I Can’t Breathe…

Let me state the obvious: I’m not a black man.  I’ve never been particularly worried about being stopped by the police.  I’ve never coached my son on how to act when an officer of the law gives an order, fearing that if he doesn’t give exactly the right responses, he would be shot.

My friends of color tell me there is a different reality.  They tell me they worry about their children every day being shot by law enforcement.  They tell me about shopping in stores and being followed by clerks, who profile them as potential thieves.  They tell me about being demeaned because of the color of their skin in the workplace and in the marketplace.

I never thought much about “white privilege.”  But I could not help but wonder: what if I was in Minneapolis and gave a store clerk a fake $20 bill?  What would happen?  The police might be called.  If they asked me where I got that bill, I would probably say “I don’t know.”  I would tell them I didn’t know it was fake.  The officers would probably believe me, just because I’m white.  That’s “white privilege.”

If I were arrested, I probably wouldn’t panic.  If the officers tried to put me in a police car and I said I was claustrophobic, they would probably let me stand outside until I was able to calm myself.  If they put me on the ground and I protested, “I can’t breathe,” they probably would have let me up and told me to stay still.  All because I’m white.

My friends in law enforcement tell me something was dreadfully wrong with what happened to George Floyd in Minneapolis.  The incident is an unfortunate reminder that even if 99% of law enforcement do their jobs and protect the rights of all, 1% is still too high a failure rate.  There are many good law enforcement officers out there.  But the incident with George Floyd is even more terrible than a police shooting of someone unarmed.  This is occurred while a man begged for mercy: “I can’t breathe.” 

I think about the Savior I follow.  He was not white.  He was not black.  He was a Mediterranean Jew, who probably had an olive complexion.  Jesus knew what it meant to be profiled.  The Roman authorities thought every Jew had rebellion on their mind.  The Romans believed in law and order.  They would flood areas of their empire with troops to suppress any activity that threatened their power.  Innocent people were often beaten, or imprisoned, or killed, just because of their race.

All four gospels make clear that Jesus was not strung up by a mob.  It was all very tidy, very legal.  He was condemned by a Jewish court, then condemned by Pilate, the supreme authority of Rome.  Though his death was part of God’s plan, it was still wrong, horribly wrong, for him to die.  But it was done legally, by all the law enforcement officials. 

The cross was a cruel instrument of death.  It was designed by the Romans to send a message: “Don’t mess with Rome.”  When preachers talked about the cross, we usually focus on the nailing of the hands and feet.  Nails piercing flesh result in intense pain.  But the body has a way of producing adrenaline to push the pain back.  The true great cruelty of the cross was asphyxiation.  The body was stretched out and a block of wood was placed above the buttocks.  To breathe, a person would have to lift their weight up, use their upper body and arm strength, pull their weight over the block of wood, and then gasp for air.  As the body tired, as strength left the muscles, the breaths became shallower and shallower.   Oxygen became scarce.  Finally, when strength left the body, the victim could no longer pull his body up to breathe and he died.  This is what happened to Jesus.  He died because he could not breathe.

This is something I need to remember.  My Savior knew exactly how George Floyd felt.  

There is a difference, however.  George Floyd died because he tried to pay with a fake $20 bill.  Jesus died for the sins of the world.  The unfathomable mystery of God is this:  Jesus died for George Floyd, so that whatever sins he committed could be forgiven. Jesus also died for Derek Chauvin, the former police officer who put his knee on George Floyd’s neck, so his sins could be forgiven as well.   That, my friends, is the depth of the grace of God. 

When Should You Have Church Again?

In the past month I received several emails asking, “When are we going to have church again?”  Some of these inquiries come from folks eager to get back to normal.  They long for the rhythm of Sunday: getting up, getting dressed, singing the songs of faith, hearing God’s word face to face.  Occasionally the message will say something like: “If people can go to Walmart or Lowes, then it should be safe enough for us to have church.”  I’m not sure we can trust Walmart’s or Lowes’ motives are the same as God’s.

I talked to my fellow pastors.  We tried to figure out what data point to use to show us it is safe to gather in the building again.  The problem is there is not a data point specific enough to make that decision for us.  This is the problem with data: it is good at telling you what is happening, but lousy at making decisions.  One of the pastors said, “I think we can’t wait till it is safe enough to remove people’s anxieties.  We will just need to trust God to tell us.”  Amen, brother.

Some church members have informed me they will not return to corporate worship until a vaccine is developed.  They are in the “at-risk” group and do not want to risk exposure.  I respect that.  Every person is responsible for their own health.

I saw one church’s plan for re-gathering.  The writer of the plan must have been in the military.  Every detail, every possibility was spelled out.  However, a German general once said, “No battle plan survives first contact with the enemy.”  Every church that regathers knows a lot more after the first Sunday back than they did before they regathered.

