More to Life…

Once upon a time, there was a man who set out to be happy. 

First, he had to figure out what it meant to be happy.  His parents told him the best way to be happy was to get ahead.  “Get an education,” they said.  So he went to one of the finest colleges in the land, got a graduate degree, and became an expert in an area of knowledge.  People wrote him from all over the world to find out what he thought.  He was famous – but it didn’t really make him happy.

He was talking this over with a colleague one night.  His friend said, “You need to get off this academic treadmill and go make some real money.”  So he left the university and went off to parlay his academic expertise into something lucrative.  He formed a company, got some customers, hired some people, and soon had the cash rolling in.  Before long he was buying another house, upgrading his transportation, having clothes custom made.  He enjoyed the money, but it took a lot of his time.  Business meetings, getting with his accountant, doing lunch with his broker – all took hours out of his schedule.  The money and the means to make it crowded out the rest of life.  He wasn’t really happy.

Someone told him he needed a family.  He never swam in dating pool before, but being rich increased his physical attractiveness.  He had plenty of opportunities.  It wasn’t long before he met someone and things clicked.  She was beautiful, smart, and seemed to really love him, not just for his money (she said).  It wasn’t long before a couple of little ones were running around.  The kids did bring him some smiles, but still, he wasn’t really happy.

He was a moral man.  He didn’t cheat on his wife; he was straight forward in his business; he didn’t cheat on his taxes.  People thought of him as a man of character. He had heard “Virtue is its own reward, but still, he wasn’t really happy. 

One day he heard about a teacher – someone who had it all together.  The restlessness stirred his heart one more time and off he went in search of the answer to emptiness.  He thought about how he would phrase his question and decided he didn’t want to be too vulnerable.  Since this particular teacher was religious, he’d frame his question in religious terms:  How could he find eternal life?

When the man arrived at the teaching venue, it was already packed – a positive sign.  Using his charm, and occasionally offering money to someone, he worked his way to the front of the crowd. 

The teacher noticed his arrival and gave him a head nod.  Maybe, the man thought, he recognizes me from the university, or maybe from my company. 

The teacher paused for Q and A.  Before anyone else could start a sentence, the man launched into his question: “Good teacher, what must I do to inherit eternal life?”  The teacher looked surprised.  “Why are you calling me good?,” said the teacher.  “Only God is good.  You know the right things to do – its obvious.”

The man smiled and said, “Yes, I’ve been doing the right thing as long as I can remember.”  He wasn’t smug when he said it, but wistful. 

The teacher recognized what was behind the wistfulness, and he knew that something was off balance.  And he knew what it was.  The teacher did not say, “Your emptiness is because you have done the right things, but you don’t have the right heart.”   Instead, the teacher went right to what needed to change: “Go, sell what you have, give it to the poor.  Then come and follow me.”

In the man’s soul, there was a flicker of hope in the dark emptiness.  In that moment he knew this was the way to filling full.  It would take this radical step to drive the emptiness out of his heart.  For three beats of his heart, he could see a different life.  He could see life not based on more, but filled with peace.

Then the hope was snuffed out by other voices: “What will your parents think?  How will you liquidate your company?  The market is down right now; you’ll never get what’s it’s worth.  What about your wife?  Would she be willing to stay married to you if you’re poor and off on some religious calling?  What about the kids?  Don’t they deserve the best your money can buy?”

Hope was driven out by fear.

The man looked at the teacher, shook his head three times, and walked away, head down, heart still empty.

Over the years, he kept hearing about the teacher.  People said he didn’t just teach, but he also did miracles.  The man heard the teacher was killed by the Romans one Passover, crucified.  Some of his followers came through town and said he had been raised from the dead, and the teacher was really the Messiah, the chosen one of God.

Most days, however, he seldom thought about the teacher.  It was easier to push down the thoughts of “What if…”  Decades later, he was on his deathbed, in his beautiful house.  His wife was there, still beautiful in old age. His sons and their wives, his grandchildren, were all gathered.  He had everything a man could want.  He had achieved everything a man could achieve. 

Still the emptiness remained.  The peace that could fill the emptiness never came.  He died.  After a few decades, no one remembered his name.  People just remembered that he loved his money, his success, more than he wanted to follow Jesus.

Please Pray for Me. Okay, What?

It’s an occupational hazard: “Pastor, please pray for me.”  When I first began as a pastor, I said “Okay,” and went on my way.  No one told me people actually expected me to pray with them.  Right then.  About whatever their need was.  I was corrected by some older women at Southside Baptist Church in my hometown, where I was the twenty-two-year-old pastor (Twenty-five brave people who called me when I was young, single, and didn’t know a thing).  Over the years, I learned to do two things: ask people what they wanted me to pray for; and pray right then.

Over the years I’ve heard the usual litany of requests: pray for an upcoming doctor’s appointment, someone who lost a loved one, a troubled teenager, and a fractured marriage.  People have cried on my shoulder, asking me to pray for someone they love that is destroying his or her life and needs Jesus.  I pray hard when that request is made.

I’ve also been asked to pray for dogs that aren’t acting right, irritable cats, and even for a lost cow (I wasn’t sure if I should pray for the cow to be found or to be saved).  One adorable four-year-old girl looked at me with big blue eyes and asked me to pray for her goldfish who was upside down in his water.  How do you pray for the resurrection of a goldfish?

