Aunt Bill…

Most people looked surprised when I told them I about my Aunt Bill.  She was named Billie Jean, but everyone, from her mother to her friends called her Bill. 

Aunt Bill was my mother’s only sister.  She shared with my mother and two brothers a life on central Florida ranches as my grandfather moved from ranch-hand to ranch owner.  Grandpa believe his children were free labor.  If the intake pipe on the pump was clogged, he would tell them to unclog it.  Their solution: Tie a rope around the youngest brother’s waist and tie a concrete block to his feet.  Then they would throw him in, he would sink, pull out of the pipe what he could, and then yank the rope.  Sometimes, Sissie, Pete, and Bill would even remember to pull him up.  Aunt Bill always said if it wasn’t for her, Bud would never have survived to adulthood.

She married Uncle Larry, a friend of her brother.  Larry was a vet, just starting out.  Two kids came along: Terry Lynn and Bob.  This is when she came into my memory.  We would go to Aunt Bill’s house every Easter.  Being the youngest, I was at a distinct disadvantage in the egg hunt.  Aunt Bill would make sure every child got some eggs and would hide some especially for me to find.   Sometimes Mama would leave me at Aunt Bill’s for a few days (every Mom needs a break).  Being with Aunt Bill was fun.  She would let you play throughout the house, roam around the barn, even play in the boat.  I remember piloting that boat through storm after storm as it sat on its trailer under the barn on a sunny day.  Imagination is powerful thing.  When I came in from playing, she took time to enter my world and ask, “How rough was the water?”  I would spin tales of narrow escapes, sea monsters, and alligators.  Then she would give me a slice of cake to fortify me for my next adventure.

After my Father died, Aunt Bill was beyond kind to my mother and to us kids.  If she went to the beach, we were invited.  If she was staying a week at the lake, we came along.  When she wanted her kids to see the mountains, we joined the trip.  You haven’t lived until you ride in the rear-facing backseat of an Oldsmobile Vista Cruiser station-wagon through the Great Smoky Mountains.  Mama would have never taken that trip by herself.  Aunt Bill opened the doors to a bigger world.

Tragedy struck her life.  Uncle Larry was killed by a drunk driver.  She went from the comfortable life as the vet’s wife to needing to make a living for her family.  She took his seat on the school board, learned to be a realtor, and began to rebuild her life.  Her mother, my grandmother, used to say, “Life will make you bitter or better.”  Aunt Bill strove for better.

She married again and took a new family under her wing.  It was not easy.  Aunt Bill was determined (stubborn?) to make it work. 

In one of those God-ironies God likes to sprinkle on our lives, Aunt Bill decided to follow Jesus during a revival at the Methodist Church in Venus (Venus, Florida, look it up).  Granny, Mama, and Uncle Pete all made their decisions for Jesus during the same revival.  They were baptized by the Baptist preacher a few days later in one of the nearby lakes.  The irony is this: the Baptist church in Venus was founded by my father’s father.  He had already passed away, but his future daughter-in-law, and my father’s future mother, brother, and sister-in-law became members of the church he began.

Aunt Bill had the kind of faith that believed God was at work in all things.  She loved Jesus, served his church, and did good.  If more people lived their faith like Aunt Bill, there would be a lot less meanness in the world.

There was a time in my life when I needed encouragement and support.  I was a young adult, prone to mistakes (what young adult isn’t?).  There were things going on and I needed the encouragement and guidance of someone who was not my mother.  I’ll never forget her calling me.  I don’t know how she knew what was going on, but she listened, supported, and did not judge.  She did what good aunts and uncles do – she was there.

Aunt Bill died last week.  She was 91 and had lived a good, long life.  She navigated the real storms of life and her faith saw her through.  Because of COVID, timing, and distance, I was not able to go to her funeral. 

I find myself very sad.  I’m not really sad for Aunt Bill.  She is with our Heavenly Father.  The decision to follow Jesus in Venus some eighty years ago held her safe through death into eternity.  I’m sad for me.  I feel another piece of childhood has gone.  One more storehouse of memories and stories has left.  A wise friend of mine once asked, “What will I do when there is no one left who remembers my childhood?”

