nurse back to a small room.  She will ask your full name and date of birth (this will happen many times).  She tells you to take off your clothes (yes, all of them) and put on a gown.  The gown, designed to make sure you do not leave the hospital, leaves you feeling exposed – because you are.  Various people come in and out, all asking your full name and date of birth.  You are repeatedly asked questions about your health: Ever had cancer?  Ever fainted?  Ever had a reaction to anesthesia?  Ever had a splinter?  Ever use a band-aid?  

Then you wait.  The nurse tells you it won’t be long.  There is no TV, my phone is bundled up with my clothes, and my wife is in the waiting room.  I am waiting alone. 

I began to pray.  Sure, I prayed for myself, for the surgeon, and for rapid healing.  I prayed for my family, my sister who has cancer, for people in church I pastor.  I prayed for the President, the Governor, and the Mayor.  I prayed for my city councilman.  I prayed for the church I shepherd.  

After an hour, the nurse came back in and explained the surgery before mine was taking longer than expected.  It was hip-replacement and there were complications.  I would have to wait a little longer.  No problem.  I understand these things happen and I want the surgeon to be thorough with all his patients, but especially me. I prayed some more.  I prayed for my neighbors, I prayed for people I work with, I prayed for people I know who are far from God.  

After waiting an hour and a half, I ran out of people to pray for.  So, I started thinking about chores I need to accomplish: spraying for weeds, changing the air-filters, cleaning out a desk drawer.  After I made my mental list of chores, I started one of my mental games: name all 46 counties in South Carolina (Horry, Georgetown, Charleston, Dorchester…).  I remembered 43, but I could not get the last three.  

The nurse came back in and said it would a little longer.  By now, I realized medical people have a different understanding of the word “little.”  When they say, “This will sting a little” they mean “This will sting like having a swarm of murderous hornets attack you.”  When they say, “You will feel a little pressure” they mean “This will feel like the garbage truck unloading the dumpster rolling across your chest.”  

I napped a few minutes.  I counted the holes in the ceiling tile.  I thought about lunch.  Finally, the man arrived to roll me back to surgery.  After three hours, I was on my way. 

I was only waiting for minor surgery.  There are people waiting for their cancer to go in remission.  There are people waiting for their spouse to keep his or her promise.  There are people waiting for the phone call from their child, telling them where they are. 

Whole groups of people are waiting to be treated justly.  They are waiting for racism or sexism to die. Children are waiting to be loved and adopted.  Young adults are waiting to be hired.  

People are waiting on God.  They are waiting on God to right the wrongs of this world, to clean everything up.  Sometimes, in our impatience, we tell God our timetable.  I wonder, when God hears those prayers, if he laughs or cries. 

God also waits on you.  He waits for you to get serious about your relationship with him.  He waits for honest prayer.  He waits for you to actually follow him, instead of yelling at him to come over to where you are.  God waits on you to accept his love, his grace, and his peace. 

God understands what it means to wait.  He waits with you.  He waits on you. Maybe the best thing you can do while you wait is ask him, “What do you want to talk about while we wait?” 

Racism Needs to Die…

If you don’t believe in God, racism is not a problem for you.  If there is no god, racism is the extension of Darwin’s theory of natural selection: the superior rises to supplant the inferior.  Therefore, it is only natural that whatever race adapts to changing conditions will thrive and other races will decline. 

Most religions in the history of mankind were nationalistic, with implied racism.  Each nation had their god or gods.  A nation’s gods were thought to favor them and stand against the enemies of the nation.  War was a contest to see whose god was greater, and thus whose race was superior.  If you conquered a nation, you felt the freedom to enslave that nation, because your god favored your race. 

The first hint in human history that this was not right was a promise given to a man named Abraham.  His God told him he would bless him and that all nations on earth would be blessed by him.  This was radical.  A nation would not fight to prove the power of their god, but would seek to bless other people, other races as a way to worship their God. 

The nation that sprang from Abraham never fully embraced this.  It was easier to be like every other nation and enslave the nations they conquered.  The people Israel conquered were objects to be killed or property to be taken, as slaves. God tried to warn them this was a perversion of justice, but they would not listen.  In God’s ironic judgment, Israel was conquered and enslaved.  But this did not break their ethnic pride.  Jews were still referred to people of other races as “dogs.”  You can figure out the modern slang equivalent. 

Then came Jesus.  He healed Jew and non-Jew alike.  He did not advocate a violent rebellion against the hated Roman conquerors who occupied Palestine.  He dared to say, “Love your enemies, do good to those who persecute you.”  He was the first person in history to say something that courageous, that radical. 

Jesus made it clear that everyone, no matter their race, had the same problem: sin.  Sin could not fix itself, so he would die on a cross and be raised from the dead to break the power of sin and bring us to new life, eternal life.  To his followers, this meant they could never claim superiority over any other race, because everyone needed Jesus. 

After Jesus ascended into heaven, it took a while for his followers to get how radical Jesus’ kingdom was to be.  They first told the good news to people just like them.  Then the good news spread to Samaritans, who they despised. The good news broke out to people of different cultures, races, and by 60 AD, there was hundreds of small communities of Jesus followers who ate together, worshiped together, and served together.  They had different racial backgrounds, but they had one thing in common: they had all experienced the amazing grace of Jesus. 

So why is racism a sin for Christians?  Racism is the belief that I am better than you because I am a different race than you.  This is a direct contradiction of the gospel.  I cannot see myself as better than you because I am a sinner in need of grace like you.  Even if you are different than me, believe different than me, hold values different than me, I am commanded by my Savior to love you.  Last time I checked, refusing to do what God wants me to do is a sin.  That sin must be confessed and forgiven. 

The challenge of racism in our era is its cleverness.  Sure, we have made progress.  Schools are integrated and there are no more signs over bathrooms and water-fountains saying, “Whites only.”  But racism still lives in the dark corner of our souls when we see a person of another race and make a judgment about him or her based on the color of their skin.  I must ask myself, “If a black man jogs by my house, do I feel threatened?  If I do, what does that say about me?” 