I don’t know if this story is true, but I once heard about a pastor who was asked to pray for a young woman named Nikki.  When he asked about Nikki’s condition, he was told that Nikki was a young mother whose husband had left her for his ex-wife.  She had cancer that required an operation, and now as a result of the surgery, she had lost her memory.  The pastor was moved by the plight of this poor woman.  He asked which hospital she was in.  The reply came that she was on the soap opera “The Young and the Restless.”  He prayed for “Nikki” with gritted teeth.

People seldom ask for my opinion about their prayer requests.  The longer I study scripture, the more I am convinced we pray for the wrong things.  Most of our prayers are for God to solve our problems.  Don’t get me wrong, I think we ought to pray those prayers.  We might need to add a few items to our list, however.

Pray that people will be wise.  Wisdom is understanding reality and living life according to that knowledge.  For example, a woman came to me whose husband had left her.  She was in tears, understandably.  As we talked, however, it was apparent there had been problems in the marriage for many years, including multiple affairs on his part.  I asked her if she really wanted him back.  She paused, as if it was the first time she had considered the question, and then softly replied, “No.  I do not want him back.  He is toxic to me and to our kids.  Honestly, I feel sorry for the woman in this latest affair.  He’s going to wreck her life, like he wrecked mine.”  That woman was experiencing the birth of wisdom.  I pray more people are wise.

Pray that people open their eyes to what God is doing.  Often we expect God to deliver answers to our prayers like Amazon Prime delivers packages: anything more than two days makes us wonder if the answer has been lost in transit.  But if you pause, you can see God has not forgotten you or your needs.  No matter how hopeless you feel, God’s hand can still be seen in your life.  When Job cries out that God has not answered him, God reminds Job in a not-so-subtle way that he is still making the universe spin, controlling the weather, and generally thinking about things Job has never thought about.  I pray more people open their eyes to God’s activity.

Pray that people will have hope.  Hope is more powerful than anxiety, more powerful than despair.  Hope pulls us forward.  I want to pray for people to have hope, not that things will work out, but with the assurance that God is in control.  I want people to have hope for their child in rebellion, knowing that God loves their child more than they do.  I want people who are picking themselves up after their latest fall back into addiction to have hope that God’s power will pick them up and help them start again.  I pray more people will live with God’s hope.

Pray for all the other burdens of your heart.  Pray for the sick, the grieving, the lost.  Pray that lost cows will be found and pray cute four-year-old girls will understand the death of their goldfish.  But add other things to your prayer requests.  Wisdom.  Seeing God’s activity.  Hope.  Pray for these things.  For yourself.  For your children.  For your spouse.  For each other.  For our leaders.  Our Heavenly Father is longing to answer prayers like these.

Washed New…

My college Spanish teacher, Marilyn Allgood, was one of the most persuasive people I’ve ever known.  She was passionate about missions in the Rio Grande River area.  To incentivize college students to go during summer break, she offered college credits to go  and translated for a mission team doing work in the rural Mexican desert.  I was persuaded and signed up.

We went in with team from Arkansas and I learned that my college Spanish had not prepared me for construction terminology.  No one had taught me the word for rafter or welding or soffit or concrete.  By the end of my first week, I was dreaming in Spanish.

The team from Arkansas left after a week, and my partner, Brian, and I were left behind to work with children and lead Bible Studies. 

The people in the village were trying to scratch out a living in the desert.  They had small vegetable gardens, watered by buckets carried from a windmill pump.  Their scrawny cows and goats survived out in the bush. 

I was enough of a norte americano that after a week, I wanted a bath.  With water so precious, bathing was not a regular activity in the village.  After a day or two, you no longer noticed the smell of others; you simply hoped they didn’t notice you.  The only bathing option was the pond by the windmill, where the cows and goats drank and cooled off.  The water was muddy and, shall we say, had little islands of cow residue floating on top of the water. 

Desperate men do desperate things.  I took my bar of soap down to the cow pond and waded out into the filthy water.  My soap touched the water, squealed, rolled over and sank. I tried to remove the top layer of dirt, but new dirt was clinging to me faster than the old dirt was coming off.  I gave up, filthier than before.

Our Mexican liaison must have noticed our discomfort, because the next day he rattled into the village with a pickup and told us we were going for a ride.  We hopped on, Brian and I, and he headed out of the village, headed toward the distant mountains.  He stopped in another village to pick up another team of students, Molly and Susan.  They had been doing literacy training.  Off we went again.

After hundreds of twists and turns, he stopped.  Then we heard it: the sound of rushing water. 

We jumped off the truck and headed toward the sound.  Gushing over rocks was the cleanest, purest water I had ever seen, flowing down from the mountains.  Brian needed no encouragement.  He waded right in, fully clothed.  I was right after him.  The water was cold but refreshing.  Molly and Susan were hesitant, but soon their desire for clean overcame their modesty. 

I found a deep spot and squatted down.  I could feel the water peeling away the layers of dirt and grime.  I dunked my head underwater, and felt the oil stripped from my hair.  I was being washed clean.

It was a moment of deep joy, sanitized by the force of the water, refreshed by it’s cool temperature, and restored to something we once knew – cleanness.  It meant even more, because the four of us were sharing it together.  This was gift, a renewal.  It was like a baptism. 

The shadows had begun to fall and our Mexican guide told us it was time to go back.  Darkness fell quickly.  We rode in the back of the truck, shivering in our wet clothes, but clean, marveling at the stars, bright in an unpolluted sky.  Despite having no preacher, no music, and no Bible, it was one of the best of worship I ever had.