Some of the problem is the way we think about church.  The word translated “church” in the New Testament is “ekklesia.”  It is a verb that means “to gather a group of people to do something.”  When translated over into Old German, they used the word “kirche.”  It is a noun originally meaning “castle” or fortress.”  The word came over into English as “church.”  Maybe this is why we began to associate the word “church” with place.  Maybe this is why some churches regard their building as fortress, a place to be safe from the world.

I know churches that value “place” over “gathering.”  They make idols of their buildings, complete with fifty-page documents detailing how the building is to be used (mostly “not used’).  Funny that Jesus never had his disciples build a building.  When his followers pointed out how wonderful the Temple was, he told them it would torn down.  Jesus was not into buildings for building’s sake.

The answer to the question, “When should I go to church again?” is to be the church right now.  Church is being the body of Christ.  Bodies are designed for action.  We can be the body without a building.  We can love our neighbors.  We can sow masks for medical personnel.  We can call and check on our brothers and sisters in Christ.  We can listen to good teaching of God’s word.  We can even sing songs of faith – you do not need a building, or an organ, or a fog machine to lift up your voice in praise.

Most of all, we can encourage one another.  Jesus followers can remember that we are Easter people.  Our greatest fear is not death.  Our greatest fear is being distant from our leader.  When Paul wrote, “Work out your salvation with fear and trembling, for it is God who works in you to will and to act according to his purpose,” he was telling us no matter what situation we are in, God is at work.  Find where he is at work and join him.

In the Bible the word for “worship” also means “serve.”  Serve God right now.  Do what he wants.  Love the people around you.  Going to a building is good; being church is better.

Patience…

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Fox in the Neighborhood…

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Small Signs of Hope…

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Your Body is a Gift…

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Do not Let the Weak Die…

I saw a video clip of a news reporter in Tennessee, giving details of a protest on the steps of the state capital. The protesters were clamoring for the Governor to reopen the state for business and let life return to normal, whatever that means in this COVID19 world. Behind the reporter was a young man in his twenties, holding a sign. It said, “Let the weak die, Open TN (Tennessee).”

This young man’s poster is an echo of other voices. The Lieutenant Governor of Texas said, “There are more important things than living, and that’s saving this country for my children and grandchildren and saving this country for all of us.”  I agree lives may need to be sacrificed to preserve our freedom, but is it right to sacrifice a life to make sure we can all live comfortably? I have a hunch if the Lieutenant Governor infected with Corona virus and hospitalized, he would not be saying, “Go ahead and let me die so the price of gas can go up.” 

Of course, it is easy to skewer politicians and protesters, but I have heard similar comments from everyday folks. “People are going to die from the flu anyway,” someone told me the other day. Isn’t funny how its easy to dismiss “people” but when it is my people, my grandmother, my dad, I think their life is precious.

Throughout history there is a vicious, ugly thought that rises: some people are worth more than others. In the Ancient World, the world of the Bible, that was the way most people thought. Foreigners were enemies. Kill them because their lives do not matter. Enslave them, all they are good for is hard labor. It was a brutal world, where survival of the fittest lead to might makes right.

In Jesus’ world, it was common for baby girls to be abandoned. Girls were not thought to be as valuable as boys. Sick relatives were often set out to die. No need trying to take care of the elderly; they could not work anymore. What value did they add?

Jesus, building on Jewish teaching, taught something radically different. He told a story about a shepherd leaving ninety-nine sheep to go search for the one lost sheep. Bad economics, great shepherding. In that one Bible verse most people know, it is clearly stated, “For God so loved the world…”  Not just certain kinds of people. Not just certain nations. Not just the young and health. The world. Regardless of gender, nationality, orientation, or age, God loves everyone who ever has or ever will exist.

Jesus followers in the first centuries after his resurrection put this into practice. They picked up the abandoned babies and loved them as their own children. They cared for the sick and the elderly. When persecuted for their faith, they were willing to die rather than adapt.

It is true that Jesus followers got a lot wrong as time went by. By the Dark Ages, people who called Jesus “Lord” would go to war in his name. They were not merciful. During the plagues that hit Europe, the sick was not always cared for. People reverted to practices of their ancestors and left the sick to die.

Still, it was the followers of Jesus who built orphanages and hospitals. Established on the teachings of their Lord, they cared for the “least of these.”  There is something about Jesus’ clear instructions that the church cannot shake.

Regimes sprout up to challenge this value of human life from time to time. Not so long ago, people with dark skin were thought to be less than human and were enslaved. Native Americans were torn from their land in the name of economic progress. Hitler touted the superiority of the Aryan race and killed 12 million people. Some were Jews, others deformed, still others were political dissidents.

