Who Wins the Battle?

As far back as history records, there were battles when the weaker force defeated the stronger force.  Why?

On October 10, 732, Abdul Rahman Al Ghafiqi led his Umayyad army of 20,000 troops into battle against Charles Martel, King of the Franks.  Charles brought an army of 15,000 to Tours (in west central France) to stop the Muslim army from further advances into Europe.  The Muslims had already conquered Northern Africa and the Iberian peninsula, which had been Christian strongholds.  Ghafiqi had a seasoned cavalry; Charles had only infantry.  The Umayyad troops had broken through the Frankish lines and tried to kill Charles, but when the Umayyad troops learned that Frank scouts were looting their camp, they broke off from the battle to protect their treasures.  The Umayyad army fled with as much treasure as they could carry, but they left tents and other loot behind.  Most historians agree that Charles’ victory at Tours preserved Europe as a bastion of Christianity.  Why did Charles win the battle?

When the War of Independence began, the cause of the Americans looked hopeless.  They were a loose confederation of colonies taking on the world’s foremost empire.  But strange things happened in that war.  France joined the American cause.  An uprising in India prevented the British from fully engaging in the American conflict.  The war shifted away from a stalemate in the northern colonies to a guerilla, hit and run conflict in the South.  When French and American forces surrounded Cornwallis at Yorktown, instead of attacking, he waited on Clinton (the English general, not the ex-president) to bring re-enforcements from New York. Five days after Cornwallis’ surrender, the British re-enforcements finally arrived.  Imagine an America bound by British customs and thought.  The Anglican church would have remained the established church. There would have been no separation of church and state.  Most likely there would have been no Second or Third Great Awakening, no Azusa Street Revival, no Billy Graham.  Why did the Americans win that war?

From July to October 1940, the German Air Force battled the Royal Air Force over the Island of Britain.  The German goal was to force Britain to a negotiated peace settlement.  The Germans began the battle with 2,550 aircraft; the British, 1,963.  When the battle ended, the Germans had lost 1,977 aircraft, the British, 1,744 – almost all of their planes.  Yet Germany withdrew from the battle field, to focus on the looming attack of Russia, but failing ultimately to force the British to accommodate their war aims.  Had they succeeded, Russia would have been conquered by the Germans.  Millions more would have been killed in Hitler’s genocide plans.  Britain would have become a vassal state of Germany instead of an ally of the United States.  Though Hitler paid lip service to a version of Christianity favoring the Aryan race, he was at heart an atheist.  Imagine a world sixty years later with an atheistic state ruling over all of Europe and Russia.  Why did Britain win the battle?

Could it be that behind these battles and wars, another hand was at work, the hand of God?  Could it be that God caused confusion in an army, poor decisions by a commander, and a failure of focus by a dictator?  Could it be that God intervenes in the affairs of a nation so his will is done?

This is not to suggest that every victorious army was righteous; war seldom has clean cut morality.  We cannot always say, “God is on the side of the victor.”  But neither can we say a nation was “lucky.”  This is why we need to read the prophets.  God worked through pagan kings and kingdoms to bring about his will, even if it meant his own people would lose the war.  God still works through nations, leaders, armies and wars.

Psalm 33:10-11 says, “The Lord foils the plans of the nations; he thwarts the purposes of the peoples. But the plans of the Lord stand firm forever, the purposes of his heart through all generations.”  Whatever plan a nation makes that is not in harmony with the will of God will fail.  God will not just oppose that plan; he will sabotage that plan with all his power and might.  God wants his will done not just in our hearts, but on the world stage.

Which means a wise nation prays, “Father, not our will, but yours be done.”

I wonder how many politicians, campaign contributors, lobbyists, voters, and candidates are praying for God’s will to be done?  Are you?

Hope…

Ever had a day that wasn’t horrible, but wasn’t so great?  I have.  A couple of days ago, in fact. It was one of those long days.  I had to jump into work early and stay late.  I worked on a writing project where the words didn’t sparkle.  A lunch meeting to explore a ministry opportunity resulted in being with a guy for an hour that I just didn’t connect with.  I had to turn in work to meet a deadline that really wasn’t my best.   Three meetings were scheduled late in the day.  In one of the meetings some issues surfaced I wasn’t aware of, but I was responsible for.  That’s always fun. 

I didn’t leave work until about 9:30 and had to go by the store on the way home to make sure we had green beans for the dog (I know, it’s strange).  After gobbling a sandwich, I made the mistake of checking my email.  One contained news I wasn’t happy about, but I would have to live with.  I decided to relax by watching some TV.  The news came on.  The lead story was about a terrible tragedy.  The next story was about political posturing.  None of this made me feel better.

It wasn’t a horrible day; my children and wife were all still alive.  There was still money in my bank account.  My dogs still loved me – if I fed them green beans and gave them belly rubs, of course.  Still, I was tempted to be grumpy.

Do you know this temptation?  Grumpy is a low-grade form of anger.  We get angry because we can’t meet our own expectations.  We get angry because other people don’t meet our expectations.  We get angry because we can’t control situations we’d like to control.  We get angry because we have responsibilities.  We get angry because this world is not the way it should be…  Or am I the only one who gets grumpy/angry?

There is a small post-it note in my study that reads “The most spiritual thing you will do today is choose.” To be grumpy is a choice.  To hope is a choice.

What does it mean to hope?  To hope is to trust good is coming while waiting non-anxiously.  Can you hope when the day isn’t going so great?  It’s your choice.

When the day is long, you can choose to go through it with hope, trusting good will come from your labor.  When projects don’t come together, you can choose hope and trust that it will come together at the right time.  When the news is bad, you can choose hope and trust that God is at work behind the scenes in ways you do not see.

You may not feel hope at first; but hope is more than a feeling.  It is an orientation.  It is taking a longer look at life.  It is finding value in life, in work, in people, and in yourself.

I admit I went to bed grumpy that night and I woke the next morning with a grumpy hangover.  As the cobwebs started to clear themselves from my mind, I felt the Spirit whisper to me, “Your choice today Clay.  Stay grumpy.  Choose hope. You decide.”

It’s the same choice you face.  Sometimes, the question is not just “what would Jesus do?” but, what would Jesus choose.

Hope.  Jesus always chooses hope.

Is This Any Way to Fight a Battle?

Joshua and God are having a conversation about how to do battle at Jericho.

Joshua: “Here’s how I see it, Lord.  We have two options.  We can lay siege to the city and starve them out.  That will probably take about two years.  Now, given the large number of walled cities in Canaan, it will probably take about two hundred years to complete this campaign.”