How often do you try to clean your soul in dirty water?  It never works.  Jesus tried to tell us this.  He told us that hate, lust, self-centeredness, salesmanship, making sure things are even – none of this works.  None of these behaviors make us feel cleaner.

You and I need an encounter with God’s grace.  We need to be plunged into God’s blessings and be cleaned by his power, the power of a pure Savior who died for our sins and was raised to give us new life. 

Visit God’s gushing stream of grace.  Be loved.  Marvel.  Get clean.

The Worst Year to Be Alive…

CNN reported a team of historians and scientists have identified 536 A.D. as the worst year to be alive.  There was an enormous volcanic eruption in Iceland, spewing a huge cloud of ash over the Northern Hemisphere.  Temperatures dropped, resulting in crop failure and famine.  Starvation ensued.

This disaster was quickly followed by an outbreak bubonic plague in Eastern Europe.  Combined with crop failures, economies crashed and millions died.

If you were alive in 536 A.D., however, you may not have known it was the worst year to be alive.  You might have survived or have been lucky enough to live nearer the equator where the impact of the eruption was not as great.  The worst year for you might have been 537, when your child died, or 530, when you contracted tuberculous. 

I read a commentary piece by Pat Buchanan, comparing 2018 to 1968.  I wasn’t alive in 536 A.D., but I was alive in 1968 (note: I was just a child).  That was the year Martin Luther King, Jr. and Robert F. Kennedy were assassinated.  There were riots in major American cities protesting the war in Vietnam, racial inequality, and poverty.  I remember newscasts showing burning cars and buildings.  The Democratic National Convention turned into to riot.  Richard Nixon was elected President by a minority of voters.

But 1968 wasn’t such a bad year for me.  We moved off the ranch after my mother married my step-father.  His house had a pool.  If you want instant friends when you are the new kid in the neighborhood, have a house with a pool.  I did well in my new school.  My sister graduated from the University of Florida and got her first teaching job.  My brother came home from military school and got his driver’s license. Nineteen-sixty-eight worked out pretty well for our family.

For someone you know, this probably is the worst year ever.  They’ve lost someone they love.  They must face the consequences of their poor choices.  Their marriage is breaking up.  They lost their job.  They owe back taxes.  We all have those terrible, no good, awful years.

For someone you know, this probably is the best year ever.  They fell in love.  They had a baby they prayed for.  The doctor said their cancer is gone.  They passed Geometry.  They met Jesus and were saved.

There is an old story I’ve heard in many forms: A old man in a village had a horse come up to his house from nowhere.  No one knew who he belonged to, so the old man claimed him.  His neighbors told him how lucky he was.  He said, “Is this good or is this bad?  Who knows?”  The old man’s son tried to break the horse.  He was thrown and broke his leg.  His neighbors told him how unlucky he was.  The old man said, “Is this good or is this bad?  Who knows?”  Then the country went to war.  All the sons in the village were drafted, except for the son of the old man.  He was exempt because of his broken leg.  The old man’s neighbors told him how lucky he was.  The old man said, “Is this good or is this bad?  Who knows?”

The old man had wisdom: none of us truly understand our lives or our times.  We make educated and uneducated guesses, but we do not know outcomes.  Only God knows the outcome of anything that happens to us.

Since God is the only one who knows outcomes, doesn’t it make sense to do life with Him?  Doesn’t it make sense to ask for His guidance when making decisions since He’s the only one who knows what is going to happen?  Doesn’t it make sense to talk to Him regularly about life?

In the unknown, in the years when it feels like the worst year ever, I hold onto Romans 8:28: “We know that in all things God works for the good of those who love Him and are called according to His purpose.” This verse reminds me that if I love God, if I give Him control of my life, He is able to take whatever happens to me and bring something good from it.  That’s the miracle we need every year, every day.

Is this a good year or a bad year? Who knows?  But whether it is good or bad, my God is making something good.

Before the Holidays, Pause…

The Holiday race is about to begin.  Thanksgiving will be the warm up.  We must lay in food, like people preparing for a famine.  We will haul out cookbooks to prepare what we only cook once or twice a year.  There will be kitchen disasters: cakes will fall, roasts will burn, and casseroles will not turn out like the pictures in Southern Living.  Our uncles, who will have a few too many beers, will attempt to fry a turkey, forgetting it first must be thawed.  We will all overeat, fall asleep in front of football games, and then rise in stupors to demolish left-overs, since we “only get to eat this once a year.”

Lists musts be made.  We will wake up early for Black Friday, and then click like mad on Cyber Monday.  The UPS man will break his back toting boxes to our door.  We will agonize over what to buy people who already have everything they need and most of what they want.  Our children will request the one toy that everyone is out of, except some obscure online retailer who doesn’t accept PayPal.

We will haul down the decorations from the attic and discover that we have fifteen strands of lights, of which only three work.  Our favorite ornament, the one our daughter made when she was in kindergarten, has been smashed into tiny slivers.  The tree which looked perfect at the tree lot now has a hole in the side.  A hurricane of tree needles appears every time we look at the tree.  We compare our sorry outdoor wreathes to the neighbors, who apparent have a connection with Martha Stewart, for theirs are perfect.

Travel plans must be finalized.  We have to figure out to get to the family reunion five hundred miles away and back in time for the three dozen Christmas plays, parties, and pageants involving our kids.  Parents ladle on the guilt if we are unable to deliver their grandchildren to them for their viewing pleasure.  Christmas itself can be a nightmare.  We have to go to MeeMaw’s, Granny’s, Nanna’s, Meme’s, and Baba’s house.  We are expected to eat at each one, have the children open presents at each one, and give a present to the woman who says, “Oh, you shouldn’t have” while silently comparing our gift to those from her other grandchildren.