The greatest flaw when someone protests and says, “Let the weak die” is their failure to see themselves as weak. We all start as weak babies, needing care and nurture. Most of us will at some time get sick and need tender nursing. Many of us will get older and in our final days, we will be weak. Someone will have to feed us and bathe us. We all either are weak, or we will be.

Jesus followers believe Jesus came not for the strong, not for those who can fend for themselves, but for the weak and the meek. He taught us in the greatest sermon ever that until we admit our poverty, our weakness, our need for God, we will never find the strength we truly need. It is the strength, as the Apostle Paul said, the makes all things possible.

If Jesus came to help the weak – everyone of us – do we dare turn to anyone and say, “Go ahead and die?”   Aren’t you glad God is better than that?

Coping with Quarantine…

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

I am Malchus…

I am Malchus, servant of the High Priest Caiaphas.  When a job needs to be done, quickly and quietly, Caiaphas taps me. 

I became a servant because I owed money I could not pay back.  I was put into a debtor’s prison and then sold.  I knew the only hope I had for freedom was to do the jobs I was assigned and to do them well.  I passed from Master to Master, always selling for a higher price.  One day my Master told me I was going to new Master, someone close to the very top.  I was brought to Jerusalem and entered the service of Caiaphas.

Caiaphas’ family were the elite.  His father-in-law, Annas, was the real power.  He was more politician than priest, always jockeying for position, always jealous for more power.  I was supposed to serve and not hear, but I could not help but overhear the news that would flow through the household.

Before long, because of my size, I became the enforcer for the family.  When they needed someone to shut up, I was sent to “persuade” the talker.  Occasionally, something more than words was needed.  After I broke a few bones, people got in line.

A recurring topic of conversation for the past few years was Jesus of Nazareth.  According to my Master, he was another hot-head who thought he was the Messiah.  But I heard other stories when I was out in town.  People said he healed the sick and drove out demons.  He came to Jerusalem a few times and I was sent by my Master to blend in with the crowd and find out more.  I only saw the man teaching, nothing more.  It was teaching like I had never heard.  He claimed to be the “light of the world” and the “bread of life.”  I did not understand his meaning, but even I had to admit there was something about his teaching that drew me, that made me want to know more.

Though a Jew, I was not a religious man.  Working in my Master’s house convinced me that religion was just a scheme to manipulate people.  Something about Jesus, however told me he was not interested in religious power.  He spoke of God as “Father.”  Whatever he was, I knew he was not a hot-head radical. 

It was the start of Passover week when Jesus came to Jerusalem the last time.  Crowds gathered and sang songs hailing him as the Messiah.  I reported all this to my Master.  With every report, I could sense he was more rattled, unnerved almost. 

On Wednesday before the feast, I saw my Master talking with a man I recognized as a disciple of Jesus.  I saw my Master hand over a bag of money.  I did not inquire about the transaction; I would find out soon enough if it concerned me.

Late Thursday night, my Master called to me.  When I came to him, the disciple of Jesus was with him again.  My Master said, “Malchus, go with this man, Judas.  Take some men with you, there may be trouble.  Judas will show you where Jesus is.  Seize him and bring him to my father-in-law’s house.”  I gathered a force of men: a few temple guards, a couple of other servants, and a few acquaintances who always seemed to be lurking near the High Priest’s home, including my cousin.

Judas led us to the Garden called Gethsemane.  The full moon shown on his face.  Streaks of red marked his face as if he had been bleeding.  His disciples were gathered around and looked like they had just awakened.  Judas told us he would kiss Jesus, as a servant would kiss a master.  I knew it would be a kiss of betrayal.

Judas did kiss him and we stepped forward.  From nowhere came a flash of metal and I felt pain as I had never felt before.  I put my hand to my head and realized in shock my right ear was missing.  Then I looked down and saw it: my ear, in the dirt. 

One of his disciples, a man I had seen before, was holding a sword.  The men with me surged forward but Jesus stopped them.  He seemed to radiate power.  “Put away your sword,” he commanded Peter.  “Shall I not drink the cup the Father has given me?”

I fell to my knees, in agony, screaming from the pain.  Then Jesus leaned down, picked up my severed ear, and he put it back in its place.  When the ear touched my bloodied head, there was a power I had never felt before. It was warmth and light.  The pain stopped.  Jesus looked me in the eye, he smiled, then he helped me to my feet. 

I reached up with my right hand, just to make sure.  Had I imagined it?  Was my ear really torn off?  I felt the pain.  I saw my ear on the ground.  It was real, I’m sure of it.  But now my ear was back on my head. 

The other men took hold of Jesus and led him off to Annas’ house.  I trailed behind, bewildered.  When I got back to the Caiaphas’ house, I saw them bring Jesus in.  Others were gathered.  I decided to stay in the courtyard in case there was trouble.  There was.  Around the fire, heated conversation arose.  Then I heard clearly my cousin’s voice, “Didn’t I see you in the olive grove.  You are one of his disciples.”  Another voice spat out an oath, “I tell you, I don’t know the man.”  A rooster crowed in the distance.