I was planning to go by and visit Aunt Bill this past March.  COVID came.  The trip didn’t seem wise.  I really regret not making that trip.  I would like to hear Aunt Bill tell a story and laugh one more time.

The Stars are Telling You Something…

Days on the ranch started early.  First you put on your britches, then you went to the barn to feed up.  Then you ate breakfast.  Back then, my parents didn’t see the need for a security lamp.  It didn’t matter how dark it was, the barn hadn’t moved in a hundred years.  You were expected to navigate your way in the darkness before the dawn.  I would start the hundred-yard journey, stepping into the darkness, letting the shadows and moonlight take me down the path.

On the clear pre-dawn mornings, I remember the stars.  We were far from the light clutter of town, so you could see the light dust of the Milky Way.  The Little Dipper was open to receive and the Big Dipper was upside down.  The faint North Star, Polaris, stood as always to say, “The house is north, the barn is south.”

Some mornings I would stop, and look, and be awed.  Words can’t describe what I felt.  It was an odd combination of feeling small, of being amazed, and of worshiping the God who put it all in place and keeps it spinning.

There were other moments when the stars spoke to me: riding in the back of truck across the Mexican desert, hundreds of miles from any man-made lights.  I remember feeling very small.  I was a foreigner in a strange land.   If something happened to the truck and our driver, I would have only the stars to guide me home.  Somehow it was comforting to know that the God who knows the name of every star, knew where I was.  He would take care of me, just as he kept all the details of those stars in his mind.    

There was another ride in the back of pickup, on a different continent, in a different hemisphere.  We were driving through the Kalahari Desert on a moonless night.  The constellations were strange to me, in the wrong places.  A strange thought crossed my mind: I was probably the only person in the whole country of Botswana that had a Ph.D. in the Old Testament.  That thought did not make me feel superior.  I remember feeling humbled.  God made me a unique soul, treasured by him.  Just as God made each star unique, I was unique out of the billions of people on the planet. 

Right now, the first star I see in the evening isn’t even a star; it’s a planet, Venus, rising in the early evening sky.  Sometimes I wonder if God made all the planets in our solar system just to convey to us that earth is special and needs our care.

The stars still preach sermons to me:  Life doesn’t just happen.  There is a Creator.  He has made a beautiful creation.  Creation is a testimony to His love, His care, and His generosity.  The Creator shares his creation with me.  Whatever problems I have can be solved by this gracious Creator.

In the Bible a man named Abraham was given a promise:  he and his wife would have a child.  He waited.  No baby.  Years passed.  One day God came and spoke to Abraham: “The promise is still in effect.  I will bless you.” 

Abraham replied, “What good will that do me?  When I die, one of the hired men will get it all.”

You can understand Abraham’s response.  Waiting is hard.  Believing while you wait is harder.

So, God invites Abraham to step outside.  Not to fight.  But to look up.  To see the stars.  What do you think God was trying to say?  God told Abraham, “Look at the stars.  As they are, so your descendants will be.” I think God was telling Abraham, “If I can do that, I can certainly make your descendants more numerous than the stars.

Wait for a cloudless night.  Drive out of town, past the streetlights.  Pull over, turn off your car lights.  Let your eyes adjust to the darkness.  Look at the stars.  Think about what God is saying to you.  Maybe He is saying, “If I can do this, what do you think I can do for you?”

Is Your Character Growing?

From the Archives.

Your mind is amazing.  It thinks so fast you don’t know you are thinking.

Like right now. 

Your eyes receive light patterns.  The patterns are sent to the brain.  The brain recognizes the patterns as words.  You don’t read the individual letters.  You don’t sound out the word.  Your brain translates the sentences into meaning without you thinking about thinking.  At the end of this article, without thinking, your brain will send a message to read what’s next.

Every day you take a thousand actions without thinking.  You make a choice and take action changing your future without thinking.   You act on what you believe is good and what is bad without thinking.   You justify to yourself your behavior without thinking.

Character is the way you structure your world.  Your inside world shows up in your external behavior.  It shows up without thinking.