We must go to the parties.  People keep score.  We have to go the Sunday School party, the School party, the Office party, the neighborhood party, the best customer’s party, the friends that drink wine party, the friends that don’t drink wine party, and the party given by the “cool” people (who invited you by mistake).

Because it’s the holidays, we feel like must go to see the lights at the park, at the zoo, at the guy’s house who numbers his lights in the millions, and the lights in the small town that turns itself into a tourist attraction every Christmas, putting a strain on the local nuclear power plant.  We must go to see “The Nutcracker,” and every “Singing Christmas Tree” in town.  Our friends from other churches tell us we can’t miss their living nativity scene; they’ll come to our musical if we go to their outdoor representation of Bethlehem.

There are TV shows we can’t miss.  We must see “The Christmas Story” for the twentieth time, to see if Ralphie will put out his eye this time.  We must watch “A Charlie Brown Christmas” again to see if Snoopy still wins first prize.  We must make sure that no Hallmark channel movie is missed.

Three days before Christmas, the cards start to pour in.  Our college roommate apparently has made a deal with the devil, because he has all his hair, his wife looks like a million dollars, his children have all finished their second doctorate, and his grandchildren are wait listed for Harvard, even though they have just finished potty training.  In a panic, we find the only picture we have of the whole family together – the one taken at the beach, where everyone looks great except yourself, because your eyes are closed and you are so sunburned you look like a lobster emerging from a boil.  We try to think up our accomplishments, but saying Junior got off probation doesn’t seem like it should make the list. 

Before we begin the race, maybe we need to pause.  Breathe.  Think.  What’s this all about?  Isn’t Thanksgiving about grace?  Isn’t Thanksgiving about a gracious God who gives you more than you deserve?  Isn’t Thanksgiving about thanking people in your life for their love?

Isn’t Christmas about God’s love?  Isn’t Christmas about God wanting to give you a deeper peace, something that can’t be bought?  Isn’t Christmas about joy, a deep sense of well-being?

Before the race begins, pause.  Breathe.  Think.  Thank.  Rejoice.  God gives to you. God is with you.  Thanks be to God.

From the Deep…

I had to walk into a room and tell a young wife she was now a widow.  It was one of the hardest things I’ve ever done, to bring news changing someone’s life forever.  She sobbed and sobbed.  I wanted there to be words that would stop her pain, but there were none.

I stood beside a son who just got word his Dad didn’t make through surgery.  The son couldn’t even cry; he just shook.  I put my arm around him, trying to absorb some of his grief.  I knew his dad had been his rock, his hero, and his guide.  Now the son was on his own, alone, for the first time in his life.

I thought it would be another counseling appointment.  Instead, the husband confessed to an affair.  His wife buried her face in her hands.  He hung his head and studied the tips of his shoes.   How long do you let someone cry when they’ve just found out their best friend has betrayed them?

I sat with parents, trying to plan the funeral of their teen-age child.  All that came out of their mouths were jumbled memories and anger at God.   They were in a nightmare zone, where nothing seemed real and everything seemed too real.

Here’s what I’ve learned from thirty-five years as a pastor: No one gets a pass from the deep pain of life.  No one.  A moment when there are no words, a moment when everything you counted on disappears, a moment when your reality is forever changed comes to every person.

In that deep moment of pain, your soul is hard-wired to cry out.  Your cry may be literal, or you may shift to a kind of soul autopilot.   In my own moments of loss, I find myself living on two planes: a surface plane of saying and doing the “right” things; and a deeper plane, where a slow-motion earthquake is underway.  It usually takes me years to understand everything shaken out of place by the earthquake.

Somewhere in the upheaval, our souls cry out to God, usually with the question, “Why?  Why did you let this happen?  Why didn’t you stop it, God?  Why are you letting endure such pain?”  I’ve heard people who declare there is no God ask the God they don’t believe in “Why?”

There is a strange and hard teaching in the Bible, played out again and again, especially in Psalms and in the book of Job.  God welcomes your questions.  He welcomes your anger.  God wants you to pour the deep pain of your heart to him.  What God does not, however, provide the answers you want.  This is the strange and hard part.  Job asks God “why” and God shows up, talks to him over four chapters, and never answers his question.  David and other writers of the Psalms ask “why,” then declare they will put their hope in God, even though he doesn’t answer their question.

Jesus on the cross cried out, “My God, my God, why have you forsaken me?”  Jesus knew God’s plan.  He told his disciples the answer to the “why” three times: “The Son of Man must go to Jerusalem to be crucified and then raised on the third day.”  Still his soul in the depths cried out “why.” 

After all these years, and plenty of “whys” myself, I still see through the glass darkly.  I don’t understand all the tragedy that happens or why it happens.  I can tell you on a small scale I’ve experienced what Job did, what the writers of the Psalms did – moments from the deep.  I cried out to God from my depths and poured out all my emotions to him.  In that moment of vulnerability, of standing before God, telling him about my pain, I was real.  Something about pain makes us drop pretense. We get real with ourselves and with God.

In the realness of those moments, something holy happens.  God comforts me.  The pain eases.  I remember that my God loves me and holds me.  I can’t diagram it.  I can’t find the words for it.  I can just tell you it happens.  In the moments when there are no words, there is God.  Being in his presence is enough. 