There were many comings and goings last night.  Now it is Friday and I hear Pilate, persuaded by my Master and his allies, ordered Jesus to be crucified.  He is hanging on the cross, just outside the city walls.  I do not know what to make of this.  He seemed more irritant than rebel, more teacher than general. 

But I cannot deny that I saw my ear severed and now it is back on my head.  Now I hear perfectly.  Whoever this man is, he has a power greater than any power I have seen.  I cannot help but wonder:  If a man can heal an ear, is there anything too hard for him to do?

We Are the World…

I read in the news today that the streets of Beirut are empty.  Ditto the streets of Baghdad, Beijing, London, and New York.  ISIS, of all people, is telling its followers not to travel because of the virus.  When you look at the Center for Disease Control map of the world, there are a small handful of countries without COVID19 cases.  You can’t help but wonder if that is because of a lack of testing.  Whatever normal was, it isn’t now.

It feels like the whole world is shutting down.  Unemployment claims in our country jumped 3,000% in March.  The governor of my state has shut down all businesses that require close contact.  I squeezed in and got a haircut before the deadline.  Who knows when I get another haircut by a professional?

All around the world restaurants are closed.  We’ve gone back in time when most meals were cooked at home.  I’m seeing parts of my freezer I didn’t know existed.  People are binge watching shows, but if you like to watch sports, you’ve been dropped into the desert.

One evening this week, we went for a drive.  We had no destination, just wanted to get out of the house.  For the first time in my life, I understood the whole idea of a “Sunday drive.”  Just ramble.  Take a road you’ve never taken and see where it takes you.  Everyone in the world is feeling cooped up.

In an odd way, it's comforting to know that everyone in world is experiencing this.  The concern about COVID19 is the same in Wuhan, China as it is in Sumter, SC.  No one wants to get this virus. Everyone wants to get this over as soon as possible.  Everyone is waiting, which is some of the hardest work to do.

If you pause and think about it, when was the last time everyone on the planet was experiencing the same thing?  Never.  The mom in Johannesburg, South Africa deals with the same thing as the mom in Tokyo. 

People have asked me if God is trying to tell us something.  I’m sure he is.  I’ve seen the preachers who are declaring this is the beginning of the end.  Other preachers are saying this is God’s judgment on the world. 

I don’t know for sure about any of the that, but here’s what I do know for sure:  we are all God’s creation.  Human beings spend enormous energy dividing ourselves.  We look at people with a different color skin, or a different language, or a different religion, and we find a reason to hate.  We construct versions of reality that tell us we are better than other people because of where we live or where we’ve gone to school.  I love my country but being an American doesn’t make me better than a Russian. 

The Apostle Paul wrote a great truth in Romans: “God is no respecter of persons…”  There is a lot of theology packed into that verse.  God sees all of us as we truly are.  He knows every person on this planet, all 7.8 billion of us.  He knows every one of us will have a moment when we realize there is a problem we cannot solve by wealth, ancestry, or nationality.  Right now, all 7.6 billion of us are realizing we are vulnerable to virus that is no respecter of persons.  From the slums of Mumbai to the high-rises of Dubai, the virus will not discriminate.

We are the world.  Every person on this planet is a creation of God, whether they know him or not.  Everyone is a microscopic particle away from infection.  We are the world waiting.

That’s why we need something else God said about this world: “For God so loved the world, that he gave his one and only son, that whoever believes on him will not perish, but have everlasting life.” 

Whatever your fears, anxieties, depressions, do not forget this:  There is a God who loves you.  He gave his son for you.  When you believe this, death - whether it comes from a virus or a cancer or old age – death will not have the last word over you. God does.  And he wants you to have a life that goes beyond death.  A life that starts when you believe.

We are the world God loves.  Believe.

The Last Time this Happened…

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

An Abundance of Courage…

Talk about an impossible assignment: Joshua had been tapped to be Moses’ successor.   

Moses had an amazing backstory.  He was saved as an infant, due to the shrewd thinking of his mother and the compassion of an Egyptian Princess.  He grew up in a palace, with the most privileged members of Pharaoh’s house.  Forced to flee after he committed murder, he met a girl, got married, and wandered the back country for forty years. 

Then God spoke to him out of a bush that burned, except it didn’t burn up.  God told Moses to go back to Egypt and tell Pharaoh to let my people go. Moses went, reluctantly.  Ten plagues and several encounters with Pharaoh later, the people were set free. 