Racism only dies when people are willing to do the hard work of examining their own hearts.  “Search me, O God, and know my heart … See if there is any offensive way in me…. (Psalm 139:23-24).”  If God told you there was racism in your heart, would you listen?  Would you confess it and ask for forgiveness? 

Given the state of our nation, what would happen if all of us were brave enough to pray, “God, see if there is any offensive way in me.”  Only then would racism die.  And it needs to die.  In you.  In me.  Let it die. 

Patience…

I am not a patient person; few people are.  On a scale of one to ten, my urgency is in the high nineties.  Being a Southerner, I know not to be rude, but I do not understand why people at the Drive-thru window take ten minutes to give their money and get their food.  Come on people, I have places to go, people to see, fish to fry. 

COVID19 has slowed me down.  I have no places to go, no people to see, no fish to fry.  Being stuck in the house all day long brings my anxiety out in full force.  When my wife asks me how my day went, I feel like a broken record: answered email, made calls, got ready for Sunday.  Setting fire to the furniture is starting to sound exciting, just to break up the day. 

Technology is not helping me be patient.  If I must wait in line or wait for my doctor, my phone beckons me to check my email, send a text, read the news, or play a game.  I thought about downloading a meditation app the other day, but I’m afraid it would take too long.  Though I don’t agree with the protesters who demand opening the economy and letting people die, I understand them.  After nine weeks of quarantine your judgment gets warped in the direction of “Let’s do something!”  When urgency and anxiety take control, wisdom is the first casualty.  One definition of patience I saw said, “Patience is what you have when there are too many witnesses.”  One dictionary says patience is “the capacity to accept or tolerate delay, trouble, or suffering without getting angry or upset.”  When I was a child and asked, “How much longer till we get there,” my mother defined patience as “Be patient or I will give you something to be patient about”  That definition made no sense to me, but I kept my mouth shut the rest of the trip. 

In the Bible, patience is waiting with hope.  When God is present in your life, he brings patience to you.  Patience flows out of your soul as resilience, peace, and steadfastness.  A good Biblical word, “long-suffering,” is a byproduct of patience.  You hope because you know you are not in charge; God is. Jesus, perfect in every way, was patient.  He is never described as being in a hurry.  Once a man begged him to come and heal his daughter.  Jesus agreed and was on the way to the man’s house.  A woman touched him and was healed.  Jesus stopped his errand and focused on this woman, pronouncing a blessing over her faith.  When word came that the daughter had died, Jesus did not say, “If only I hadn’t stopped for that other woman!”  Instead, he calmly proceeded to the home and brought the daughter back. Jesus was cool under pressure. 

Over and over God is described as patient. He was definitely “long-suffering” with the Israelites, who would give themselves completely to him one moment, then turn and worship other gods the next.  If I were God, I would have wiped them out on the second mess up and started over.  But God stuck with his people for centuries.  He tried to get their attention with prophets, with foreign conquerors.  If patience was graded on a ten-point scale, God gets a million points. 

Think how patient God is with you. You promised him over and over you would improve your life: you would start that diet, stop your temper, work on your relationships, be more generous.  Maybe you know you need to stop the pattern of self-destruction in your life.  The cycle of self-sabotage and shame needs to end.  You want to fix it all today, but your soul doesn’t seem to work that way.  But God does not let go of you.  He does not give up on you.  He hangs in there with you, patient with the messiness of your life. 

My favorite verse in the Bible is Isaiah 40:31: “Those that wait upon the Lord will renew their strength.  They will mount up with wings like eagles, they will run and not grow weary, they will walk and not faint.”  Learning to wait on God is energy renewing.  It requires surrendering your timetable, your agenda, your anxiety, your urgency to God.  To wait on God means you open yourself to receive his gift of patience. 

How do you do this?  Take a minute, just a minute.  Still your soul.  Close your eyes.  Repeat: “Not my will but yours.”  Feel your heart-rate slow.  Feel your breaths lengthen.  Say it again: “Not my will but yours.”  Hear God’s gentle whisper back: “Now you are on the right timetable. – mine.” 

Fox in the Neighborhood…

Gina and I were coming home from a visit with family after dark.  It had been a long trip and we were both tired.  It wasn’t yet my bedtime, but it was getting close.  The night was clear, crisp, and cool.  We rounded the corner onto our street, our house just fifty yards away.  The headlights on my truck swept over a creature, sitting like a dog, in the vacant lot catty-corner from our house.  It was a fox.

Growing up in the country, I was taught foxes were not our friends.  They ate Aunt Neta’s chickens.  An animal that stood between me and Aunt Neta’s fried chicken was my mortal enemy.  But beyond the fact that they ate chickens, not much reason was given about why foxes were “undesirables.”  Foxes are omnivores.  Maybe the fear was a fox would try to kill a calf or eat ripe oranges off the tree.  I don’t remember ever hearing of a fox killing a calf.  Frankly if I had to bet on a momma cow defending her calf or a fox, I’d bet on the momma cow every time.

It could be people didn’t like foxes because foxes seemed to know how to outsmart human beings.  They avoided the traps Uncle Earl set to try to catch them.  They would loop back when being chased by dogs and throw them off the trail. We actually talk about this.  To “outfox” someone means to think ahead of them, to gain an advantage over them.  Who likes that?

In some places there are fox hunts.  Hounds are released and people on horseback follow.  At home, though we had horses and guns, we never organized fox hunts.  Usually we saw a fox’s bushy tail as he was running away.  Foxes can run thirty miles-an-hour.  My running is measured at about 30 feet a minute.

I don’t know when my attitude about foxes began to change.  Maybe it was when Disney produced The Fox and The Hound.  The film describes a friendship between a fox and a hound.  They grew up as friends but had to navigate tricky expectations when they came of age.  Or maybe it was Zootopia, a Disney/Pixar film about a rabbit who becomes a police officer and partners with a small-time con artist, a fox.  When I am out in the woods or at the pasture and see a fox, it is a treat, not threat.

Now I had a fox in my neighborhood.  He was frozen in my headlights for a second or two.  He’d been eating some trash in the vacant lot, scavenging for food.  I don’t know how a fox’s brain works, whether they have the same “fight or flight” response as humans.  This fox decided it was time to run.  He sprang from his seated position, turned, and ran into the woods, his meal interrupted.