There’s no way to avoid the deep pain.  You either have faced it or you will.  There is, however, a way to prepare.  You can be on intimate terms with your Heavenly Father.  He will hear your cry.  He will hold your soul.  He will bring the peace you need.

On the Front Porch, Shelling Peas, Learning Life…

They were sitting on the front screened in porch, shelling peas.  You could buy peas in a can, but the old woman said they were nasty.  Besides, why buy something you could grow yourself? 

They had picked the peas early that morning, while the cool was still in the air.  Now in the heat of the afternoon, with the ceiling fan blowing down a store-bought breeze, the old man, the old woman, the granddaughter, and the grandson were shelling peas.

The grandson was a complainer; most six-year-old boys are.  He said to the old man, “Grandpa, it’s too hot to do this.  Can’t we wait till later?  Can’t we do it inside?”

Like most old men, he paused before he answered.  Thirty years ago, when the young boy would have been his own son, he would have snapped an answer: “Stop complaining, son, and get on with peas if you want any supper.”  Decades had taught him a slow answer might be better.

“Now son, if we shelled these peas inside, we would mess up the house your grandma has worked hard to vacuum and clean this morning.  We’d probably have the TV on and wouldn’t even talk to each other.  Besides, I remember sitting on the front porch when we didn’t have a ceiling fan.  I’m grateful for some shade and for breeze blowing down my neck.  Feel that little wind blow up?  Look at yonder, there’s a cloud coming up.  I’ll bet we’ll get a storm here in a few minutes that will cool things down.  Learn to be grateful, son.”

The six-year-old was still hot, but he marveled that his grandpa always seemed to think about more than the moment.  He loved his grandfather’s soft, low voice.  He loved the peace he felt when his grandfather helped him understand the world.

The old woman spoke to her granddaughter, “Sister, you’re leaving too many snaps.  Run your thumbnail down the seam like this and open up the whole pod.  That’s the way.  Only snap the small ones.  We want to get as many peas as we can.”

The granddaughter marveled at her grandmother’s gnarled, arthritic hands, how they could still split the seams, then push the peas out with one smooth motion.  She asked, “Grandma, don’t your hands hurt?  Wouldn’t it be easier to just to buy these in the store?”

“Of course, child,” said the old woman, “but I like the taste of fresh peas.  If you want something that tastes really good, it’s going to take a little more time, a little more effort, and it may even hurt a little bit.  But’s it worth it.”

“Don’t we have enough for supper yet?” said the grandson. 

“Yes,” said the old man, “But we picked this mess so we could put some up in the freezer.  No sense in letting them go to waste.  Besides, in those cold winter months, it’s good to reach into the freezer and get something that reminds you of summer.  Helps you stand the cold if you remember winter always turns to spring.”

“Grandpa,” said the grandson, “how much is a mess?” 

“Well son, a mess is enough to shell in one sitting, if you’re talking about peas.  If you’re talking about fish, a mess is enough to clean at one time and have a fish fry,” said the old man.

Puzzled, the grandson asked, “Will they teach me how much is a mess in school?”

“I doubt it, son,” said the old man.  “You learn to measure a mess when you pick too many peas or catch too many fish.”

The old woman laughed.  “Your grandpa has never had to worry about catching too many fish!  Many’s the time he promised me a mess of fish for supper and he came back just with the worms he took,” she said.

The old man smiled back and said, “Yep, that’s when I was grateful for canned Spam!  It’s not too bad fried up for supper.”

Now it was the granddaughter’s turn to be puzzled: “Grandma, what is Spam?” 

“Lawd, child, I hope you never have to find out!” laughed the old woman.

Big rain drops started to echo on the tin roof of the porch.  “Mercy, that storm blew up in a hurry.  Look here, we’ve finished shelling all these peas.  Leave the hulls in that basket and let’s go inside and start getting ready for supper,” said the old woman.

Thirty years later, the grandson and the granddaughter really couldn’t remember that particular day.  What they could remember was the feeling: Their grandparents had lived enough life to see things different, to trust.  They remembered feeling comforted by their grandparents gentle wisdom.

Isn’t this why God allows us to grow old?  He wants us to pass on the wisdom we’ve learned to those eager to learn it.  Living a long time is not the goal; living a long time, growing wise, and sharing what you’ve learned – that’s what God wants you to do. 

Is there someone you need to sit on the front porch with and pass along a few things God has taught you?

Is there someone you need to go sit with and learn a few things about life?

The Labor Day the Boat Turned Over

We always spent Christmas with Granny in Kissimmee, Florida.  Easter, we always spent with Mamma’s brother and sister in Okeechobee.  And for some reason, we always spent Labor Day at cousin Jack’s place on Lake Lotela in Avon Park.  Everybody would bring some food and Jack would pull whoever wanted to ski.  He was the only person I knew who had an inboard motor on his boat.  In those days, riding in a boat was a big deal.  It was something that gave you status on the preschool playground.

One year my cousin Ross brought his boat.  Compared to Jack’s, it was a sorry excuse for a boat.  Nothing more than a souped up john-boat, it had a tiny Evinrude outboard motor that looked and sounded like an electric mixer.  Still, Ross spent the day riding kids around in his boat.  We didn’t care about the size, we were thrilled.

It got to be late in the day and Mamma said we’d be leaving soon.  My sister and brother begged Ross to take them for one more ride.  There is nothing like the persistence of children to wear you down.  Mamma said “yes,” and off they went.  I was told to play in the shallow water and not drown.