You’d think his problems were over, but they were just beginning.  The people of Israel had been slaves and didn’t know how to self-govern.  They had to learn, and Moses was their teacher.  He met with God on Mount Sinai, and spoke to God face to face, like a friend.  He gave the Israelite’s their law, the foundation of their culture.  He stuck with them through their rebellion and lead them to brink of the land God promised to give them.  Then, he went up on a mountain and died, seeing the promised land, but never entering. 

 Conquering this land would be Joshua’s job.  Joshua was born a slave.  No Egyptian Princess rescued him from the Nile.  He knew what it was like to get up every day and be treated different than other men because of his racial background.  He’d worked a slave’s job with a slave’s hours.  When Joshua first appears in the Exodus story, he is down in the valley, fighting hand to hand, while Moses is on the Mountain, holding up his arms.  Moses was doing important work, no doubt, but Joshua’s job was to be in the thick of it. 

 Joshua was on the fringes, waiting on Mount Sinai while Moses talked to God.   He would stay outside and guard the tent where Moses went to talk to God.  When a battle needed to fought, or when there was a spy assignment, the job went to Joshua.  A good man.  Someone you want by your side.  But he was not Moses. 

The problem with great leaders is they all die.  When they do, someone else has to lead.  For thirty days the people of Israel mourned Moses’ death.  Then they turn to Joshua.  He’s the new leader.  This is his time. 

There is a moment when God speaks to Joshua.  We don’t know if it was in Moses’ old “God Tent” or while he was walking around the camp one day.  We do know what God said.  He started with the facts: Moses is dead.  Seems like an obvious conclusion, but maybe it was God’s way of telling Joshua nothing would bring Moses back, and there was a new mission, a mission for which he had been chosen. 

His mission?  Cross the Jordan River into enemy territory.  Take possession of the land God promised.  Fight battles.  You will win them, but you still have to fight them, God said. Then God gives him a promise: “As I was with Moses, so I will be with you.”  God is making a simple point: When an elephant and an ant cross a bridge and it vibrates, it’s not the ant that does it.   

Then God gives Joshua some orders.   They are not “Round up the army.”  They are not “Get ready for battle.”  They are simple: “Be strong and courageous.”  God tells Joshua this three times.  Must be important. 

To “be strong” means to have strength to hold your position.  To “be courageous” means to have the will to go forward.  Three times God told Joshua the key to winning any battle:  Be strong.  Be courageous. 

We are in a battle, battling against a mutation of nature.  I hear over and over this phrase: “Out of an abundance of caution…”  I get the need for caution.  But I’m not so sure this should be our mantra.   

I believe this is a time to be strong.  Stand strong against anxiety.  Be strong enough to resist hoarding supplies.  Be strong and pray for our country, for the sick, for front-line providers.  Be strong and do not think yourself sick.  Teach your children how to be strong. 

Be courageous.  Be courageous and  help your neighbor.  Be courageous and encourage each other.  Be courageous and accept medical instruction.  Be courageous and endure, for “sorrow last through the night, but joy comes in the morning.”   This will pass.  COVID19 is not forever.  Be courageous and know that the God of Moses and Joshua is with you.   

This is a time for an abundance of courage.  This is a time to be strong and courageous. 

Theology of the Corona Virus…

The Corona Virus is probably the best documented pandemic to ever occur, but it is not the first.  In 1918, the H1N1 influenza virus swept the world.  About 500 million people (27% of the world’s population) contracted the virus, and somewhere between 27 and 100 million people died.   As the virus ravaged the United States, theaters, schools, and even churches were closed.  Preachers in that era were particularly outraged that churches were forced to close, while in many cities, saloons stayed open.

Other epidemics have struck the world. HIV/AIDS has killed an estimated 32 million so far.  Justinian’s plague in 541 to 542AD wiped out forty percent of the population of Europe.  A smallpox epidemic in 732AD caused the death of a third of Japan’s population.  The Cocoliztli Epidemics of the 1500’s resulted in the death of 80% of Mexico’s population.  Epidemics are nothing new in human history.

I’m not an epidemiologist, but I have a friend who is one.  She says the Corona Virus is very deadly and to be prepared for quarantine orders.  People apparently are already onto this; Walmart looked pretty picked over when I went there this week.

When epidemics happen, two reactions are common among common folk.  First is denial: this won’t impact me.  The second is fear:  this will make me sick and perhaps kill me.  Everyone has their own timeline and intensity in their reaction.

It won’t be long before people begin to ask “why?”  The question usually goes like this: “If God loves us, why doesn’t he stop this pandemic?”  To be sure, some preacher somewhere will declare this pandemic to be God’s judgment on the world.  Before we leap to theological conclusions about God’s judgment, let’s get some perspective.