God: “That’s too long.  I want to do it faster.”

Joshua: “Then the second option is to do a full-frontal assault.  We storm the walls of the city.  Of course, we’d be under constant fire from the archers and as soon as we put the ladder up on the wall we’ll face the infantry.  It will be hand to hand fighting.  We estimate a casualty rate of fifty percent.”

God: “No, that casualty rate is too high.  We have other battles to fight.”

Joshua: “Well, then Lord, what do you have in mind? I’m fresh out of ideas.”

God: “Here’s the plan: I want you to gather the army and have them march around the city once a day for six days.  Stay beyond archery range.  Just march.  Carry the ark in front of you.  Tell the priests to blow on the ram’s horns.  Then come back to camp.  On the seventh day, I want you to do the same thing.  Have the ark lead out, but this time march around seven times.  The seventh time around, have the priests blow the ram’s horns and have the army give a battle cry.  The wall of the city will fall down.  They will be defenseless.  Then go in and conquer the city.”

Silence.

Joshua: “Beg your pardon, Lord, but I’ve never heard of fighting a battle that way.  You say circle the city once a day for six days, and then on the seventh day, circle it seven times.  The horns blow, we shout, and the walls fall down.  Lord, am I dreaming or am I on drugs or something?”

God: “No. You’re wide awake.  I think my instructions are pretty clear.  What’s the problem?”

Joshua: “Well, Lord, it’s just that’s not the way we fight battles down here on earth.  We work out strategies, make plans, and then go into battle.”

God: “And how well does the plan work once the battle starts?”

Joshua: “Lord, there’s an old saying: ‘No battle plan survives first contact with the enemy.’”

God: “So, Joshua, do you want to follow your plan that you know won’t work once the battle starts, or do you want to follow my plan, since I already know what’s going to happen?”

Joshua: “Good point Lord.  So how do I persuade the army this is a good plan?”

God: “Remind them of all I have done.  Remind them how last week I stopped the Jordan River from flowing and you all crossed on dry ground.  Remind them how I’ve sent manna every morning to feed them all their lives.  Remind them I kept my promises to their parents and led them out of slavery in Egypt.  Remind them you saw with your own eyes how I parted the Red Sea and how you heard my voice on Mt. Sinai.  Joshua, tell them your story.  Help them believe.”

Here’s the rest of the story:  Joshua did what God told him to do.  For six days the army marched.  On the seventh day, they circled the city seven times.  The horns blew; the army shouted.  The wall fell.

It’s the most basic choice of life: Do you want fight battles your way or God’s?

Hint: God has a better success rate than you do.

Uncle Pete and One Last Rodeo …

My Uncle Pete was an almost mythic figure among Florida cowboys, winning the Best All-Around Cowboy a record ten times in the state.  That’s a feat on par with Alabama football.  In the 1970’s, he wrote a piece for Guideposts magazine.  I want to honor him, by sharing it with you.

Uncle Pete’s Story:

               “I had rodeoed all my life in between working cattle. As my wife Ida says, whenever we needed a new refrigerator or stove, I’d ride a bull. Fact is, we just about lived on our rodeo winnings until we got our livestock market going in Okeechobee.

               By 1967 I had slackened off rodeo. When you’re 40 you have no business being in that arena. But it just didn’t seem right to fade out. And when I saw billboards advertising the All-State Championship Rodeo at Arcadia, Fla., on the Fourth of July weekend, I knew what I had to do.

               Arcadia was where I won my first all-state championship at age 15. Now it would be my last rodeo and I’d try for the championship. This meant entering all five events – the calf-roping, saddle-bronc and bareback-bronc riding, bulldogging and bull-riding. I hoped to win back the entry fees and then some; we had a lot of bills to pay.

               On Friday morning I loaded my horse Junior into the trailer, and we drove over to Arcadia. I got Ida and the boys situated in the stands and ambled down to the chutes where the cowboys hang out. You never heard such whooping and hollering. “Hey ol’ timer, what you doing at the rodeo!” But I didn’t mind. Rodeo men enjoy razzing each other; it helps ease the tension.

               I drew calf-roping for my first event on Friday. This and saddle-bronc riding are classic cowboy events, since they’re part of daily ranch work. Junior and I waited at the arena’s edge. The calf streaked into the arena and we took off after him. My rope floated down and Junior stiffened his legs to snap the rope taut and bring the calf down. Now I had to jump down and tie three of his legs together. But, as Junior skidded, I saw I hadn’t roped the calf clean. Should I even get down? In my indecision I half fell off my horse, so I scrambled over to the calf and finished the job.

               I trudged back to the chutes. “What’s the matter, gramps? You’re getting clumsy in your old age!” Right then I’d have gladly sold my time to anyone. At lunch my sons didn’t say much, and Ida’s eyes showed concern. I ate my sandwich silently, thinking about the saddle-bronc I had to ride that afternoon.

               As I sat on that bronc in the chute, he was like a coiled steel spring. Clang! And we shot into the arena, the bronc exploding in all directions. I was allowed to hang on to the buck rein with only one hand. Whupp! We soared into the blue. I twisted and rocked with him. Could I hang on the ten seconds! I did, then hit the dirt.

               The next day I was a little more hopeful, figuring I might make back some of my entry fees on the saddle-bronc. I drew a mean looking roan with a glint in his eye. There was only a rigging around his stomach and withers with a leather grip. Again, only one hand could be used. In a neck-snapping lunge we were in the arena. His head dove and he kicked at the sun. I was flat on my back on his surging haunches, my legs flying. He whirled, twisted, tried every trick. My free hand clutched the air for balance. Time!

               Well, I had stayed on him, but my rhythm and balance weren’t good. Sunday morning, Ida, the boys and I went to church as we always do, whether we’re at home, or traveling the rodeo circuit. I fall in a lot of areas of the Christian life, but attending Church and tithing are two things I always try to do. That Sunday morning I looked up to see a missionary in the pulpit. He told about what our denomination was doing in the Far East to help bring people to Christ through radio and television missions. Something about what he said, his urging for more support, touched me. I couldn’t think of much else. As we drove back to Arcadia I touched Ida’s arm, “Honey, what would you think of us giving whatever I win to that mission work?” She looked at me, then leaned over and kissed my cheek.

               It was awfully hot that afternoon. And you could hear the angry bellowing of the bulls above the noise of the crowd. I am really built too small for bulldogging; you need height and weight. Out in the arena the steer thundered up like a locomotive. We wheeled up beside him on the left. I leaned over to grab his horns and my horse accelerated out from under me as he was trained to do. The steer and I crashed to the dirt. A nice quick throw, I was surprised.