I couldn’t have been more than four, but I remember looking at the boat as it left the dock, with my brother Steve and sister Clemie Jo sticking their tongues out at me.  Sometimes, it is sheer torture to be the youngest.

Ross knew how to make the ride exciting.  He’d open the throttle on that glorified mixer and jump the wake left by Jack’s ski boat.  The kids would experience a micro-second of no gravity and squeal in delight.  He’d cut the boat sharp and make everyone hold on for dear life.  This is what we called “fun” before people thought you had to go to Disney World and pay hundreds of dollars to laugh and scream. 

The old folks hollered at Ross to head in.  Ross decided to give the kids one more thrill.  He turned the boat sharply left and cut back across his own wake.  The boat dipped toward the water, the kids slid, and then, the unthinkable happened.  Ross mistimed his recovery.  The turn was too sharp, and the boat flipped. 

I still remember it.  A second before, I could see Clemie Jo and Steve’s heads; the next second, all I saw was the upside hull of Ross’s boat.  Then Ross’s head bobbed up.  The old folks on shore were hollering.  What we couldn’t see was that Steve and Clemie Jo had surfaced on the other side of the boat.  Jack saw what happened, carefully maneuvered his boat closer, and pulled everyone on board.

It all happened so fast, Mamma didn’t even have time to cry.  But I did.  I started bawling, with tears the size of thunderstorm raindrops.  Naturally everyone thought I was upset about my brother and sister.  I remember Aunt Iris saying, “Son, stop crying, it’s all right.  See, everybody is safe.”

I blurted out through my tears, with my lip poked out, “It’s not fair!  I want to be in the boat when it turns over!  Clemie Jo and Steve always get to have fun!”

Too many of us who follow Jesus pout because it looks like everyone else is having fun, even when their lives turn upside down.  We fail to fully embrace the path of Jesus because we’re afraid the best life is out there, living dangerously, oblivious. 

I think Jesus would say to us, “Stop pouting.  I’ve saved you for a better life.  The greater joy is life with me.”

And if you are in the middle of the lake, and your adventure boat has turned over, I have good news for you.  Jesus has come for you.  His hand is stretched out, ready to pull you to the safety of his grace, to the future he has for you.

Stop pouting.  Start following.  An overturned boat in the middle of the lake is not God’s plan for you.

Baptism and Overwhelming Grace…

When I was eight-years old, our church had a week-long revival. I don’t remember the visiting preacher’s name, but I remember Thursday night of that week. There was something in the message or the song that pulled me forward for my “public profession of faith.” I remember writing on the back of an offering envelope what I wanted to tell our pastor: “I want to accept Jesus as my personal Savior.”

We were on the third verse of “Just as I Am,” and I had this sense of now or never. I made my way past my parents; I think my mother began to cry. I was trying to squeeze past strangers in the pew when the music stopped, and the preacher started talking. He was talking about the need to come forward, receive Christ, and be obedient to Christ in baptism.

I should fill in non-Baptists. Baptists do not baptize infants; we only dunk people old enough to make their own decisions. We’d heard tell of Methodists and Presbyterians who baptized babies, and regarded them (Methodists and Presbyterians, not the babies) with suspicion. When one of our deacons was asked if he had ever heard of infant baptism, he declared, “Heard of it?  I’ve seen it with my own two eyes!”  We were of the tribe that believed baptism meant “put ‘em under till they bubble.”

I was stuck amongst a family I didn’t know, waiting for the preacher to be quiet and the music to start again, so I could get up there and do what he was asking us to do. Finally, mercifully, he stopped, and I started back down the aisle. 

I remember taking the preacher’s hand and reading my declaration of faith off the back of that offering envelope. What happened after that was a blur. People came by, shook my hand, and my baptism was set, along with others, for the next Sunday.

For some reason, we only baptized on Sunday night. Because of revival there were a bunch of people to baptize, including my step-father, Lawrence.  I was excited because so many of my relatives came to see us baptized. I was also excited because I was eager to let the world know I believed in Jesus.

When eight-year old boys get excited, their bodies burst with energy.  Twenty times I’d been told to calm down that Sunday. I was trying to, but the excitement had to go somewhere. My excitement went to my bladder.

Now it’s Sunday night. With others, I’m standing in the baptistry, in a pool of water. Every eight-year old boy knows the magic of being in the water: you can do things and no one knows. 

The preacher recited from memory the story of the Ethiopian Eunuch. Pressure was building inside my plumbing. The preacher said, “Let us pray,” and began one of his very long prayers thanking God for creation, Jesus, salvation, those being baptized, the faithful work of the evangelist, the wonderful songs that drew us close to Jesus, for the generous offering, for life itself, for his education, for justice and mercy. It was a long list of thanks. Meanwhile, in my eight-year old body, the dam was about to be over-topped.

Growing up in church, I had always heard about the sweet moment of surrender. The moment came.  Excitement released.  The volume in the baptistry increased slightly.

The preacher finished by thanking God for “The sacred waters of baptism and the willingness of these candidates to enter these baptismal waters.” If only they knew.

I never told this story until after my step-father passed away and went to be Jesus. I’m pretty sure Jesus met him at the gates of heaven, laughing, and said, “Lawrence, you remember the night you were baptized?  Let me tell you the rest of the story.” I once told this story to a Presbyterian and a Lutheran pastor.  After they wiped the tears from their eyes, they laughingly said, “Sounds like everyone who was baptized that night was baptized and sprinkled.”