God made this universe a perfect place: no evil, no viruses, no cancer, no addictions.  Look up to heavens and you still see signs of his perfect created order.  Jesus followers believe Satan rebelled against God, then tempted the first people to do the same.  When Adam and Eve sinned, something was unleashed in the universe that didn’t belong.  Perfection was wrecked, all the way down to the molecular level.  Jesus came to break the power of sin by his death on the cross and his resurrection.  One day, according to Revelation, there will be a new heaven and a new earth, with no evil, no viruses, no cancer, no addictions.  But that day has not yet come.

But if God loves us, why doesn’t he stop the virus now?  If we say, “God must have his reasons and we don’t know them,” it feels hollow, shallow.  Yet in a sense, it is profoundly true.  God owes us no explanations.  Ancient people would have laughed at the idea of a god explaining himself. 

This is why the message of the Book of Job is so radical.  When Job cries out to God because he suffers unjustly, God answers him not with an explanation, but with an encounter.  In a crisis, it is appropriate to reach out to God and ask “why?”  It is also good to know that God may answer you not with words, but a whirlwind.  In Jesus, God ultimately comes to give us unlimited access to him, so in a crisis we might cling to him.  God knows we need him more than we need thoughts about him.

When early Jesus followers faced human suffering, they did not write long explanations, trying to explain God’s actions.  They served the suffering.  A plague would strike a Roman city.  The citizens would flee, leaving the sick to die, and hoping the plague would die with them.  Christians stayed, and cared for the sick.  They prayed for God’s mercy.  They prayed for healing.  They thought it more important to be the hands and feet of God, rather than explain God.

How could they stay, when everyone else ran?  Those early Jesus followers had a different economy of life.  They knew life was eternal.  Their hope was not in long life, but in God’s Kingdom.  Death would simply be a passage to the next stage of being with Jesus.

In the days ahead, people we love may get sick.  People we don’t know will get sick.  If you are a Jesus follower, the call is to love all, sick or well.  Reach out to sick people.  Check on each other.  Pray for individuals.  Pray that God will be merciful and stop the spread of this virus.  Do not panic.  And let the peace that passes all understanding guard your heart and mind in Christ Jesus our Lord.

The Other Realm…

Dr. S. W Mitchell was a well-known neurologist in Philadelphia.  One evening, a little girl, poorly dressed and deeply troubled, knocked on his door.  She told Dr. Mitchell her mother was very sick.  Could he please come with her?  It was cold and snowing, and Dr. Mitchell was tired, but something in the girl’s plea compelled him to go. 

This was in the era when doctors made house calls.  Dr. Mitchell dressed and followed the girl.  When he arrived at the home, he found the mother ill with pneumonia.  He arranged for the medical care she needed.  Before leaving, Dr. Mitchell complimented the sick woman on the intelligence and persistence of her daughter.  The woman stared at him for a moment.  “My daughter died a month ago,” she said.  “Her shoes and coat in the clothes closet there.” 

Dr. Mitchell was perplexed, and his curiosity compelled him to open the closet door.  Hanging in the closet was the same coat worn by the little girl who knocked on his door.  The coat was warm and dry and obviously had not been recently worn. 

How do you explain such a thing?  Was it a coincidence?  A vision?  An angel?   

During the Japanese occupation of China in World War II, a truck carrying Japanese marines stopped in front of a Christian bookstore in Shanghai.  The back of the truck was half-filled with books.  The shopkeeper realized the soldiers had come to seize the books in his store as well.  The marines jumped from the truck, but before they could enter, a man entered the shop.  The shopkeeper knew practically all his customers, but this man was a stranger.   

The soldiers did not enter the shop.  They seemed unable to follow the stranger into the store.  They looked in the windows and loitered on the sidewalk for two hours.  The man who entered the store asked the shopkeeper what the men outside wanted.  He replied the Japanese were seizing books from many stores in the city and now they had come to seize his books.  The stranger suggested they pray.  While the men were outside, looking, but never entering, the men prayed together, the stranger encouraged the shopkeeper.  Finally, the Japanese soldiers left.  After the soldiers left, the stranger left as well, though he bought nothing. 

How do you explain such a thing?  Was it a coincidence?  A vision?  An angel? 

Billy Graham tells about his grandmother’s death.  She was lying in bed and suddenly, the room filled with bright light.  Though she had been ill for a long time, she sat up in bed and spoke with a hint of laughter, “I see Jesus.  He has his arms stretched out toward me.  I see Ben (her husband who had passed away years earlier) and I see the angels.”  Then she slumped over and died. 

How do you explain such a thing?  Was it a hallucination?  A vision?  A glimpse into another realm? 

I was at the barn on our ranch loading fence posts onto the bed of a pick-up truck.  As I reached for a fence post, I saw a quick movement inches from my hand.  I jumped back.  It was rattlesnake.  I’ve often told this story as a humorous tale (it took a while for me to find a way to kill the snake).  The serious question of the story is this: Why did the snake not bite me?   