               By late afternoon I was ready for my last event – the bull-riding. Sitting on my bull in the chute, I could feel his hide moving. Again you get only one rope to hold onto. The chute gate opened and the mountain beneath me erupted. He roared and spun, twisting that monstrous head to hook me with his horns. I sailed through the air, hit the ground and somersaulted up on the run to escape. But it turned out that the eight-second whistle had blown before I was thrown.

               That was it. For me the rodeo was over. Soon the shadows stretched across the arena, and all us cowboys started packing our gear. Finally the loudspeaker crackled, and everybody’s head jerked up. First were the runners-up. But my name wasn’t among them. Then, as I was leading Junior into the trailer, I heard “And now, the All-Around Champion – Pete Clemons of Okeechobee!” The prize was $1500 in cash and a hand-tooled leather saddle.

               An hour later we were driving home through the Florida flatlands, the boys sleeping in the back seat. Ida snuggled over against me. “Congratulations, champ,” she said. “Honey,” I said, “you and I are the only ones who know that I had nothing to do with it. God surely must need that money in a hurry.”

Uncle Pete was not a perfect man by any means.  But he was a man of his word.  The Lord got the money.  My sister Clemie Jo got the saddle. 

Uncle Pete passed away Sunday.  He is a believer, so I know he is with Jesus.  I’d like to think God let Uncle Pete see the greater prize; how many were touched by his faithfulness, his gift.  That’s a prize that lasts forever.

Lord of the Storm…

He was tired.  It had been a long day with the crowds, teaching them truths about Kingdom life. If you’ve ever taught from sun-up to sun-down, you know how exhausting it can be.  The crowd was so large he even had to get in a boat, so he could get some distance from the crowd, and be seen and heard. 

As the sun faded behind the hills he told his friends, “Let’s cross the lake.”  They were in an open boat, about twenty-five feet long, with a simple mast and sail.  They pushed off from shore and few other boats followed, and the crowd began to make their way home.

With the crowd behind him, he said to the men in the boat, “Mind if I lay down?  I’m pretty tired.”  Someone found a cushion, moldy and damp, for him to lay his head on.  When you’re exhausted, you’re not picky about your pillow.

The stars began to disappear behind clouds, and a dark night was swallowed by shadows on the water.  The experienced fishermen on the boat – Peter, Andrew, James, and John – knew the first hints of a storm.

They had ridden out many storms on this lake, and like most men, were confident in their knowledge.  They grinned at each other and hollered good natured insults at the non-sailors, like Matthew: “Hey, tax boy!  Better hold onto your stomach!”  From the back of the boat, there was the steady, breathing rhythm of sound sleep. 

The wind started to build, the waves began to whitecap with luminous foam.  Hard drops of rain began to sting their skin.  You would expect a sleeping man to wake up, but the man in the back of the boat slept on.

There comes a point when experience and knowledge run out.  The waves grew higher, the wind stopped blowing and started howling, and the rain began to mix with hail.  Water was starting to wash over the low gunwale. Peter and John stopped exchanging wise-guy grins and began to look at each other anxiously.  The boat was not being pushed by the wind; it was being tossed by the waves and slammed by the fierce air.  It seemed like the atmosphere was attacking the boat and the others on the lake.

How weary must you be to sleep through a storm?  How frightened do you have to be to admit you don’t know what to do?  It dawned on them that they needed to wake him and let him know they were all about die – and him too.  How could a man sleep with death approaching?

“Rabbi,” they said, “Don’t you even care that we are dying?”  Translation: “How can you sleep at a time like this?  We’re all about to die!”

It was funny when they thought back about it later.  His eyes scrunched up, like eyes do when they are woken too early.  His shoulder muscles tightened and then relaxed.  Finally, his eyes opened, with no trace of anxiety or panic.  He was the same Rabbi they had seen awaken so many calm mornings on land.

He looked at their panic-stricken faces and he smiled.  They were like children who think the world is ending because there is no peanut butter in the house.  Lifting his head from the pillow, with just a trace of “being-woke-too-early” in his voice, he turned away from his followers to speak to the storm.

“Peace!  Be Still!”  It was a tone of voice they recognized.  He was not speaking a suggestion to the storm but giving a command.  His voice held the same authority he used to drive out demons and heal the sick.  It was the voice that had echoes of calling stars into being and commanding plants to spring up out of the ground.  When he spoke like this, things happened.

This time, something stopped happening.  As the words rolled off his lips, the wind stopped.  The waves did not die down, they disappeared.  In a second, a blink of an eye, the “we’re going to die” storm changed to complete peace.

He looked at them with a puzzled expression, “Why were you so worked up?  Are you still missing faith?”

They looked at each other, jaws dropped.  It was Peter who spoke first (always): “Who is this guy?  He’s not just a healer, not just a teacher.  Creation obeys him.  Creation only obeys the creator.  So, this means…  Whoa!”

Whatever storm you are facing, Jesus is not anxious about it.  His peace is greater than any wind that blows.  His grace is stronger than your fear.  His love can heal the bruises of the hail and the sting of the rain.  Call out to him.  Tell him you need him.  Let him calm the storm raging in you.

Breaking Up…

“It’s not you,” she said, “It’s me.”  Something in her tone, her lowered eyes, and her shift in the chair told him it was a lie; it was definitely him.

“Are you breaking up with me?” he asked.

“It’s not really a break up, it’s more like taking a break, you know?” she explained.

“Why?” he questioned.

“We’ve been seeing each other for a long time,” she responded.  “I just need some space.  I mean, we started hanging out together in elementary school.  And I’d be the first to say you’ve been there for me.  When my parents got divorced and I really struggled, you listened to all my heartbreak.  In high school, you were always the one to encourage me.  That’s when I felt like we were the closest.  I know you pressed me to get serious, but I felt like I just wasn’t ready, and I backed away.  Now that I’m in college, I’m ready to try some different things.”

“Like what?” he asked, “Or should I ask ‘who’”?

Bowing up a little, she said, “That’s just like you.  You always want to know more than I want you to know.  You want me to belong exclusively to you.  If you must know, there’s this cute guy in my philosophy class.  We’ve been talking periodically after class.  He sees the world different than you.  He says we can trust our feelings and just let love lead us.  He’s not into being uptight about things, like you are.”

“I know all about him,” he said.  “I’m sure you can’t trust him.”