The fox has been on my mind this week.  He really wasn’t bothering anyone.  He was just trying to survive.

Ahmaud Arbery was out for a jog in Brunswick, Georgia.  Sickening video tape shows two men with guns trying to stop him.  There was a struggle.  Arbery was shot three times and died. 

It has taken over two months for charges to be filed against the two men involved, Travis McMichael and Travis McMichael, father and son.  Though I hate to say it, the McMichaels are white; Arbery is black.  The older McMichael recently retired as an investigator for the District Attorney’s office.  He stated he thought Ahmaud was a suspect in a burglary. 

A video surveillance tape has surfaced showing Arbery entering a house under construction and looking around.  He is not seen taking anything.   I’ve done exactly what Arbery did.  While on a walk, I’ve gone into houses under construction and looked around.  It’s fun to see how people are laying out their homes.  If looking around is a crime, a lot of us are guilty. Was Arbery trying to steal something?  We’ll never know. 

What I do know is this: everyone has a right to go for jog without being afraid of being shot because of the color of their skin.  A young man’s life has ended.  His life mattered to God. 

Maybe I’ve thought about the fox this week because of the Arbery shooting.  The fox in my neighborhood is just trying to survive.  That fox reminds me everyone has a right to live.  It is the most important right of all.   

Small Signs of Hope…

This week I drove past a mom and her three small children riding bikes on the sidewalk.  The mom was bringing up the rear, like a mother goose herding her goslings.  The oldest child rode confidently at the head of the line, showing the way.  The two smaller children had training wheels on their bikes.  They would peddle a little way, turn and look back to make sure mom was there, and then peddled again.   

As I passed them by, I thought how training wheels are small signs of hope.  They are there for the time between when you first mount a bike and when you can balance on two wheels.  The training wheels seem to say, “One day you will not need us; you can ride on your own.  But right now, we are here to give you enough stability to get to the future.”  Hope is what carries us from here to there. 

I checked my small garden one afternoon this week.  My tomato plants are growing like crazy.  I see the small yellow flowers that very soon will be red tomatoes.  I thought how every flower on the vine is a small sign of hope: something is growing here.  It is not here yet, but it will be.  Hope always has a starting point. 

I did a wedding for a couple last year.  Not too long ago, they sent me a picture of their ultrasound (pregnancy came quickly!).  I could make out the baby’s head, arms, and legs.  This baby in just a few weeks of growth has become a complex being.  He has months to go before he is ready to enter the world, but the pictures are a small sign of hope.  There is new life coming.  He will be greeted with joy.  But his arrival must not be rushed.  Hope needs time to grow and mature. 

I talked this week with someone who has cancer.  She has been waiting to see her treatment team.  Waiting is the hardest work of all.  The meeting happened this week.  The doctors laid out their recommendations and showed her the plan.  Her team is optimistic.  A treatment plan is small sign of hope.  There is a direction now, a schedule.  Hope flourishes when there is a plan. 

I’ve been preaching a message series about Body and Soul.  I’ve gotten dozens of emails telling me the messages are speaking to them.  Most the messages I’ve received share the same thought: “I never thought about my body that way before.”  When someone tells me that, I know it’s a compliment to God, not to me.  But the compliments do give me joy.  People are thinking differently.  Thinking differently about your body, your marriage, your friendships, even your kids is a small sign of hope.  Hope requires a shift in thinking. 

Where I live, in South Carolina, we are having the prettiest spring in 20 years.  We’re between the dark, damp days of winter and the baking heat of summer.  Normally spring in South Carolina lasts a week.  Right now, we are on beautiful week number eight.  Every day seems to invite us to go outside, to enjoy the weather, the birds, and flowers.  Each cool morning is a small sign of hope.  Each cool evening invites us to live in this moment, to savor the gifts of breeze and refreshment.  Hope requires you to savor the moments, because they come only once. 

Each day I listen to the news and hear another report about COVID19.  Each day brings news of more deaths, more cases.  I wish the newscasters would share the number of people who are recovering.  I try to remember to do the math.  In South Carolina, 6,757 confirmed cases. Deaths: 283.  I’ve forgotten how to do ratios, but it is a small sign of hope that most people with the virus are not dying.  Hope needs to be reminded about reality. 

I think God sends us small signs of hope, no matter what our crisis.  It is his way of encouraging us, telling us he is still at work, even when things look bad.  We don’t need to be led by our fears.  Maybe a prayer for you to pray is for God to show you small signs of hope.  They are out there.  It’s not a matter of just opening your eyes; it’s a matter of opening your soul. 

Your Body is a Gift…

We are thinking about our bodies these days.  More than ever we’re conscious of touch, cough, and fever.  Wearing a mask to shop is the new normal in America.  I bought a pair of chemical safety gloves that go up to my elbows at the farm store the other day.  It’s part of my new shopping outfit. 

Unless you are a professional athlete or really into fitness, we don’t think about our bodies much.  Once we get past about age four, we expect our bodies to respond on command.  When was the last time you thought seriously about putting your left foot in front of your right foot?  Unless, of course, your body has been damaged.  I’ve been in a Physical Therapy room when a person recovering from a stroke took his first step back, using intense concentration to force damaged neural pathways back into use.  Cheers broke out that day. 

Few of us ever think about breathing.  After a brief outpatient procedure, I was told I would not be released from the hospital until I could make a little marker reach a certain level by blowing in a tube.  Piece of cake, I thought.  People are always telling me I’m full of hot air.  I blew and blew until I was blue and kept falling short.  Suddenly breathing became very important. 

It’s easy to forget your body is a gift.  God gave you a body as part of your soul.  You get to carry yourself around with your own personal transportation pod, energy plant, and information processing system.  When something happens to your body, it impacts your whole being.  I read about a man who lost both legs in Iraq.  His biggest challenge, he said, was not learning to walk with two prosthetic legs.  Instead, his biggest challenge was finding out who he was now that he was missing two of his original parts. 