How do you explain such a thing?  Was it a coincidence?  My quick reflexes?  An angel? 

I believe there is another realm of reality that we see only dimly.  It is a spiritual reality.  There is much that is unexplainable in our physical world. Science, when it is honest, must say some things cannot be proven or disproven.  The spiritual realm operates by different laws.   

According to the Bible, in this spiritual realm there is a war between forces of evil and forces of good.  The forces of evil fight dirty.  The forces for good fight the good fight.  Jesus followers believe the death and resurrection of Jesus is the turning point in this battle.  The forces of evil, though still strong, are fighting a losing battle, maybe even deluded they can still win.  The problem with evil is it lies and it begins to believe the lies it tells. 

The Apostle Paul said, “We see through a glass darkly.”  We only catch glimpses of this other realm, where the battle rages.  But there is enough evidence to tell us God is at work.  That same evidence suggests God intervenes in our realm, so that his will may be done. 

To deny the existence of this other realm requires faith: faith in science, in your own senses, and in your own construct of reality.  To believe in the existence of this other realm also requires faith: faith in the signs of a loving God, faith in the evidence of story after story, faith in God’s construct of reality.  The question is, where will you put your faith? 

Front Lines…

Andrew Gillette went to work Tuesday morning.  It was supposed to a be a regular day for the Sumter Deputy Sheriff: patrol, serve an eviction notice, protect the public.  At 11:30 AM, it was no longer a regular day.  For Andrew, it would be his last day.

Andrew was serving an eviction notice to Terry Hasty.  Two other deputies were there to assist.  For reasons we will never know, Terry Hasty opened fire on the deputies.  Andrew was struck in the chest.  Though he was wearing his bullet proof vest, his wounds were fatal.  The officers returned fire and Terry Hasty was killed.

Andrew is survived by his wife and by his eleven-year-old son.  According to those who knew him, he was a follower of Jesus, active in his church.  He was a true public servant.

In tragic irony, it was twenty-four-years ago, minus one day, another Sumter Deputy Sheriff was killed in the line of duty, Charlie Kubala.  I remember that day.  One of my friends served in the department with Charlie.  The loss of his friend hit him hard. 

There’s a term for this kind of grief: survivor’s guilt.  Fellow officers ask, “Could I have done something different?”  There is a weird mix of grief and relief.  Officers realize “It could have been me.” 

Every spouse of an officer on patrol has a fear that lingers near the surface, the fear that the kiss goodbye might be the last kiss. The headlines never talk much about that.  When a fellow officer is killed in the line of duty, that fear comes out, roaring.  Sleepless night follow.  There are hard conversations about changing careers.  Children, who can smell agitation, ask, “Mommy, could that happen to you?”  Teenage children withdraw, reluctant to be vulnerable with their own fear.  It takes a while for normal rhythm to return, if it ever does.

One of the hardest things I have ever done as a pastor was to tell a young woman she was now a widow because her husband, a law enforcement officer, had been killed in the line of duty.  As we walked together through those intense few days, she asked me “Why do people say so many stupid things to me?”  I understood what she was saying.  People forget when tragedy strikes, presence matters more than words.  Acts of service speak louder than explanations.

I live in a town full of front-line responders.  We have the usual array of law enforcement, fire protection, EMTs, doctors, nurses, and other assorted professions devoted to protecting the public and responding to crisis after crisis.  But we also have a military base, with thousands of airmen and soldiers who at a moment’s notice deploy to hostile territory to protect our country.  I’ll never forget the night of 9-11, when an Air Force pilot came up to me at a community prayer service, already in uniform, and told me he was leaving at 4 in the morning.  I prayed with him, and asked God to bring him back safely to his family. The next time I saw him was a year later.  He missed a whole year of his sons’ lives, flying over the front lines.

We owe these front-line responders a deep debt.  While most of us get the chance to run for cover, they run toward the danger.  They never know when someone with a grudge and a gun will shoot, when a burning roof will collapse, when the cord between life and death is held by their CPR reps, when the rocket will find them on the battlefield. 

I know front-line responders are not perfect.  They are like the rest of us, failing to be the spouses they would like to be, the parents they hope to be.  None of them, not even the ER doctors, are paid enough.   I’ve heard enough stories about officers who handled the tension with an addiction to know front-line responders are not super men or super women.  I am regularly surprised when I talk to front-line responders to find out their agency offered them no post-trauma care, no opportunity to debrief.  Humans are emotional beings.  No one can seal off the emotions permanently.  One thing we can do and should do is make sure every front-line responder can get the mental health care they need.  We owe them that much.