“Have you been stalking me?  How do you know him?  How can you know anything about him?  This is why I need to break up with you.  You always act like you know more than anyone else.  You’re always telling me what is right and wrong.  What makes you so sure that you know what is right and what is wrong?  And don’t tell me about how you know things I can’t even understand!” she shouted.

“I thought you just wanted a break.  Now you are saying you want to break up?” he asked, with a gentleness in his voice.

She replied angrily, “This conversation is over.  This is why I can’t have you in my life anymore.  You are always asking me to think about some ‘deeper meaning’ about what I say and what I do.  I just want to live my life, have fun, and live free.”  She got up to leave.

“Before you leave,” he said, “I ask you to remember two things.  Remember, being free and living without rules are two different things.  And remember I will always love you.”

She grimaced, paused, and looked at him.  A tear formed in the corner of her eye.  She brushed it away, turned, and walked on with a determined stride.

Jesus looked sadly down at his nail-scarred hands as her shadow retreated.  What else could he do to show her that he loved her best, and it would be his love that would set her free?

How many of us have broken up with Jesus because he cramped our style?  How many of us have come back to him to admit life without him just doesn’t work?  How many of us have to say walking away from Jesus, doing our own thing, was the worst mistake we ever made?

The good news?  He still loves you.  Always.

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.

Shadow Mission

People in church can get upset at the craziest things.  A lady pulled me aside once, whispering she had something important to tell me.  My mind flashed through worse case scenarios: she had cancer; a deacon had passed out, a car in the parking lot was on fire.  With deep conviction, she told me she had seen one of our staff members walking around in BLUE JEANS!  She knew I would want to know and speak to him.  It was a molehill turned into a mountain.

A pastor friend of mine was verbally attacked in his office for having the staff read a book.  An immature man told him he was undermining the legacy of his father and grandfather in the church.  How does reading a book threaten your family history?  Besides, I thought church was supposed to be about Jesus and his will, not a dead relative’s legacy.

Pastors can do crazy things too.  A youth pastor got up and told his church that if they didn’t worship the way he did, with loud guitar riffs, skinny jeans, and hands held high, they weren’t real Christians.  Didn’t Jesus say something about judge not, lest you be judged?

Years ago, an older pastor got upset with me in a meeting when I suggested the methods of the past may not work anymore.  He accused me of being a liberal heathen (I’m not, I’m a Florida Gator).  He believed we needed two-week revivals, more Stamps-Baxter music, and a sermon every week on how we were all in danger of hell.   I didn’t know how to tell him the pace of life has changed; the average age of people buying Stamps-Baxter music was 75; and, while hell is important to talk about, there were other subjects in the Bible that needed to be taught.  He was praying for the 1930’s (the years of his childhood) to come back.  I was 100% sure 1935 was not going to pop up on the calendar again.

One man pulled me aside and told me, “Preacher, we don’t need to reach any more people until we take care of the people we have.”  As lovingly as I could, I told him I thanked God the people of the church didn’t feel that way, or else we would have never reached him when he was far from God.  Jesus told us to love each other, sure, but he also commanded us to go make disciples.

Someone else asked me not too long ago if I thought another church’s growth hurt our church.  “No,” I replied, “last time I checked we were under the same ownership.  Our competition is not the church down the street, it’s everything else that pulls people away from God.”  When any church wins, God’s Kingdom wins.  It’s not a competition. 

I believe every church has a mission from God, a unique reason God made it to exist.  God may gift one church to grow large, gift another church to stay small but be a faithful witness in an under-served area, and gift a third church to reach a slice of people that everyone else ignores.  Most churches, however, never do the hard work of discovering their unique role in God’s kingdom.

Instead, churches are tempted by shadow missions.  A shadow mission is when your true mission is derailed, not by something bad, but by something that is pretty good.  It’s good to want to respect God, but wearing blue jeans is not a sin.  Getting upset by new ideas means forgetting to ask, “Does this new idea help us accomplish our mission?”  Condemning other people for the way they worship makes the style of worship more important than the God we worship.  Clinging to old ways can be an idol.  We can spend so much time loving each other, we forget to love the least of these; we can forget to love those far from God.

Long before management gurus discovered the idea of mission, Jesus gave his church a clear mission: “Go, make disciples, of all peoples, baptizing them in the name of the Father, and of the Son, and the Holy Spirit, teaching them to obey all I have commanded you.  I am with you all the time, even to end of the days (Matthew 28:19-20).”  The mission of the church is to make disciples – people who live their lives like Jesus; seems clear to me.  If a church puts anything above that, it’s a shadow mission.

Jesus promised he would be with us each day as we do his mission.  Many churches seem to lack the power of Jesus.  I wonder if those churches are doing a shadow mission Jesus wants no part of. 

That last thought makes me pray, “Father, keep your church on mission.”

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.

The Power of an Invitation…

“Hey Clay, you really ought to meet my friend Gina.  She goes to the same seminary you do,” Marcus Dodson told me about his friend and I thought, “Why not?” So, I call her, we meet for breakfast, and thirty-two years of marriage later she is still the most interesting person I’ve ever met.  The power of an invitation.

“Hey Clay, you should really go to Pre-school retreat, it’s great.”  I’m a freshman starting college.  Rich Lloyd tells me I should go to this Pre-school thing.  Sounds like something involving four-year-olds.  I go anyway.  It is amazing.  I hear preaching like I’ve never heard before, I worship like I have never worshiped before, I meet friends that will change my life, and my relationship with God goes to a whole new level.  I even climb a mountain for the first time – at night, holding a girl’s hand.  The power of an invitation.

“Hey Clay, let’s borrow your Dad’s boat and go skiing this afternoon.”  My cousin Ronnie couldn’t water-ski.  Neither could I.  We took the boat to the lake in Avon Park that afternoon and burned a tank of gas learning to ski.  By the time the sun was going down, we were skiing well enough to invite girls to go with us the next Sunday afternoon, which was the whole point of learning to ski.  The power of an invitation.

“Hey Clay, would you preach for First Baptist Sebring Sunday?”  I’m twenty-two years old.  The pastor at First Baptist Sebring has just resigned.  They were desperate, obviously.  I accept the invitation.  On that Sunday, the large crowd, the great choir, and the beautiful glass sanctuary made me sound better than I was.   The Pulpit Committee of Southside Baptist Church was in the congregation that day.  They felt led to take a chance on a young, single man from their hometown.  I was called as their pastor three weeks later.  The power of an invitation.

“Hey Peter, Andrew, James, and John, follow me!”  Jesus invites four men to leave their fishing nets and go on the adventure of a lifetime.  They spend three years with the Son of God (impressive internship), see him crucified and resurrected, do miracles themselves, and travel all around the Roman world, a long way from being fisherman in Galilee.  The power of an invitation.