I remember a conversation I was a part of with a pediatric ear, nose, and throat physician.  I was there as pastor, and he was speaking to a mom whose child was about to have surgery on her ears.  The physician was explaining the procedure, pointing out the intricacies of the ear: the bones, the ear drum, the nerves.  Then he paused and said, “I don’t know what you believe, but when I look at the exquisite design of the ear, I can’t believe it just happened.  It had to be designed.  Only God could design something so amazing.”  I wanted to shout: “Praise the Lord and pass the offering plate!” 

Your body is designed by God.  Nothing humans have constructed comes close to your body’s ability to multi-function, learn, move, and process.  Think about it.  Right now, with no conscious effort on your part, your lungs are converting oxygen to energy.  Your stomach and intestines are converting carbs, proteins, and fats into energy, storing up what is not needed for future use.  You are the owner of a very impressive chemical plant, compacted into about 1.76 cubic feet.  If your personal chemical plant stops functioning, especially your lungs, get right with God because death is imminent. 

How do you feel about God’s gift to you?  I know some of us would like to trade our bodies in for another model.  You might pray: “God, please send me a new body.  I would like one that lets me eat whatever I want, but not gain weight.  Give me one that doesn’t require exercise to stay strong.  How about some upgrades in the looks department?  And God, would you please send my new body with a follicle upgrade?  The follicles in this one failed early.” 

The truth is no one’s body is perfect.  We’re born into a broken, sinful world and some of that sin warped us from birth.  Whatever struggles you have with your health, with your body, God offers you grace.  He loves you not for your strength, not for your looks, but because you are you.   

When your body gets sick, it is good and right to ask God to heal you.  It is also good and right to ask God what you are to learn from your illness.    But it is also good and right to take care of the gift God has given you.   

An old-time preacher was criticizing an older lady in his congregation for getting her hair done and wearing makeup.  When he finished, the lady looked at the preacher and said, “Preacher, I think God wants me to do the best I can with what I have.  I am trying my best.  And frankly preacher,” she said, as she poked him in his bulging stomach, “I think you need to try a little harder yourself.” 

Maybe one lesson from all we are going through is to try a little harder to take care of this amazing gift God has given each us, our bodies. 

Coping with Quarantine…

It feels like Day 2,132 of quarantine.  In reality it’s been only a few weeks.  We’ve all had to find ways to cope. 

Extroverts are suffering more than the rest of us.  They keep ordering take-out just to see people.  Introverts only thought they liked social isolation.  They’ve binge watched everything possible on Netflix and are now watching reruns of MASH on YouTube.   

Thank goodness for good weather.  Most of the yards in my neighborhood now look like Augusta National Golf Course.  People who’ve never had a houseplant have put in gardens.  Ditto for home repair projects.  I actually talked to a man recently who told me he had finished all the home repair projects he’d put off for years and was now reorganizing his attic.  I told him to come over to my house when he got done. 

I’ve never seen so many people exercising.  I see walkers and runners out every day.  Old bikes are being rescued from forgotten corners of garages.  I saw a six-foot tall man riding a pink bike with a banana seat and high-rise handlebars.  You make do with what you have. 

With restaurants closed, home cooking is making a comeback.  I saw on Instagram a woman charting the progress of her “starter” for sour-dough bread.  I sent her message volunteering to be her taste-tester.  I told her, “Have butter, will travel.” 

My fisherman friends are spending a lot of time on the water, though I’m not sure how they are getting their boats in the lake.  I live on a little pond, and neighbors I’ve never seen fish are out there.  Most of them are throwing back what they catch, although I’ve heard rumors a couple of them are experimenting with homemade sushi. 

Sport fans like me are suffering.  When March Madness was called off, all the men who had scheduled their vasectomies in order to binge watch basketball were regretting their decisions (probably on their timing).  Some people enjoy watching reruns of games; I’m not one of them.  I know who won the National Championship in 2010 (Duke).  I don’t really enjoy watching baseball or golf on TV, but to watch reruns of games and matches seems like an Ambien prescription to me. 

I’m catching up on my reading.  Yesterday I read an entire book at one sitting.  It was “Cat in the Hat.”  Just practicing for my time with my yet-to arrive grandchild.  I’m reading the newspaper more slowly.  Believe it or not, there are still classified ads.     

Lust has become a problem for me.  I’m lusting after used tractors with front-end loaders.  Night after night I look at the Facebook marketplace to see what’s available.  You never know when it might be handy to have one.  So far, only one person has met my price: $25.  Turns out he was offering a John Deere scale model toy. 

I’ve been seized with the urge to ramble.  I now understand the idea of a Sunday drive.  The other day I loaded up the dogs and drove nowhere.  They enjoyed letting their ears flap and I needed to see something beside the four walls of the house. 

Watching the news is important to me now.  I’d forgotten we had local news on TV.  I find myself hoping for a report that the case numbers and deaths are going down.  The good thing about the local news is there is no playful banter among the news staff; they’re all in separate rooms or at home. 

I’m spending more time in intentional prayer.  I pray more deeply for people I love and for people I know.  I’m hearing God speak to places in my soul I wish he would leave alone.  Quarantine has arrested the business of life and opened up space in my heart.  “Be still and know that I am God” is easier, now that meetings are suspended. 

Most of all, quarantine is teaching me to cope with hope.  Quarantine will end.  The threat of COVID-19 will pass.  We’ll eat out again.  Meetings will resume.  Kids will go back to school.  We will all find a new normal. 

Followers of Jesus are people of hope.  We wait for our quarantine on earth to end, wait for the day when the sin virus no longer contaminates our world and our souls.  But our hope is not in a change of circumstance.  Our hope is in a person, a Savior.   

To hope in Jesus means you know that no matter what is happening in you or around you, he has promised you something better.  That hope he sealed with his death on the cross and guaranteed with his resurrection.  Put your life in his hands and his promise is your hope. 

The Last Time this Happened…

Despite what my children think, I am too young to remember World War II.  My parents, however, lived through that time.  It was the last time in American history when everyone’s life changed.

We forget there was rationing.  People were allotted only a certain amount of meat, sugar, and butter.  Only the sugar was problem for my people; they had cattle and a milk cow.  It was hard on one cousin, however.  He had a still in the swap and needed sugar for the shine. 