I’m sure that some people who were baptized that night, March 4, 1968, are still alive. Please accept my profound apologies. But remember baptism is a picture of what Jesus has done for us. The Gospel was present at my baptism:  the impurity of who I was and am, was and is overwhelmed by the grace of Jesus.  Thank God for his grace.

This, by the way, is why I never let eight-year old boys in the baptistry until right before I baptize them.

Son of Kong…

When I was a young man, I took my girlfriend at the time to the Silver Spurs Rodeo in Kissimmee, Florida.  Before Kissimmee became the home of Mickey Mouse’s empire, it was a cowtown.  The Silver Spurs is the most prestigious rodeo in Florida.  My father, my grandfather, and my Uncle Pete have all been the overall champion of the rodeo.

When I went to the rodeo that day, my father had been dead for thirty years.  A whole new generation of cowboys were roping calves, riding broncos and bulls, and wrestling steers.  For me, however, being in the arena brought out a wistful longing: I wish I could have seen my father rodeo. 

My father picked up the nick-name “King Kong” in high school.  It was about the time when the first “King Kong” movie came out in 1933.  Bigger than most of his football team mates, it was a natural nickname.  When he started rodeoing, most of his friends simply called him “Kong.” 

My uncle Pete was probably the best in the family as an all-around cowboy, but from the stories I’ve heard over the years, Daddy was at his best in steer wrestling and bull-riding.  Steer wrestling involves jumping from your galloping horse, grabbing a steer by the horns, and wrestling him to the ground.  Daddy set the record time in Florida of throwing a steer in 1.8 seconds.  The current world record is 2.4 seconds.  Daddy was in a class by himself.

Bull-riding means getting on the back of a bull in a tight chute, getting a firm grip and a far-away look, hollering to open the gate, and then staying on the back of the bull for eight seconds.  Judges score you on the difficulty of the ride.   If you think it sounds hard, you should try it (and no, bull-riding machines in country bars are no match for the real thing).  Maybe it was Daddy’s size, but he had a knack for staying on and scoring high.

My father died when I was eighteen months old, so I have no memories of him, just stories and pictures.  In the stands at the Silver Spurs Rodeo, I admit I felt again the old emptiness, wishing just I had seen him just once throwing a steer or riding a bull. 

Bull-riding is usually the last event in a rodeo, because it is the most exciting and most dangerous of rodeo events.  That day, three or four riders had come out of the chute and been thrown off in the first three seconds.  It looked like no cowboy would make his ride.

Keep in mind I am sitting with my girlfriend in the covered stands with about ten thousand people.  An old Florida cracker cowboy was seated next me, his wife on the other side of him.  I greeted him when I sat down, but he wasn’t much for conversation. 

After the fifth rider had been thrown off, this old Florida cracker cowboy turned to his wife and said, “Darlin’, a lot of these boys are pretty good, but nobody was ever as good as ol’ Kong Smith.”

My stomach did a flip.  I grabbed the man’s arm.  He pulled back as he turned to see who had a hold of him.  For a moment, I thought he was reaching for his gun (there was no concealed-carry law in those days).  We made eye contact and I blurted out, “Kong Smith was my daddy.”

The man went white as a sheet, almost like he had seen a ghost.  He gave me the once over, and then drawled, “From the looks of you son, you must be.  I’ll bet you’re the youngest.  I forgot your name.  You were just a yearling when your Daddy died.”

I wish I remembered the man’s name.  He told me about Daddy, about rodeoing with him, working cows with him, and having some high times together (he obviously didn’t want to go into details with his wife listening in). 

For that moment, the emptiness was filled.  I received another small piece of my father, another few stories to add to my soul.  That Florida cracker cowboy gave me a gift that day: he made me proud to be the son of the man I don’t remember.

The Apostle Paul talks about Jesus redeeming us so God the Father can adopt as sons.  To be adopted as the son or daughter of God means more than going to heaven; it means we can be proud of our Father in heaven, who gives us grace, who guides our lives, and who helps us live in confidence.  It is not our reputation that matters; we hold the reputation of our Father in Heaven. 

Are you proud that you are a child of your Father in Heaven?  Are you living in the confidence of being his son, his daughter?

I remember walking out of the arena after the rodeo was over that day.  I held myself a little taller.  There was a touch more confidence in my stride.  That day I remembered I was the son of Kong.  His reputation rested on me.

Every day, walk a little taller.  Every day, put more confidence in your stride.  If you follow Jesus, your Heavenly Father’s reputation rests on you.

Soul or Slave?

An African-American family, the Walls, served the Gordon family, who were white, in rural Mississippi.  They worked in the field from sun-up to sun-down.  They milked the cows and cleaned the Gordon’s house.  No money ever changed hands.  The Walls ate whatever they could catch from the creek or kill in the woods, plus scraps from the Gordon’s table.  Forbidden to see a newspaper, or to learn how to read and write, the Walls family had no idea what was going in the outside world.

Though the Gordon family went to church, they failed to live by some of Jesus’ most basic teachings: “Love one another as I have loved you.”  One day, Lela Walls, the mother, and her daughter, Mae, age five, were called up to the Gordon house to clean it.  There two men raped them, though the woman of the house protested.  Lela was told if she spoke of it to her husband, he would be killed.

Lela had already witnessed brutal beatings of her husband, beatings her children saw as well.  They had seen the whip wrap around their father’s body; they had seen the blood flow.  Once, the beating had been so savage, they threw themselves on their father’s body to take the blows themselves. 