“Hey everybody, come and meet the man who told me everything I’ve ever done.  I think this man could be the leader we’ve all looked for our entire lives.”  A Samaritan woman, a five-time loser at marriage, shacked up with a man in town who won’t marry her, invites her town to come out to the well to meet a Jewish rabbi.  They are so impressed they beg him to stay.  He does.  They believe because of what they hear themselves.  A whole town changed.  The power of an invitation.

“Hey, Matthew, stop wasting your life getting rich on a government contract.  Follow me.”  Matthew leaves his tax collection station to follow Jesus, throws a big party for all his friends, and starts memorizing all the things Jesus says and does.  Later he writes his account, the Gospel of Matthew. The power of an invitation.

“Hey Paul, stop fighting me and join me.”  Paul is blinded by the light of Jesus on the Damascus road.  He accepts the invitation, flips sides, starts to preach the Good News, and pushes the Jesus movement out beyond its Jewish comfort zone.  The power of an invitation.

Somehow Jesus followers have lost this.  We’ve become “Field of Dreams” people: “Build it and they will come.”  Not anymore.  People don’t come just because church doors are open at eleven o’clock Sunday.  But there is power in an invitation.  A simple ask: “Hey, how about coming to church with me this Sunday.  I’ll take you to lunch afterwards.”   What’s the worst that could happen?  Someone tells you “no.”  Big deal.  Banks, potential first-dates, your boss, and your two-year old tell you “no” all the time.

They might say “yes.”  They might meet Jesus.  Their lives might change.  The simple power of an invitation.

Who do you need to invite?

Beyond the Walls…

I grew up in New Hope Baptist Church, Route 2, Wauchula, Florida.  Like many a Southerner, white and black, the walls of church were a comfort to me. 

For starters, the church was air-conditioned; our house was not.  To step into the sanctuary from the blazing Florida heat was like stepping into grace.  As a squirmy four-year-old, I heard the preacher thunder that hell was hot and I believed him: I had already survived four Florida summers. I made the connection early: heaven was air-conditioned, just like church.

Church was not just like family, it was family.  Just about everyone within those walls could trace their lineage back to where it crossed (or at least brushed up against) everyone else’s.  Out of boredom one Sunday, I decided to figure out who in the choir I wasn’t related to.  There was one person: the preacher’s wife.

I loved the hymns we sang.  “Love Lifted Me” was my favorite, maybe because of the chorus: “When nothing else could help, love lifted me!”  Back then, people sang out, even people who couldn’t carry a tune.  A hundred and fifty voices bouncing off those walls lifted your soul.

I remember sermons on missions.  When Valda Long, a missionary to Nigeria, a native of our county, came to speak, everyone dug a little deeper in their pockets and pocketbooks to support her.  However, we didn’t have any sermons on witnessing that I remember.  I guess we thought we didn’t need them.  We knew everyone who didn’t go to church in the great Popash – Lemon Grove area.  We figured they knew where the church was and what time we started (11:00 AM, of course).  Besides, we would pray for them during revival time and invite them to hear the guest preacher.  We didn’t see much need to go beyond the walls.

That world I grew up in is gone, even in Wauchula.  I’m not sure it ever really existed.  We could pretend it did when the United States had a “churched” culture.  A “churched” culture is when everyone knows they are supposed to be in church, whether they go or not.  A “churched” culture is when people believe the Bible is true (“The Bible says…”), even if they don’t live by it.  A “churched” culture is when everyone agrees on “right” and “wrong.”  All we had to do was stay in the walls of church and let people come to us.

There are still churches that try to live behind their walls.  They build their own schools and their own fitness centers so people are able to stay in a church bubble.  I know of some churches that even have their own restaurants.  This is church as a fortress, inviting people to come and do life together, away from the dirt of the world. 

Jesus, the one who is the head of the church, didn’t spend a lot of time behind the walls.  He was out with people.  The more non-religious the people, the more he seemed to like them.  Messy people didn’t scare him.  The religious establishment, the people behind the walls, were threatened by him.  Ultimately, they killed him.  No wonder Jesus went beyond the walls.

After Jesus’ death and resurrection, he gave his disciples one final instruction: Go.  He did not tell them to build walls to huddle behind.  He did not even tell them to be a family.  He told them to go.

New Hope Church, which I love, is still a place of comfort for me.  The people of that church did and still do many things right.  What we did not do in those days was “go.”  We wanted to stay behind the walls.

Church isn’t church if it stays behind the walls, Jesus told us to go beyond them.  Out beyond the walls, there are people who need to hear some good news.  Out beyond the walls, there are people who need hope.  Out beyond the walls, there are people who need to know that when nothing else will help, love will lift them.  Out beyond the walls, there are people who need Jesus.

It is time for the church to go beyond the walls.  Will you go?

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.

Old Times There Are Not Forgotten…

When my mother and step-father married, we moved off the ranch and lived in Largo, Florida, where I went to high school.  Largo was home to the Band of Gold, perhaps the finest high school band ever to exist in this country.  We won five National Championships, a World Championship, and so many state championships we literally ran out of wall space to display the trophies.  For the twelve years Bob Cotter was the director, the Band of Gold was a musical force.

From the first time I heard the Band, I wanted to be in it.  I learned to play trumpet, then French Horn.  When I finally put on the shimmering gold shirt, I knew I belonged to something bigger than myself.  One man playing a French Horn could make a sound; one hundred and fifty people could make a tidal wave of sound.   

We didn’t just play at high school football games; we played at Miami Dolphin games and did half-time at the very first Tampa Bay Buccaneer’s game.  My senior year, we played a University of Florida Gator game at Tampa Stadium.  One of our songs was the theme from “Jaws.”  The Gator cheerleaders asked us to play it over and over.  That’s right: the Band of Gold originated the famous Gator “chomp.”

I don’t mean to throw other high school bands under the bus, but we were drilled in the fundamentals of marching and music.  It showed.  We marched in step.  Ever notice how the TV cameras will always focus on the one kid out of step in the band?  They never found “that guy” in the Band of Gold.  We played in tune.  For the non-musical among you, that meant we sounded like one instrument though we were one hundred and fifty different instruments. There were lots of different sounds making one song.

Playing in the band meant you didn’t really hear the music; you heard the echo off the stadium.  You never saw the show; you saw the impact.  I don’t remember ever performing and not receiving a standing ovation.  At the World Music Contest in Holland, I remember the standing ovation went on for fifteen minutes.  Nothing else in my life has ever been quite like it.