Tires and gasoline were rationed.  When my parents got married, my Uncle J.N., who had a service station, swapped out tires for my Daddy so he and Mama could drive off on their honeymoon.  I don’t know how they scrounged up the gas.

Household goods were not easily obtained.  Electricity had come to my family’s ranch, but they couldn’t buy a refrigerator.  Daddy knew Mr. J.W. Crews had a refrigerator in his camp house and somehow talked him into letting him have it until he could buy one. 

Every town within a hundred miles of the coast organized lookouts for enemy planes.  People grew victory gardens so they could get fresh vegetables.  There was no television, but almost everyone had a radio and listened hungrily to the nightly news. 

The young men were off fighting and those too old to fight were being pushed to produce.   Women started doing work they had never done before.  My mother attended Florida Southern College during the war.  There were almost no male students.  The women were expected to help constructing new buildings on campus.  My mother told of pushing wheelbarrows of concrete to build sidewalks across the campus.  In those days, you rolled up your sleeves and you did what you had to do.

My father was not drafted and did not volunteer.  He was a farmer, and the sole provider of his mother.  He fought the war by growing the food that was needed.  Other family members went off to war.  My step-father Lawrence trained as a pilot and flew B-24s.  My cousin Top Barlow parachuted into Sicily and Italy and landed at Anzio.  My Uncle Pete joined the navy.  Once, he roped a practice torpedo to get it back on board the ship.  To win World War II, everyone had to do their part.  

The wars that followed World War II were different.  They were distant affairs.  Korea and Vietnam were difficult because it was hard to know what winning looked like.  The war was fought by draftees, while the elite took deferments in college or grad school. 

In the first Gulf War, the military mobilized, but nothing was rationed.  After 9-11, again we went to war, the war we are still in.  Again, it has been hard to define victory.  Families of military members are impacted.  In a town like mine, with a large base, it is our neighbors who go off and fight and return.  Sometimes, they don’t come back.  But most for most our country, this war is a headline, a campaign issue.  Amazon is still bringing us everything we need.

The Corona Virus Pandemic is the first time since World War II every American’s life has changed.  Whatever normal was for us three weeks ago has changed.  Getting toilet paper and Lysol has become a quest.  We’re working from home.  Churches have gone virtual.  In my town, the movie theater, the car wash, and the YMCA have all shut down.  People are losing jobs.  Medical workers are courageously going in to wage war on a virus that can’t be seen with the naked eye.  School is out.  Teachers are teaching virtually.  It is looking like there will be no graduation from kindergarten or college this year, just a diploma in the mail.

The good news is people are adjusting.  We’re figuring it out.  Yes, we are fighting anxieties and some depression, but we’re fighting.  We will get through this.  COVID19 will not last forever.   There is more resilience in people than we think.

Through all these difficult days, we need to remember God is with us.  At the end of his life, after the people of God had wandered in the wilderness for forty years, Moses reminded his people: “The Lord has blessed you in all the work of your hands.  He has watched over your journey through this vast desert.  These forty years, the LORD your God has been with you and you have not lacked anything (Deuteronomy 2:7).” 

The Lord is watching over us.  No matter how long this lasts, no matter how abnormal these days, the Lord is watching over us.  Thanks be to God.

No Turning Back…

We were working cows and I was running them down the alley to the chute.  Older cows have been through this before and know what to do.  The cows are brought into a smaller pen where they can be examined.  Then the gate-man sends them through one at a time down the alley where the man on the parting gate will swing gates to different pens, depending on the signals he receives.  Some cows are turned out; others are put in a pen to sell; and others are sent to the chute to be doctored. 

Heifers (young female cows that have not yet had a calf) are new at this.  For most of them, the last time they went down the alley to the chute, they were branded, given a shot, and ear-tagged.  Not the kind of experience you want to repeat.  Most of the heifers are understandably a little slow and merely need a slap on the rump or poke with a hot-shot to get them moving in the right direction.  However, there are always one or two that have a glint of crazy in their eye.

I’ve seen heifers try to jump a six-foot fence to avoid the chute (one succeeded, pulling off the top board.  I suggested we enter her in the Cow Olympics).  Sometimes heifers will try to turn around.  This is not as easy as it sounds.  Most alleys are 30 inches wide.  For a cow to turn around, they have to turn their neck back, climb halfway up the fence and come down facing the opposite direction.

One of the last heifers we were working had that touch of crazy cowmen dread.  She hesitated in front of the open gate.  I came behind her and gave her a touch with the hot-shot.  She went ahead into the alley and stopped.  I came up behind her and slapped her rump.  She took two halting steps forward, then stopped again.

Sometimes a cowman has to get right up behind a cow and use his weight.  I was skinnier in those days and leaned as hard as I could.  I was more annoyance than motivation.  Some helpful soul lean over with a hot-shot and gave her another charge.  She lashed with a rear hoof, just missing my knee.

When all else fails working cows, occasionally preaching helps.  I said, “Come on darling (can’t hurt to be charming to females), move on up.  For heaven’s sake, move on up!”  I pleaded with her like an old sawdust tent preacher.  Finally, the spirit moved her and she took another step forward.  Then she decided to turn around.  She bent her neck and I saw her eyes, bulging at me, that crazy light glowing brighter. She climbed the fence with her two front hooves and got her whole body around in seconds.  I saw blood flowing where she cut herself on the fence.  Now we had a standoff. 

I tried to reason with her: “Darling, if you will just back up into the chute, we’ll pour a little medicine on you and then you will be just fine.  We’ll turn you loose and you will be back eating grass in a hour.”

For a moment I thought I had persuaded her.  She took two steps back.  This would be easy, I thought.  I’ll back her into the chute.  It won’t matter which way she’s facing when she gets the medicine poured on her. 

Her back hoof hit the floor of the chute.  Then she reached the end of reason.  Whatever was back there, she wanted no part of it.   Her crazy self took over. She charged right at me.  Keep in mind she and I together are wider than 30 inches.  I had no time to climb the fence.  The best I could do was turn sideways to present a narrower target.  She made for the gap between my backside and the fence.  Her head and neck cleared me just fine, but then her rib cage and mine were filling all available space.  Her ribs became a bulldozer blade, pushing me against the fence and dragging me along. 