Maybe you are shaking your head, thinking, “This is an awful tale of the South from before the Civil War.”  This story, however, is from rural Mississippi, from about 1945 to 1962 (see People, March 26, 2007).  The Wall family did not know they were free people.  They were still living the lives of slaves.

God never intended people to be slaves.  When he created us, he placed us in a garden where we could do life with him, meeting him in the cool of day.  We destroyed God’s intentions when we said “Yes” to the tempter, who dared us to believe that God was not loving, but unfair and selfish.  So our enslavement to sin began.

Enslavement to sin is concealed in a multitude of disguises.  We can be enslaved by addictions, held by the power of alcohol, porn, drugs, food, anger, and more.  We can be enslaved by entanglement in a relationship, dependent on another person for our identity, losing our knowledge of ourselves.  We can be enslaved by our culture, which puts upon us stereotypes because of our race, our education, and our politics.  We can be enslaved by expectations to achieve and perform that push us to be unbalanced in our lives, neglecting family for work, neglecting health for money, neglecting friendships for status.  Ever since the Garden of Eden, we are prone to slavery as a shadow is prone to light.

Out of his great mercy, God saw we sold ourselves to slavery.  So, he sent Jesus, his one and only son, to set us free.  When Jesus died on the cross, he paid sin’s price.  When Jesus rose from the dead on Easter, he broke sin’s power.  This is why Jesus said, “If the Son has set you free, you are free indeed (John 8:36)!” 

This is the sad part: Jesus has come to set you free, but you must choose to be free.  I see people who claim to be Jesus followers who still live as slaves.  Sadly, some of these folks seem to have no desire to be well.  Maybe they’ve lost the hunger to be free.

Mae Wall, the five-year-old girl did not lose her hunger to be free.  The Walls and the Gordons parted ways, and the Walls ended up in Kensington, Louisiana, serving another white family.  Mae was 18.  She was called to white family’s house and told to clean it.  Something in her soul told her she was no longer a slave.  She refused.  The family threatened to kill her.  She ran away, ran away from slavery to freedom.  In time, she found out all white people were not mean.  She learned to read and write, married, bought a house, and adopted four children.  Mae found God made her to be a soul, not a slave.

God made you to be a soul, not a slave.  He made you to have relationships, freely chosen.  He gave you a body to inhabit and oversee.  He put in you a mind, with the ability to think and feel.  And he put in you a heart, a will, so you could decide how to live your life. 

The most important thing you can decide?  Will you be a slave or a soul?

Stupidity Versus Courage…

Google “Stupidity” and you will be rewarded with videos of people taking chances with their lives.  On a dare, people will hold a lit Roman Candle.  For a thrill, people will hang off a cliff, using only one hand.  To prove either their womanhood or their manhood, people will do stupid stunts, like chug a gallon of beer. 

Not all stupidity is recorded on video.  Stupidity can be telling your wife she looks fat in that dress.  Stupidity can be telling your boss he has no idea what he is talking about.  Stupidity can be letting your sixteen-year-old son have the keys to your truck and not giving him a time to come home.  Stupidity can be taunting an alligator who is immobile with a chunk of raw meat.

Stupidity can also be a failure to act.  More than once someone has told me, “I was so stupid to let her go.”  My unspoken pastoral response is usually, “Yep.”   You can be stupid because you see only through your own bias.  A man told me his Dad could have bought land at the beach for two dollars an acre in the 1930’s, but turned down the deal because he didn’t think it was good farm land. 

See the pattern?  Stupidity rises from responding to someone else’s agenda.  Stupidity happens when you fail to consider outcomes.  Stupidity is fed by passivity.  Ultimately, people do stupid things because their decisions are centered on themselves.

Courage, on the other hand, is less often the subject of videos.  Courage is seldom funny; maybe that’s why there are few videos of it.  Courage always begins with a cause.  It is less about proving yourself, and more about submitting yourself.  The solider who moves into the line of fire, the fireman who goes into the burning building, and the policeman who moves toward the shooter are deciding to offer their lives for the protection of others.  They all have a cause.

True courage rises out of a value, a belief.  A mother values her child, so she stays up without sleep to rock that child when he or she is sick.  A teacher values the lives of her students, so she puts herself between them and the gunman.  A pastor values the truth, so he preaches a message that may offend some people who need offending. 

To be courageous means if you lose, you know why you’ve lost and have decided it is worth it.  You run for office, knowing you probably won’t win, but knowing you will get to speak your convictions.  You turn down a business deal, knowing your company needs the money, but knowing also the deal requires you to sacrifice your integrity on the altar of profit.  Courage is not about winning; it is about being grounded.

Courage is not the absence of fear; it is being controlled by something or someone greater than fear.  You are afraid a conversation might lead to conflict; you push past the fear so you can speak a truth that needs to be known between you and another person.  You hate snakes; you realize you are the only one in the house who can get the snake out of your child’s room.  Your love propels your courage past your fear.

It is tempting to say the world needs courageous people more than ever.  I’m not sure that’s true.  What I do know is courageous people are the ones who change the world, and our world needs changing.

No wonder God says again and again, “Be strong and be of good courage.”  To follow Jesus means you will trust Jesus more than you trust your fears.  It is being controlled by the Spirit of God who will go before you and guide you.

Speak up.  Act.  Live knowing that he who is in you, is greater than he who in the world.  You can’t lose.