I realize now, the Band of Gold and Mr. Cotter, the director, taught me a lot about church.  When you are doing church – I mean really doing it – you don’t see what it looks like.  You can see people’s reaction to church, you can hear the cheers and boos, you can hear the echoes, but you don’t get the true picture when you are part of the movement of Jesus.

There is, however, something powerful, something beyond ourselves, when we join with others to have impact.  We can meet the needs of our community with a tidal wave of grace.  People will stand up and notice when we are in step and in tune.  When church sticks to the fundamentals – loving Jesus, loving each other, and loving God’s world – there is a power that overwhelms doubt and difference. 

I went back recently for the Fiftieth Anniversary of the founding of the Band of Gold and the Fortieth Anniversary of the World Championship.  We gathered to remember and celebrate old times that are not forgotten.  They showed old videos of field shows, and I saw the impact we made. 

Maybe that is part of Heaven: there, we will actually see the impact of our churches.  Which makes me wonder: Will we see the impact of the unified body of Christ, bringing grace to a hurting world?  Or will we see the feeble attempts of a group of people doing their own thing, playing their own tune, putting Jesus’ name on it, and calling it a church?

Is it time for you to get in step and in tune?

Clarity

My cousin, Ross Hendry, was working cows at my Aunt Ouida’s place.  The humidity was 100% and the temperature was about 98 degrees – a typical Florida summer day.  It was the kind of day that makes a cowboy pray for shade.  At Aunt Ouida’s pens, there wasn’t any.  They stood out in the middle of the pasture, in the brutal Florida heat.

Black Angus bulls are especially prone to heatstroke.  Bulls are bigger than cows and their black hides draw in heat from the sunshine and hold it.  Three of the Angus bulls were standing in the corner of a pen, laboring for breath.  Ross, a veterinarian, recognized the warning signs: the bulls needed to be cooled off, right away.

Cooling off three two-ton bulls is not the easiest thing in the world.  You can’t exactly load them up in the truck and turn the A/C on full blast.  Nor can you take them home and let them cool off in your living room (“Oh give me a home, where the Angus bulls roam…”).  The only way to get the bulls cool was to get them to a waterhole as soon as possible.

Ross told his son Dane, who is my age, to put those bulls on the trailer and get them to the waterhole.  Dane was about sixteen at the time, an age when the pre-frontal cortex (where decisions are made) is not yet mature. 

Whoops, hollers, and hot-shots got the bulls moving and Dane got them on the trailer.  The bulls had moved all they wanted so they did something unusual: they laid down in the trailer as Dane hauled them to the waterhole.

Dane backed the trailer down to the waterhole, went back and opened the trailer gate.  Under normal circumstances, the bulls would have bolted for the opening and splashed into the waterhole.  This, however, was not a normal day. 

Instead the bulls stayed in the trailer.  They were still hot and panting, but at least they had a bit of shade.  Dane hollered.  The bulls didn’t move.  Dane whooped.  No movement.  Dane applied the hot-shot to the bull’s backside.  Even electricity didn’t move the bulls.  They just bellowed and resumed panting.

Dane had been on enough vet calls with his Dad to know the bulls were still in danger.  He knew the bulls needed to get in that water and cool off.  He also could tell the bulls weren’t moving any time soon.

As information was assimilating in Dane’s brain, a thought made its way to his frontal cortex: if the bulls wouldn’t go to the water, he would make the water come to the bulls.  With confidence only a sixteen-year-old can muster, Dane got back into the truck and backed the cattle trailer down into the water.

It’s tricky to know how deep you should back a trailer with six thousand pounds of live beef on it.  Dane had to make an allowance for the bull in the back of the trailer and the bull in the front of the trailer.  When he got the wheels of the trailer about three feet under water, he felt that was sufficient.  Dane got out to look, and found his plan had worked: The two bulls in the back of the trailer had stood up (to avoid drowning).  The bull in the front of the trailer was still happily laying down, now up to his neck in water.  All the bulls seemed relieved.

Waterholes tend to have muddy bottoms.  Aunt Ouida’s was no exception.  Not only had Dane sunk the bulls in the water, he had sunk the trailer tires in a foot of gooey mud.  Dane, the trailer, and the bulls were stuck.

In those pre-cell phone days, there was nothing to do but wait until someone came looking for him.  Sure enough, in about 30 minutes, Dane’s dad, Ross, and Tom, one of the hands, came riding out.

Ross could see the bulls in the water and his cattle trailer buried in the mud.  Hendrys’, a special offshoot of our family, have a number of unique vocabulary words to express their feelings at times like these.  Ross had started to access his vocabulary when Tom stopped him and said, “Ross, now stop and think.  The boy did what he was told to do.  You told him to get those bulls cooled off and they are.  You didn’t tell him they had to be out of the trailer.” 

Ross bit his tongue and Dane was eternally grateful to Tom. 

It did take two tractors to haul out the truck and trailer.  The bulls seemed upset to be leaving their personal pool.  But the bulls lived to breed another day.

God knew the greatest clarity comes not from a list of instructions.  The greatest clarity comes from being with someone.  That is why God sent Jesus – to be with us.  There is a great phrase in Galatians: “I no longer live, but Christ lives in me.”  When you know Jesus, he lives in you.  He whispers to you in the moment.  The clarity is not from his words, but from his presence.

Someday you may be faced with a situation and not know exactly how to deal with it.  Access Jesus inside of you.  His presence, his peace, will give you all the clarity you need.  And yes, it may mean you have to back a load of bulls into the waterhole, even if it is not exactly the way someone else would solve the problem.

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?

Churches, Preachers, and Politics…

The pastor at my home church was preaching one Sunday, and as an illustration, he shared that some senior adults received so little in Social Security, they had to eat dog food.  Then he added this phrase, “I don’t think God likes that.”  Everyone can agree on that, right?

On the way home, one family member said, “I just don’t think preachers should talk politics.”  Maybe I missed something, but how is people getting enough to eat (so they don’t have to eat dog food) politics?

There are people (and obviously some in my family) who think preachers should stick to issues like salvation, heaven, hell, the second coming, and “Did Adam and Eve have belly-buttons?”  There is another set of folks who think preachers ought to preach politics if it agrees with their politics.  Then there are preachers who believe politics is the way you change the world.  One well-known pastor in Dallas had a TV studio built into his new church so he would be instantly available to news networks to share his opinion. 