I must have been drug about 10 feet, though it felt like ten miles.  When we reached the gate, her speed accelerated, and her momentum pushed me to the ground.  Every cowman will soon or later be run over by a cow and this was my time.  There’s nothing to do but pick yourself up, make sure all extremities are intact, and go again.  This time, I ran (limped) after her, and she went straight down the alley, into the chute.  Miraculous. 

It’s easy to get scared about the direction God wants you to go.  Even if you get so scared you turn around, God gives you another chance.  Even if you’ve run over some people along the way.  But your life is better when you go God’s direction the first time.  It’s easier on everybody. 

There’s a reason a favorite hymn of cowboys is “I have Decided to Follow Jesus, no turning back, no turning back.”  Turn backs leave everybody banged up.

Burdens…

If you do what I do, people tell you their stories.  Their stories sometimes amaze me, sometimes humble me, and sometimes, their stories break my heart.

A few weeks ago, a man with all his hair and a flat stomach told me a year ago he attempted suicide.  On the outside, he looked so put together.  He was better now, he said, but the darkness still crept up on him.

A man I respect broke down weeping as he talked to me because his wife went to the doctor and heard the word “cancer.”  I always thought this man was the tough type; his tears surprised me.  “I don’t know what I would do without her,” he sobbed. 

I was out walking the dogs and a couple I know drove by.  They stopped and we chatted.  Before I knew it, they were telling me their worries about one of their children and that child’s sexual orientation.  They were struggling: how did they reconcile their faith and the love they had for their child?

A friend of mine, whose skin color happens to be a different color than mine, told me how he worries about his grandson, who just got his driver’s license.  “I’ve told him if he gets stopped to be polite and do what the officer says, but what if something goes wrong?” he says.  “I just don’t know what I would do if I had to bury my grandson because someone else made a mistake.” 

I got an email from a man who read something I wrote.  He told me his story, how both his sons ended their life by suicide.  The heaviness in his heart was in every word.  He told me some days were better than others, but most days were still hard.

It has been over 50 years since she opened the door to the Army officer who brought her news that her son was killed in action in Vietnam.  She’s a small woman, quiet.  Most people don’t know how she mourns the loss of her only child, who died at nineteen, in a flawed war. 

She was weeping on the couch in my office.  Her husband had left her for a younger woman.  She stammered over and over, “What am I going to do?”  She wasn’t talking about raising her kids alone or making ends meet.  She was talking about the dam-busting flood of emotions swirling in her soul.

We passed each other in the hall and I asked, “How are you?”  She said, “Not too good.”  That’s a cue to stop and listen.  Then she told me she had miscarried earlier in the week.  It wasn’t the first time.  “Why can’t I keep a baby?  What’s wrong with me?”

I hear stories like these again and again.  Sometimes I wish I possessed a magic powder that would take away the pain.  I wish I could speak magic words and their burdens could be lifted. Despite what you may have read in Harry Potter, magic isn’t real. 

What I can do is what Jesus did: I can be with them.  When one of Jesus’ friends, Lazarus died, Jesus made the journey to be with his sisters.  Yes, he did the miracle of raising Lazarus from the dead, but before he did that, he let them know he understood their burdens.  He listened to them.  He wept with them.  He was there.  Isn’t that what we need to do?  We don’t need to give answers.  We need to offer help.  Listen.  Be there.

Every person I know carries a burden.  They may not talk about it, or talk about it to you, but it is there.  Before we rush to condemn anyone, we ought to pause and remember they carry a burden.  I’m pretty sure the world would be a better place if we could be selfless enough to remember people carry a heavy load.  Maybe we would gossip less.  Maybe our posts on Facebook wouldn’t be so vicious. 

Peter, one of Jesus’ closest friends, carried burdens.  He betrayed his friend.  He too often said the wrong thing at the wrong time.  In his old age, he wrote these beautiful words, “Cast all your cares upon Him, for He cares for you.”  Peter had discovered that his friend Jesus was there to help him carry his burden.

Whatever burden you carry; Jesus invites you to put the burden on his strong back.  He cares for you, cares enough to carry your burden.

Trust the Father’s Laugh …

I never cared for fishing. I liked catching, mind you. It’s fishing that is boring.

My stepfather loved to fish. It must have been a carryover from his childhood, when fishing was the only acceptable excuse for not being in the fields, planting, hoeing, or picking. Pop’s idea of a good day fishing was to get there before the sun came up and stay way past sundown. Many a time I was told to go to the front of the boat and hold a flashlight so Pop could navigate back to the landing. Those were long days on the water for a boy.

The only thrill of fishing was getting to drive the boat. When no other boats were around and there was nothing to run into, Pop would let me steer. Alan Jackson sang a song about this, with a line that said, “I was king of the ocean, when Daddy let me drive…” Still, steering the boat for five minutes out and five minutes on the way back was a small part of the day. Pop would usually pack some crackers and sardines (breakfast of champions), some Vienna sausage, and some Little Debbie snack cakes

When I was thirteen, I thought I was old enough to stay home instead fish. I told my parents this, and I was told I was going and that was that. I pleaded to bring a book. I was told there was no need for a book because I would be fishing. You can’t fish and read at the same time.

We left the house at six in the morning and were on the water by seven. Pop loved to fly fish. I was casting, getting hung up on stumps and cat tails. Pop caught two or three small ones, Momma had caught one and I had caught nothing. We had a Little Debbie break about 9:30, crackers and Vienna sausage at noon, and the fish still weren’t biting.

I had enough experience to know the only thing that would drive us off the lake was a thunderstorm. About 1:30 in the afternoon, I started to pray for rain. Reluctant teenage fishermen make for fervent prayer warriors. I bargained with God, telling him I would never covet my neighbor’s donkey (it was easy; our neighbor didn’t have a donkey). I promised God I would never force my servants to work on the Sabbath (also an easy give-away). I was working my way up to more extravagant promises when I saw a small black cloud in the distance.

We were fishing on Lake Arbuckle, right on the border of the Avon Park Bombing Range. My little slice of Florida is the thunderstorm capital of the world. In fifteen minutes, the wind was blowing hard and whitecaps were forming on the lake. Pop told me to pull up the anchor while he stowed the gear. Then he did the strangest thing. Pop told me to crank the boat and steer it to the landing.