We do not slow down life enough to think about our thinking.  We should.  Slow down and think about you.

Your soul is the operating system of your life.  Your character is how you program your soul.  It is the system architecture.  Your character is the patterns that come from your soul.

People structure their soul differently:  People can’t stand the tension of an open ended problem.  They must decide, even if it is the wrong decision.  Their heart is in the driver’s seat.

People feel sad and sadness guides their decisions.  Or, people think someone is a bad person and they withdraw from a relationship.  Their mind is in the driver’s seat.

People have an appetite for sugar.  They eat a box of Pop-Tarts.  They repeat the pattern the next day.  Their body is in the driver’s seat.

People want a “significant other.”  They take “the first available.”  They endure neglect, abuse, and unfaithfulness.  Their relational need is in the driver’s seat.

What if you could restructure your character?  What if you could restructure your system architecture?  What if you could restructure your soul programming?  Where would you start?  What pattern would you choose? 

What if you started with the model of the happiest person who ever lived?

Jesus.

Your objection:  I’m not sure Jesus was the happiest person ever.  Wasn’t he killed?

Yes.  So?

Your response:  That doesn’t sound very happy to me.

That’s the problem.  We define happiness by what happens in a moment.  God defines happiness by what happens from birth to infinity.

We don’t know how to define happiness.  Jesus did:  Happiness is being blessed.  Happiness is life fully lived.  Happiness is satisfaction.  Happiness is being the being God made you to be.

That is exactly who Jesus was.  This is exactly who Jesus is.

The more your character is like Jesus’, the happier you will be.  Maybe it’s time for you to slow down, think about your life, and pray to grow a character like Jesus.

Lessons from Tough People…

For a hundred years, Noah built a boat.  Think about that.  Just him and his three sons.  “What are we going to do today Dad?”  “Build the boat.”  It would get tedious after the first twenty years.  People came to see this “do-it-yourself” project.  When they mocked him, he preached back at them.  You have to be pretty tough to work on a project for 100 years, endure abuse along the way, and see the project to the end. 

When word reached Abraham that his nephew had been taken as a prisoner of war, he instantly converted from a shepherd-businessman to a warrior.  He set out after the raiding party, boldly attacked them at night, and got back his nephew and most of the other ill-gotten gains.  You have to be pretty tough to take on the armies of four kings.

Moses went back to Egypt, back to the courts of Pharaoh where he was raised and laid down God’s demand: “Let my people go.”  It would have been so easy for him to be intimidated.  But he wasn’t.  He had a backbone stiffened by the promises of God.  Moses kept pushing against Pharaoh’s stubbornness, never backing down, never giving up.  You have to be pretty tough to stand and speak truth to power.

When Sisera, leader of the Israel’s enemy showed up at Jael’s tent, she lured him in with refreshments.  Then she waited until he was asleep, picked up a hammer and a tent peg, and drove it through his temple.  Jael was one tough woman.  She saw an opportunity and she took it.  You have to be pretty tough to hold a hammer and peg over a man who would think nothing of killing you, and then drive your point home.

The Israelite army was pinned by their enemies, the Philistines.  Jonathan, son of the King, was tired of inaction.  So, he went with his armor-bearer out to a Philistine outpost on a cliff.  He prayed if God wanted him to attack the outpost, then the Philistines would invite him up to battle.  Against all military logic, the Philistines invited him to climb the cliff.  He did, and he and his armor-bearer wiped out 20 Philistines in one battle.  You have to be pretty tough to fight in a battle where the odds are 10 to 1.

Nathan knew, like everyone else, that the math didn’t work for David’s new son.  His mom, the widow of Uriah, had married David after a period of mourning for her husband.  At the wedding, people weren’t sure if she had put on weight or if that bump meant something else.  Six months into the marriage, a big baby boy was born.  After the boy was about a year old, God spoke to Nathan and told him to confront David about his sin.  Nathan did, knowing the King could drive him from the city or have him killed.  You have to be pretty tough to tell the King he sinned, and God isn’t happy.