Being a person of faith, I can do one more thing: when I see a law enforcement vehicle, a fire-truck, an ambulance, a Humvee, or an F-16, I can remember to pray for the person flying the plane, riding the truck, or turning the steering wheel.  I can ask God to protect them, watch over them, and go with them.  When evil lashes out and takes the life of someone on the front lines, I can pray for that family.  I can pray that God will comfort them with his presence, which goes beyond words.  So, this week, I will pray for the Gillette family, for God to be their refuge and strength, their peace and their hope.  After all, God is our first and best front-line responder.

No Turning Back…

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Burdens…

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Trust the Father’s Laugh …

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Simon’s Choice…

Simon was the ultimate trickster.  He made you believe his access to God was better than yours.  For a fee, he’d pray for you.  If you needed advice, he offered it to you – for a fee.  When a miracle was needed, he’d twist you around and you’d feel like he’d done something, though you weren’t sure what.  Yes, a fee was involved for that too.

People called him a sorcerer.  They assumed, because of his tricks, Simon could control God.  Sorcerers knew they couldn’t control God, but they learned (usually from another sorcerer) how to pull off some sleight of hand, or how to bluff somebody, or how to manipulate someone’s leg to make it seem longer.  People were more naive in those days.

When you trick people for a living, the danger is you begin to believe your own PR.  Long before P.T. Barnum billed his circus as the greatest show on earth, Simon boasted he was the greatest.  Nobody turns out to see the average sorcerer.  The greater the fame, the higher the fee.

Rumors reached Simon about a man named Jesus.  Everybody within a hundred miles heard about him.  People said he cast out demons and healed the sick.  Naturally, whenever a sorcerer like Simon hears about someone like Jesus, they have two questions: How much is he collecting in fees; and, how is he pulling it off? 

Simon couldn’t figure out how Jesus was doing it.  The people who were being healed seemed to be drawn from the crowd.  He had no accomplice to fake an illness or demon possession, a standard trick of the trade.  Simon heard one story that seemed impossible, that Jesus had just spoken a word and a servant of a centurion was healed.  Jesus wasn’t even in the house.

What astounded Simon most, however, was Jesus didn’t charge.  He never passed the basket, never gave a rate for a prayer.  Of all the things Simon heard, this one made the least sense of all.  What was the point of doing all this if you didn’t make money?

Months went by.  Then Simon heard this same guy, Jesus, was crucified in Jerusalem.  Before Simon could think “One less competitor,” the news was followed by a report that he risen from the dead.  Simon was impressed.  Talk about the ultimate trick!  But Simon knew if Jesus started working the Samaritan circuit, with a reputation of coming back from the dead, his career was over.

The strange thing was after a few weeks Jesus disappeared off the face of the earth.  There was word his followers in Jerusalem said he went up to heaven and left them to tell everybody the good news.  Simon couldn’t figure it out, but was relieved he wouldn’t have to compete with the guy.

Business stayed pretty good for a few months, but then a man named Philip came into Simon’s territory.  Philip didn’t promote himself; he just talked about Jesus.  He invited people to change their lives by believing Jesus was the son of God and live by Jesus’ teaching.  Just like Jesus, he casts out demons and healed sick people.  And just like Jesus, he didn’t charge a fee. 

Simon had to take a day off to see what this was all about.  While he listened to Philip speak, his own heart moved.  The lies he’d told himself wilted.  His soul leaned in, and he wanted this new way of life too.  On the first day of the week, he lined up with other new believers, ignoring the murmurs in the crowd, and he was baptized by Philip.  Something inside of him was happening.

He couldn’t bring himself to get back on the trail, doing his old shyster tricks.  Instead, he followed Philip around day after day, amazed.  He kept trying to figure out how Philip was doing the miracles.

In a few weeks, two of Jesus’ friends, Peter and John, came up from Jerusalem.  They meet with the new believers.  They did a strange thing: they prayed over them and laid their hands on them.  Exactly how, Simon could not explain, but he knew, and he knew the people knew, they had been changed.

The old familiar voice whispered again to Simon: “Imagine what you could charge with that kind of power?”  Simon could picture himself in fine robes of gold, a new chariot (the latest model, with two cup-holders), and the crowds back hanging on his every word.  He pulled out his money bag, went to Peter and dropped it in his hand.  “Give me the power to give the Spirit,” he said with a wink.

Peter put the money back in Simon’s hand and gave him a blistering sermon.  Peter gave clear instructions about repenting and taking this seriously, because God can’t be controlled by people and you cannot buy the power of God.

Simon faced a choice: the old or the new.  Go with the old way, no matter how hollow, or empty?  Go with the old way, manipulating and using people?  Or go with the new way?  Find a new way to treat people.  Find a new way to make a living.  Find a new way to deal with life.  Find a new life in Jesus.

We don’t’ know what Simon did.  We just know his choice.  And in his story, we know our choice too – Old way, or new way.  Simon’s choice.  And yours.

Tell Me About It

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Different bad, definitely,” she replied.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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