I thought I mis-heard him. Me? Thirteen years old? Drive the boat to the landing in the face of a storm? Still, this was an opportunity too good to miss.

Ever tried to out-run a storm in a fifteen-foot boat with a 65-horsepower outboard motor? It’s not as easy as it sounds. I had to steer straight into the wind. The boat rose on each wave-crest and then slammed into the trough. The waves were getting higher, the wind was blowing stronger and raindrops the size of quarters were popping on the water, on the boat, and on our skin. You could see the rain sheets moving across the lake. God was answering my prayer and then some.

Despite being thirteen and bullet-proof, I was scared. It was one thing to steer the boat when the lake was calm; it was another thing to navigate through the storm. Surely, I thought, any minute Pop would come up and say, “Better let me drive.” But I never felt the tap on my shoulder. I began to calculate the odds of my reaching fourteen.

We slammed down into another trough and the rain shifted to a driving flood that stung. I heard something in the boat come loose. This would the moment Pop would come and take the wheel.

I looked behind me, and on the back-bench seat of the boat was my stepfather, his arm around my mother – laughing.

When I saw him laughing, I decided this storm wasn’t so bad after all. If my father was laughing, this was an adventure to enjoy, not a tragedy in the making.

We made it to the landing, loaded the boat, and went home soaked to the bone. But I will always remember the lesson of that day: When your Father is laughing, there is no need to fear the storm.

No matter what storm you face, your heavenly Father can be with you. You might even hear him laugh.

Tell Me About It

She switched to beer from whiskey to dull the pain of being alone in the bar another night.  Tom, the bartender was her friend, as long as she told him to pour another round.  She wasn’t sure how she had gotten in such a dark place. 

A cheerleader in high school, she was one of the popular girls.  One night in the backseat of the quarterback’s Camaro she gave up her virginity.  In return, she got a cold shoulder at school the next day.  She wept and wept in the girl’s bathroom, but then made up her mind she’d never let anyone know how much she hurt.

She slept with the quarterback’s best friend to pay him back.  She became the life of the party, everyone’s favorite girl for a good time.  College was living for the weekend.  When a friend told her she was drinking too much, she replied she could quit anytime she wanted to.  She wanted to, sometimes, but the alcohol had become her friend, her comfort.

Past college, she had a couple of long-term relationships, but every time she hinted about marriage, the guy withdrew.  In her bed, the tears sometime returned.  She wondered if the guys loved her or were just using her. 

She was fired from her last job for showing up late one too many mornings.  An expert excuse-maker, she’d begun to believe her own lies.  It was unfair, she told her family, but their sympathy was thin, worn out from being lied to one too many times.  She hated the job she had now; she took it only for the money.  It was getting harder and harder to keep her facade together.  Most mornings she was hungover; it took the first hour at work for the cobwebs to clear and for her to be coherent.  The blackouts scared her most.  Some mornings she woke up and couldn’t remember a thing from the day before.

While she was drowning her thoughts in her whiskey, a man sat down beside her.  She waited for the pick-up line before she stole a glance to see what response he would get.  He ordered a Perrier.  Tom, the bartender had to ask him to repeat it.  After he twisted off the top, she said, “That’s kind of strange drink to order in a bar.”

He chuckled and said, “I’m a little different.”  Then she stole a glance.  He was early thirties, beard, and looked like he had worked construction.  Something about him made her lean in and ask, “Different ‘good’ or different ‘bad?’”

“Just different,” he said.  “What about you?”

“Different bad, definitely,” she replied.

He paused and said, “That’s interesting.  Tell me about it.”

Before she knew it, she was telling him her whole sad story.  Maybe it was the whiskey, or his kind smile, or her own heart so full of pain, or the way he nodded, like he understood.  She told him about the one-night stands, the nightly doses of whiskey, the loneliness of her life, and the sinking feeling she had that this was to be her life, one night after another, starving for love and thirsty for the next drink.  She even told him about the abortion she’d had in college, that no one knew about, not even her family.  Part of her expected him to get up and walk away, but he stayed right there.  He was there, listening to her, to first person to really listen to her in years.

When she paused in her tale, he spoke up: “Life doesn’t have to be that way, you know.”  With acid in her voice, she said, “Yeah, it would be nice if I could start over.”

“Why don’t you?” he said.  “How would I do that?” was her skeptical reply.

There was kindness in his eyes when he said, “If you talk to God, he will give you a new start.  Call it a new birth.  But you have to be honest about your life.  Shouldn’t be too hard; you already know your life is a mess.  But in case you don’t know it, God loves you and he will give power to start a new life.  It’s called grace.”

“Are you one of those religious nuts?” she asked.  “Not really,” he replied.  “Just call me JC.  I’m not about religion.  I just like to find hurting people – people like you – and let them know they can tell me about whatever is on their hearts.  See, before we ever met, I knew you would need some hope, some love, and some grace.  I just wanted to share with you some good news – there is a God who loves you and who wants to give a new start.”

She was quiet for a while.  He didn’t say anything else.  Then, in a small voice, she said, “It sounds too good to be true.”  He said “A lot of people think that.  But you’ll never know if it is true or not unless …”

She interrupted him: “Unless I try it.”  He grinned and said, “Tell me about it.”

Suicide

The young man discovered his wife was having an affair with a cop.  They talked.  She wasn’t sure what she wanted.  The next day when he came home from work, the cop and his wife were sitting at the table.  An argument ensued.  At a heated moment, he reached on top of the refrigerator and pull down his pistol.  The cop started to get up.  The young man said, “Maybe this will convince you.”  He put the pistol to his head and pulled the trigger.  He was gone.

I officiated at his funeral.  It was my first funeral of a suicide victim.  The family asked a friend, a talented guitarist and singer, to sing two Garth Brooks songs: “The Dance” and “Much too Young.”  The young man’s wife, his widow sobbed through the whole service.  There were no words I could say to take away her shame, guilt, and grief.  We buried that young man on a cold Kentucky hillside.