Daniel was always the guy who stood out.  He worked for the government, but the government was often hostile to his faith.  Jealousy caused other government officials to set him up.  He was thrown into the lions’ den to become a snack between meals.  Instead, it turned into a sleepover.  You have to be pretty tough to keep your faith when your life is in danger.  You have be even tougher to spend the night with the lions.

Jesus was tough.  His work demanded it.  First, he was a carpenter.  Jesus did hard physical labor.  Then he had to deal with crowds of people who wanted miracles or food, depending on the day.  Being “on” is exhausting.  But the toughest thing Jesus did was absorb the weight of sin on the cross.  This defies description.  The load of guilt both felt and not felt by every human being would drive most of us mad.  But Jesus was tough enough to take it, to add the weight of the world’s transgressions to his soul.  You have to be the toughest person who ever lived to let the sin of the world rest on you.

We live in tough days.  It is tempting to want to check-out, to blame other people, to respond to every critic.  We may want to say, “This battle is not worth fighting.”  When it is our turn to speak truth to power, or to confront someone with hard realities, it is tempting to just keep our mouth shut.  We might assess a situation and decide the price is too high to get involved.

This is a time for tough people.  Not heartless or callous people.  Tough people.  Tough people who do what needs to be done, who stand for something, who take action, who speak up about right and wrong.

All of these people in the Bible had something in common.  They believed they had a mission from God, and they believed God would give them all the toughness they needed for their mission. 

Being tough does not begin in the gym.  It begins in your soul.  It begins with asking God for strength, for courage.  It begins with you embracing whatever God-mission God gives you and doing it.  True toughness never forgets “Greater is he who is in you, than he who is in the world.”

The God I Want...

I want a God who will help me win the lottery.  If I won one of those mega-million jackpots, I’d pay off my house, maybe buy a place at the beach (and in the mountains too, why not?), buy all the land that touches my family ranch in Florida, and buy myself a big spread.  I’d be generous too.  I’d give away ten percent, like I’m supposed to, give my siblings a million each, and my brother-in-law too.  I’d probably sign up for liposuction.  But the money wouldn’t change me, no sir.

I want a God who will fix my problems.  I want him to fix the people who drive me crazy, take away all my cravings, and guide me to all the right decisions.  I want a God who will do it all for me.  All I have to do is ask.

I want a God who will make me smart.  I want him to stop me before I say stupid things.  I’d like to be smart enough to listen to TV and my wife at the same time.  I want to know which stocks will go up and which will go down every day.  If God would help me know what other people were thinking when I’m talking to them, that would be great.

I want a God who humbles self-centered people.  It would be great if God would squash the arrogant people and bring them down to size.  I have a list I’d like to give God of people I’ve identified who need to be brought down three or four notches.  A number of these people are in politics.

I want a God who agrees with me theologically.  It puzzles me how people can read the same passage in the Bible and get different meanings.  I want everyone to understand it like I understand it.  I’m pretty sure my interpretation is correct.  Maybe God could get everyone else in line with my understanding.

I want a God who punishes the wicked a little faster.  Wouldn’t it be great if every thief had their hand fall off when they stole?  Wouldn’t it be great if everyone who committed adultery grew big warts?  Of course, God and I would have to agree on what “wicked” is.  Wicked is the big stuff.  I would expect God to look the other way when I tell a white lie, or exceed the speed limit, or cheat on my taxes, or lust a little in my heart.

I want a God who never disciplines me or teaches me a hard lesson.  I want my life to be soft and comfortable.  Why can’t God make character formation easy?  Wouldn’t it be great if I just naturally wanted to do healthy things?  It would be even better if I didn’t have to make healthy choices at all – if God just kept me healthy while I downed a dozen doughnuts with a cheesecake chaser.

I want a God who will understand how hard it is to be me.  I want him to require nothing from me; instead, I want him to make sure I get parking spaces near the door, that it stops raining when I get out of my truck, and that all my decisions are easy.

I want a God who never convicts me of sin, but winks at me and says, “That’s okay.  Do what you want.  I gotcha covered.”  How great would it be if my conscious did not trouble me when I was selfish, or greedy, or unkind?