Part of the problem is the way we see the world.  We think faith is just about what happens after you die.  Jesus kicked this idea in the head when he said, “Whenever you visit the sick, clothe the naked, feed the hungry, offer drink to the thirsty, and visit folks in the prison, it just like you are doing it to me.”  If you really are a Jesus follower, you will care for the least of these.

It’s also a problem when people think their way of thinking is God’s way of thinking.  That’s the way the Chief Priests and Pharisees thought.  They were so convinced of their own “rightness” they didn’t recognize God in the flesh in front of them.  Before you start telling everyone what God thinks politically, you might want to check with him.

I am always amazed when preachers think political power is the way to change a city, a state, or a country.  I believe there is greater power on a prayer bench than in a ballot box.  That doesn’t mean Jesus followers shouldn’t vote or run for office; it simply means our hope is in the power of a resurrected Jesus, who is the King of kings and Lord of lords (and President of presidents, Governor of governors, and Mayor of mayors).

One of the reasons the first part of the Bible – the Old Testament – matters is because it tells us how God’s judgment comes upon nations that sell justice, abuse the poor, reject the foreigner, worship sex, and lust for power (of course, none of those issues impact us today).  Jesus followers have a mandate to speak truth to power, no matter what party holds that power.  That is why the church of Jesus should never sell its soul to a political party.  The church never has to figure out whose side it is on; the church puts itself on God’s side.  Everything else falls in place from there.

Jesus followers need to speak with a clear voice that every life, every soul matters to God.  Therefore, every life, every soul, matters to us.

Call it politics if you want.  I call it seeing Jesus in the faces of every man, woman, boy, and girl. 

I think back to that preacher’s statement so long ago, and he was absolutely right to say those words in church.  Jesus said if you feed the hungry, it’s like feeding him.  I wouldn’t serve Jesus dog food, would you?

Socks, as Good as Dead, but Not Quite

We have three dogs.  We acquired Moo when my son Abram went off to grad school.  Sadie was my father-in-law’s dog.  When he passed away, Sadie came to us as part of the estate.  Then there is Socks.

When my oldest daughter turned eight, she wanted a dog.  We bought her a beagle, named Jewel, who wouldn’t stay home.  Jewel had a romantic encounter with a Labrador Retriever, and before we knew it, puppies were on the way.  I put my foot down and said we could not keep any puppies.  My children whined and pleaded.  We negotiated down to keeping one puppy.  Then the puppies were born. 

There were six.  I grew up where dogs were often given the name “Dog.”  The children gave every puppy a first and middle name.  Pleas were entered 10 minutes after the last one was born to keep all the puppies.  Negotiations continued for the next six weeks.  We finally settled on keeping two: Nickel and Socks, the runt of the litter.

Socks and Nickel inherited their mother’s wandering blood.  Socks learned how to climb the chain link fence and then open the gate for her sister.  They would then room the woods, tracking deer, crossing roads.  Because the church was near my house, I would often look out my office window and see my dogs hot on the trail of some critter.  I received about three calls a week: “Do you know your dogs are out preacher?”  “Yep.  They’ll come home when they get hungry.”

Her sister Nickel died about ten years ago and without her running buddy, Socks became a homebody.  She aged gracefully, never demanding attention, but content to sleep, eat, and pass gas.  Sounds like retirement for some folks I know.

About a year ago, when Socks was fifteen, we found her staring blankly at a wall.  We took her to the vet and found out she’d had a stroke.  Her heart was weak, so she was given medicine to strengthen her heart and an anti-depressant to keep her alert (who knew dogs could take anti-depressants?).  She perked up and was doing pretty well for someone 105 in dog years.

Then last week, she crashed.  Socks wouldn’t eat or drink.  She seemed crippled in her back legs.  Off to the vet we went. 

You know you are getting older when the vet turns out to be someone your kids went to high school with.  The vet took some blood samples and did an echo-cardiogram.  She came in to tell me that Sock’s heart was worse and the blood tests showed her kidneys were shutting down.  The outlook wasn’t good.  The vet kindly offered to euthanize Socks, but I wanted the family to have a chance to say good-bye.

I brought her home and we all loved on her, knowing her time was short.  She wasn’t eating or drinking.  For two days, I checked on her every hour to make sure she was still breathing.

Then on the third day, Socks drank a little water.  In the night, she had a horrific bowel movement (I slept through it, so my wife caught the worst of it).  We were sure the third day would be her last. 

I can’t stand to see anyone or anything hungry, a trait I get from my father.  I offered Socks some peanut butter and she nibbled it.  Later, Gina fed her a spoon of canned dog food.  The next day she ate some dry dog food and chicken.  By the fifth day, she cleaned her bowl and looked at me expectantly wanting more.  The other dogs, after avoiding her for days the way well people avoid sick people, began to interact with her.  By the sixth day, it was clear Socks was not going to die, she was going to live.

Twice in the New Testament (Romans 4 and Hebrews 11) Abraham is referred to as a man “as good as dead.”  He was, after all, 100 years old in people years.  But God had other plans.  God enabled him to father a son, Isaac.  A few years later, after his wife Sarah died, he married a younger woman and had whole clan of children.  Apparently, being “as good as dead” is not the same as “dead.”

Before you give up on your life, before you give up on God’s promises, before you give up on your future, before you decide you are “as good as dead,” check with God.  “As good as dead” is not the same as “dead.”  Just because someone else has given up on you, or just because you have given up on yourself, doesn’t mean God is done with you.

I’ve been tempted to go back to the vet.  I don’t really think I need to pay $50 for the vet to tell me, “Well, she’s not dead.”  I can see that for myself. 

Open your eyes.  Open your soul.  See that our good God is not done with you yet.

Totally Worth the Price

It’s the standard joke among fathers of the bride: “For your daughter’s wedding you have two roles: First, when asked ‘Who gives this woman to be married to this man,’ you respond, ‘Her mother and I.’  Second, open your wallet and surrender all your cash and credit cards.  In the run up to my daughter Hannah’s wedding, I heard a hundred variations of this joke.

I even joined in the joking.   I told people God gave a man two kidneys so he could sell one on the black market to pay for his daughter’s wedding.  If he had more than one daughter, there was always dialysis.  I approached dads with two-year-old girls and asked them how much they had saved for their daughter’s wedding.  It was my way of sharing the panic.

Weddings today can get out of hand.  The old standard was a reception in the church social hall with wedding cake, mixed nuts, mints, and lime sherbet punch.  According to a survey done by The Knot, the average wedding in the United States now runs around $36,000.  One wedding venue we contacted told us they had not done a wedding in the last ten years for less than $50,000 (not including dresses, flowers, and lodging).  While most of my life I’ve tried to be above average, this was one time I wanted to be below average – way below.