I wish I could say that was my last funeral of a suicide victim, but it wasn’t.  Sometimes people act impulsively, like the young man.  Sometimes the pain of living is so great, a person feels like they can’t go on.  Sometimes a person feels alone, isolated.  They truly feel like no one cares if they live or die.  Suicide seems like the best option.

Once, when I had to do a funeral for a person who took their own life, God put in my mind the thought of fog.  Ever been in a fog so thick you couldn’t see?  A fog so dense you didn’t know where you were?  That’s what life is like for someone who commits suicide.  They have lost their way in the fog.  Suicide seems to be the only way out. 

I’ve been asked more than once if people who commit suicide are barred from heaven.  The answer is “no.”  The manner of a person’s death does not determine their relationship with God.  When a Jesus follower chooses to end his or her life, I think Jesus meets them with a mixture of sadness, because they have arrived at heaven early, and compassion, because he understands their pain.

The title song for “MASH” was “Suicide is Painless,” but that’s a lie.  I’ve held mothers who have wept over their child’s tragic decision.  I’ve stood by fathers who look at the casket holding their child with a vacant stare, searching for the answer to “why.”  I’ve sat with a wife and daughter trying to fathom how their lives changed in a moment by choice they had no part of.  Suicide leaves devastation in its wake.

Words do not quench the pain of suicide.  A good friend of mine from college lost her husband to suicide.  She shared with me that one pastor came by and, meaning well, began to talk to her about all the stages of grief.  She remembered thinking “I wish he would just shut up.”  What did help was a friend who came and just sat.  Didn’t say much.  He was just there.  Sometimes the most holy thing you can do is just be there.

This same friend told me it helped that people had not forgotten her.  She still gets texts from people asking how she is, expressing concern, extending care.  A funeral marks the start of the grief journey, not the end.  People need support, encouragement, and presence on that journey.   They need you to be there.

The people left behind after suicide have to wrestle with doubt: “Could I have stopped him?  Was it something I did or said?  Was I not enough for him or her?”  People come to me during the grief process and ask, “Why did God let this happen?”  It’s not time for a discussion on free-will and the sovereignty of God.  I tell people it is okay to be angry at God and not even know why you’re angry.  When my children were small, they would get angry at me, not because I had done something to hurt them, but because I was safe.  They knew I would not stop loving them, even if they were angry.  God doesn’t stop loving you in your pain.  He is safe.  You can pour out your heart to him.

If someone you care about has ended their life, I will not offer the flippant advice that “time heals all wounds.”  What I believe is this: Our heavenly Father loves you, will listen to your pain, will guide you, and will give you strength.  You don’t have to be put together.  You can be real with your Heavenly Father.  Your grief is his grief.

If you are thinking about ending your life, if that dark thought dances through your soul from time to time, I want you to know there is hope.  There are people out there who care about you.  You are not a burden.  The most courageous thing you can do is not end your life but reach out for help.

Psalm 30:5 says “Weeping may last for the night, but joy comes in the morning.”  Your life is a precious gift.  If you are in the dark, reach out for help.  Hold on.  Joy is coming. 

The National Suicide Prevention Hotline is staffed 24 hours a day - 1-800-273-8255

Saying "No"

No one teaches a child to say “no.”  It comes naturally.  A two-year-old spouts “no” like a spring rain sprouts weeds.  If you could enter that child’s mind (shudder) you would find “no” is way to assert power, gain control, and set boundaries.  If you have a strong-willed child, you know the strength behind their efforts.  They can wear you down.

Every child, of course, must learn his or her “no” is not the final word.  I learned early.  Dr. Spock had not made it to rural Florida in my growing up years.  I vividly remember telling my mother “no” as a child.  She grabbed my father’s old belt and commenced to changed my “no” to “yes.”  Though it would take me years to understand, my mother was preparing me for life.  I needed to learn my will was not absolute. 

Yet as an adult, saying “no” is an essential skill.  I said “no” to some opportunities so I could say “yes” to others. I said “no” to two colleges that accepted me so I could say “yes” to the college that was the best fit.  I said “no” to fraternity life so I could avoid temptations I was not strong enough to handle (nothing against fraternities, I just knew my own weaknesses).  I said “no” to pastor a church plant so I could say “yes” to graduate work.

There’s nothing quite like marriage to drive home the need to say “no.”  If you want your marriage to be successful and happy, you must learn to say “no” to things you want and “yes” to things that build your relationship.  When children come, you have to say “no” to old ways of living so you can say “yes” to your kids.  Andy Stanley tells about unpacking all his recording equipment when his kids were small and realizing that habit took up too much of his time.  So, he packed it up, sold it, and invested that time with his kids.   He said “no” so he could say “yes.”

If you lead any kind of organization, “no” is an essential leadership tool.  I think about times we hired the wrong people at my work.  In almost every instance, I was uneasy about the hire.  I should have said, “no.”  Instead, I thought, “Let’s give them a chance.”  We did, they blew it, and I had to clean up the mess.

Wisdom is knowing when to say “no” and when to say “yes.”  Before I became pastor of my present church, a church interviewed me and wanted me to be their pastor.  I visited, but something didn’t feel right.  I prayed.  I felt no peace.  I had every logical reason to say “yes.”  I took the unusual step of attending a service there with my wife.  When the service was over, we got in our mini-van, looked at each other and said, “No.”  When my present church contacted me, I had same unease.  I remember praying through the decision late one night.  This time I had a peace, and we said “yes.”

“No” has a power no other word has.  It sets a boundary.  It refuses temptation.  It steers us away from danger.  “No” can break addiction.   

To say “no” and mean it requires courage.  It is easier to give in, avoiding all the begging and pleading to change our minds.  “No” may not open as many doors as “yes,” but the doors it opens tend to be the right ones.

Jesus said “no” to three temptations.  First, he said “no” to making stones into bread.  He said “no” to being controlled by his appetites (Ouch).  Next, he said “no” to throwing himself down from the pinnacle of the Temple.  He said “no” to putting on a show.  Finally, he said “no” when Satan offered him a short-cut: “I give you all the kingdoms of the world if you worship me.”  He said “no” to the easy way.

To what do you need to say “no?”  To whom do you need to say “no?”  Could it be your path to a better life starts with a simple two letter word: “no?”