Funny, as I write each line about the God I want, the personality of God shrinks.  This God I want is no longer the great “I AM,” he is an idol of projection.  I am projecting the darker corners of my soul.  This God I want would not be the God mighty enough to save me. 

When God told his people “I am the LORD your God, you shall have no other gods before me,” I think he was saying, “You don’t get to define me; I define myself.”  When you begin to think you get to tell God who he is, you are really creating an idol, an idol you will find in the mirror.  Every idol ever made, whether in stone or in our hearts, reflects a God we want, not the God who is real.  How you think about God matters.  He decides who he is, not you.

My hunch is even if I got the God I wanted it wouldn’t work.  That God would be too small, too narrow, to bound up with my own flawed understandings.  The God I want is not the God I need.

The Other Thief...

He was mad at the world.  He had reason to be. 

His father was killed by a Roman soldier when he was just a kid.  He and his mother survived because of the charity of a few family members and a couple kind neighbors.  Their kindness, however, was given with a touch of condescension.  Kids, who have a special form of cruelty, made fun of him for not having a dad, for being too poor to even have a “coming of age” party. 

He drifted toward two other boys a little older than him.  They talked big, didn’t work, did petty crime.  He joined them in their adventures, often lurking outside town in the dark, waiting for a traveler who unwisely journeyed in the night.  The gang would jump him, steal what he had of value, beat him up, then run.  His cut was enough to ward off hunger, but never enough to get ahead.

One night things went wrong and the victim recognized one of them.  He called out the boy’s name.  They decided they couldn’t leave this one alive, so they killed him.  Knowing his body would be discovered in the morning, the gang left the village for good. 

They moved on to a bigger town, met some like-minded folks, and moved on to bigger crimes.  The gang robbed a tax collector on his way home from his booth.  They attacked a priest coming home from Temple duty and got his wallet, his donkey, and his meat from the Temple sacrifices.  Merchants in town were told to pay “protection” money, or have their marketplace booth ransacked.

He admitted to himself that he enjoyed power over people.  He took perverse pleasure in seeing their terrorized faces.  He was mad at the world for taking away his future and the world would be made to pay.

His gang drifted down to Jerusalem.  More traffic meant more opportunities.  There were always people coming and going, most of them with money to buy a sacrifice for the Temple.  They averaged a job every two or three days.  His cut was never large, but enough for him to buy women, buy some booze, and not feel anything for a day or two.

They were waiting among the rocks one night and heard the noise of straggling travelers.  By now, everyone in the gang knew their roles.  As the sound grew louder, they prepared to pounce.  They stormed out from the rocks and found themselves face-to-face with twenty Roman soldiers.  Most of the gang ran.  He, however, was filled with the memory of what Roman soldiers had done to his father.  He stabbed one of them, before being pinned with a spear.  In the moonlight, he saw another member of the gang, a new guy, had been caught as well.

The soldiers debated what to do with him.  He struggled against the rope they tied him with.   He heard them say, “Let’s crucify him and the other one.  Send a message.”

He was taken to Jerusalem, thrown into a dungeon, his feet placed in stocks.  Day after day the rats would come to gnaw on his toes.  He screamed at the guards, screamed at the rats, screamed at the walls. The other member of the gang next to him spent a lot of time crying and praying.

Then, one Friday morning, early, the soldiers came and took him and the other man out of the stocks.  They gave them both a heavy beam of wood and told them to pick it up and carry it.  This could only mean one thing – crucifixion. 

The crossbeam was heavy.  Every time he stumbled the guards would put a lash to his back.  He screamed his anger at them, but he knew he was marching to his death.  Another man joined them.  He had heard of this man.  His name was Jesus and he was supposed to be some kind of rabbi.  Some people thought he was the Messiah, but no Messiah would be going to his death at Skull Hill. 

When they reached the spot, he saw the crucifixion poles.  The soldiers lifted the poles out of their holes, roped the crossbeams onto them, and then stretched out the three men.  He screamed and cursed the soldiers as the nails went through his flesh.  Rage ran through his body with the pain as he was lifted up and his cross was dropped into the hole.