Gina and I were nervous about the money, I’ll admit.  We had set aside some funds, but nowhere near enough for even a basic wedding.  We scrimped and saved, robbed Peter to pay Paul (which is not actually in the Bible).  More than once we had the tough conversation: How much can we afford?  When a friend told us “A wedding is like buying a new Mercedes and then driving it over a cliff,” we had to ask ourselves, “Is this worth it?”

The weekend for Hannah’s wedding finally came.  In a word, it was ‘amazing.’  During the rehearsal dinner, there were wonderful speeches affirming her and her husband to be.  When she made her speech about me and her mother, I cried.  The wedding itself was like something out of Disney: the sky was robin’s egg blue, a gentle breeze was blowing, the birds were singing (literally), and Hannah was beautiful in her wedding dress. Her groom cleaned up pretty good, too.  During the minister’s prayer, I keep my eyes open (Don’t judge, I know you keep your eyes open too) just drinking it all in.  Psalm 118:24 kept running through my mind: “This is the day the LORD has made; let us rejoice and be glad in it!”   The reception was magical, with good food, family, friends, and dancing.  When the night was over, I knew my daughter knew she was loved and treasured.  It was a weekend of amazing grace.

The next day, as Gina and I bathed in the afterglow, God put two powerful thoughts in my soul.  First, it was worth it.  All my anxiety about the cost of the wedding was totally useless.  It was worth every penny to see her happy, joyful, and loved.  She is my precious child; why wouldn’t I want her to have a moment like this?  I know enough of life to know there will be moments that drain her.  There will be other times she must fight uphill battles.  There will be days when life floods her.  To provide her with a gift of a special time of love and joy – of course I want that for her.  I decided I would not be one of those dads that complains in perpetuity about the cost of my daughter’s wedding.  Instead, I will claim as graceful day of joy.

The second thought God put in my soul was the simple truth of the John 3:16: “For God so loved the world, that he gave his only begotten son that whosoever believes in him will not perish but have everlasting life.”

God loves you, God treasures you.  So God paid an absurd price for you.  He gave his only son Jesus for you.  Your sins, the ugliness of your life and past, are wiped away by the beauty of Jesus’ perfect life, sacrifice, and resurrection.  God never complains about the price he paid for you. 

No wonder Paul and John refer to the collection of Jesus followers as “the bride of Christ.”  The Book of Revelation describes a scene where the bride of Christ comes down out of heaven as a bride adorned for her husband.  The pivotal moment in the history of heaven is a wedding.

I don’t know if this will happen exactly this way, but I can imagine in that moment, in the new heaven and the new earth, when Christ and his bride come together, that our heavenly Father is keeping his eyes open on the beauty the moment.  And in that moment, our heavenly Father looks at us and says, “No regrets.  You are totally worth the price.” 

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.

Paige Patterson: What Goes Around, Comes Around

Paige Patterson, the President of The Southwestern Baptist Theological Seminary, was forcibly retired from his position last night.  Patterson has come under fire for counsel he gave a woman in 2000 – that she should stay in her marriage to her abusive husband and pray for him; and for comments in 2014 that a teenage girl was “built.”  An allegation surfaced yesterday that while President at Southeastern Theological Seminary, he told a student who had been raped to forgive her rapist, while failing to report the rape to police.

If you did not live through the Southern Baptist Conservative Resurgence of the 1980’s and 1990’s, you may not understand the strong emotions evoked by Paige Patterson.  Patterson was the leader of the Conservative movement, which gained political control of the Southern Baptist Convention.  The goal of the movement was to change the direction of theological education in Southern Baptist Seminaries.  If you were in favor of the Conservative Resurgence, Patterson tends to be your hero.  If you were in the moderate camp, Patterson was the enemy.

During the years of the controversy, I was in seminary at ground-zero of the battle: The Southern Baptist Theological Seminary, in Louisville, KY.  Southern was long thought to be filled with liberals who denied the Bible.  Several friends counseled me against attending Southern, telling me it would wreck my faith.

The Conservatives in the Southern Baptist wars had an effective tactic: they would examine a professor’s writings, teaching, and speeches, then lift material to “prove” that a professor was liberal.  This was done at times with integrity; at other times, it was done indiscriminately, ripping material out of context.  Two or three sentences would be splashed on the pages of Conservative publications to prove the professor was “liberal.”  Often, no effort was given to balancing the offending material with the larger body of the professor’s work.  “Fair and balanced” treatment got in the way of the goal to purge the SBC of liberals.

At this point I should explain academics.  Academics have their own sub-dialect.  They are writing to an academic audience and must respond to academic concerns.  How do I know this?  God called me to complete a Ph.D. degree, even though I am not by nature an academic.  My six years in the academic pressure-cooker taught me you must read closely and deeply to find the true point of view of an academic, especially in the world of Biblical commentary and theology.  What surprised many of my friends was I emerged from twelve years at Southern with a stronger commitment to scripture than when I entered.   I was trained to separate the wheat from the chaff.

Were there professors who were liberal?  Yes.  Were mainstream professors falsely accused of being liberal?  Yes.  Were tertiary issues placed as primary issues in making judgments about professors and their employment?  Yes.  Like all revolutions, the Conservative Resurgence in the SBC hurt many innocent people.  Damage was done to the body of Christ.  It can be argued that the damage to the innocent was necessary to drive out the poison.  Only God can accurate judge whether harming the innocent was worth the cure.

What does all of this have to do with Paige Patterson?  Patterson supporters are saying you cannot judge a man based two or three incidents in his past.  Patterson detractors are rejoicing that Patterson is finally being held accountable.  It is ironic to me, however, that Patterson is being forced out by people using the same set of tactics he and his troops employed in the SBC Conservative Resurgence. 

I am not a Patterson fan, but I do not wish him harm.  My Lord Jesus told me to love my brothers and sisters in Christ, whether they be liberal or conservative, fundamentalist or moderate, whether I agree with them or not.

In the Sermon on the Mount, Jesus said, “Do not judge, lest you be judged.  For with the judgment you make, you will be judged, and the measure you give will be the measure you get.”  Patterson’s downfall reminds me judgment is frightening exercise for the followers of Jesus.  I need to always remember God is the judge.  If I am called by God to stand for truth, I must make sure I do so with grace and fairness. Before I accuse, I must know a person’s whole story and compare it to my own.  Then I must ask the pivotal question: “Am I willing to have this judgment that I am about to hand out put on my life?”