Pausing for breath, he looked to his left as he saw they had put the rabbi, the would-be Messiah in the middle and his fellow gang member on the other side of him.  The rage bubbled up again.  “Aren’t you the Messiah?  Why don’t you get down from there and why don’t you save us too?” he screamed.  He added a few choice cuss words to convey his point.

To his surprise, from the other side of Jesus, the other gang member yelled back at him: “Are you nuts?  We deserve this.  This man has done nothing wrong.”  Then, addressing Jesus in a quieter voice, he said, “Lord, remember me when you come into your Kingdom.”

Speaking was more difficult now for all three of them.  Jesus said to the other man, “Today, you will be with me in Paradise.”  What in the world was Jesus talking about?

He saw the sky darken, he heard Jesus mumble a few more words, then he saw him stop breathing.  Death was coming for him too, he knew it.  The soldiers broke the legs of the other gang member.  His breathing stopped about three minutes later.  Now they were coming to break his legs.  He cussed them again.  He heard his bones break.  He couldn’t push up to get his breath.  With his last breath he cussed the Romans, the soldiers, his whole sorry stinking life. 

Then there was bright light.  Then heat.  Fire.  Darkness.  The very voice of evil itself spoke.  “Welcome to hell.”

He screamed in rage.  He deserved better than this.  The evil voice spoke again: “Scream all you want.  You chose your hate.  Now, you get to live in it forever.”

“Where’s the other guy,” he demanded.  The evil voice responded again, this time with a note of disappointment, “He got away.  Asked for mercy at the last minute.  You heard him.  God, being God, granted him the mercy. You, on the other hand, you were full of anger and pride.  This is the eternity you wanted, because you chose hate over mercy.  Enjoy.”

Care Enough to Correct…

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Out of Control…

During my seminary days, I was a chaplain at University Hospital in Louisville. The chaplains rotated shifts in the emergency room overnight to minister to those brought in. The hospital was a level three trauma center, so we got every accident, every gunshot, every drug overdose. When I had the ER shift, I don’t ever remember getting more than a couple hours of broken sleep on a hard cot in the chapel.

In that ER, the chaplain was not only there to minister to those in crisis, he or she was an extra pair of hands when needed. My first night on duty, I was walking through the ER and a resident grabbed me. He told me to hold a man down while they made an incision into his stomach cavity to see if he had internal bleeding. I held the man down by his shoulders while they gave him local anesthetic, then cut him open. Nobody told me the ER was going to be like this.

The shift I’ll never forget happened a few nights later. A young woman was brought in by ambulance. They had radioed ahead to expect trouble. The nurse called for me. “She might need a chaplain,” she said.

The ambulance pulled up to the bay and backed in. The security guard toggled the doors. As they swung open, I saw the inside of the ambulance looked like a cat fight had broken out. Boxes had been ripped open, IV units were on the floor, and the EMT looked like he had finished third in a knife fight.

They unloaded the gurney and I got my first good look at the young woman. She looked to be eighteen or nineteen, dishwater blonde hair, and skinny, maybe about hundred and ten pounds after an all-you-can-eat buffet. She was straining against the restraints, her eyes wild, and she was screaming cuss words that would make a cowboy blush.

“Give us a hand, Chap,” called the security guard. This was my call to action, to be the extra pair of hands. “Grab her right leg, we’re going to unloose the straps and put her on a hospital gurney.” Something told me this wasn’t such a good idea. I have been to many rodeos in my life, and my intuition told me we were about to have one right here in the ER.

A nurse held the woman’s head, three security guards and me each grabbed a limb, and the EMT loosened the straps. At that time, I weighed a little over 200 pounds and was in pretty good shape. Two of the security guards looked like they topped out over 250, and the third was in my weight class. When the straps let go, this hundred-and-ten-pound young woman began to thrash and jerk. It was like trying to hold the leg of a running horse. Her leg jerked from my grasp and for a sickening second, I thought she was about to shake loose and run. I leaned my full weight onto her leg, got a firm grip and a faraway look, and held on for dear life.

Somehow, we got her onto the hospital gurney and another nurse produced a straitjacket. I wasn’t sure this was going to work. Imagine trying to capture a hundred-and-ten-pounds of cussing fury and tying it up. Extra nurses poured out of the ER. This was not their first rodeo. First one arm got tucked into a sleeve and then another. She bit one of the nurses and tried to bite a security guard. I was glad I was on the end with no teeth.

We got her belted down and she was placed in the “quiet room.” The quiet room was a bare room with nothing but concrete walls, a caged light, and door with a window. Think of a prison cell with less class and that was the quiet room.

The nurses could monitor her by video, but they told me to stroll by every so often and see if she wanted to talk. This was like asking if I wanted to talk to a charging bull.

After an hour, she had calmed down. She stopped cussing and asked me to tell the nurses she no longer needed to be restrained. I passed the message on. The medical team came, rolled her into the ER proper, and after treating her, told me she wanted to talk to me. I didn’t know why, except that I had become very well acquainted with her right leg during our introduction.

When I pulled back the curtain, she smiled, and apologized. It turned out she was a diabetic, and she had gone to her first “adult” party. Alcohol was in abundance and she partook, having no idea about the sugar level of beer. After six or seven beers, her body rebelled, and she lost control.

She told me while she was out of control, she knew what was happening, but she was powerless to stop it. Somehow, I knew to smile at her and say, “That’s the definition of being out of control.”

We talked about faith and Jesus. She said she grew up in church but stopped going when she was in high school. This experience, she said, made her think she needed to take God more seriously. I said I hoped she would. I prayed with her. She said she felt like getting some sleep. I understood the feeling.

It was about four AM when I finally made it to the cot in the chapel. I couldn’t get the experience out of head. When I checked the ER at seven in the morning, she had been discharged. That’s the frustrating part of being a hospital chaplain – you are there for the moment, not for the journey. But I could pray for her and I did.

I prayed a simple prayer: “Lord, help that young woman let you be in control of her life. Because Lord, it looked to me like when she was in control, she was out of control.” Then the Spirit spoke to me: “Remember Clay, that goes for you too.”

Cravings…

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Does It Really Mean That?

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

This actually seemed pretty obvious to me. 

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

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

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

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

The Box...

When my mother and father first married, the preacher at my family’s church came to welcome my mother to the community.  As the pastor made inquiries about my mother’s spiritual status, he found out she accepted Jesus in her teens, at a revival in the Methodist church in Venus (Venus, Florida, not Venus, the planet).  A week or so later, my mother, grandmother, uncle, and aunt were baptized in a pond, and brought into the fold of the Baptist Church.

In the midst of finding out my mother’s spiritual journey, the preacher saw a deck of cards on a side table.  In those days, some Baptists objected to the playing of cards.  I’m not sure why.  It might have been because playing cards was associated with gambling.  Or maybe, as comedian Chonda Pierce extrapolates, playing cards was thought to lead to beer.  Beer, at that time, was considered the root of all evil.

The preacher concluded his visit, and my mother thought no more about it.  That is, until the next Sunday.  In his sermon the preacher railed against the loose morals of the young people in the community.  He roundly condemned drinking, dancing, going to the movies, and working on the Sabbath.  Then in shocked tones, he gave the example of visiting a newlywed couple and discovering playing cards in their home.  It was a small church and my parents were the only newlywed couple in the church.  It was as close to naming a name without naming a name as he could go.

I remember my mother telling me the story years later.  She said she almost died of embarrassment.  Never mind my father’s father had been a preacher.  Never mind that she lived with her mother-in-law, who did not object to having a deck of cards in her house.  Never mind her sister-in-laws, their husbands, and their children were in the congregation that day and met the preacher’s denouncement with icy stares.  Mama said she wanted to crawl under the church and never come back.

That day in September 1945, the preacher drew a box and told everyone that if you followed Jesus, you had to fit in his box.  If you liked to cut a rug, you did not fit in the box.  If you went to the movies, you did not fit in the box.  If you took a drink of alcohol, you did not fit in the box.  And, if you liked to play cards, you did not fit in the box. 

Church people still draw boxes and demand people fit inside them.  The boxes change from church to church.  There are not too many churches left that tell you not to dance or go to the movies or play cards.  Maybe they all went out of business because they were majoring on the minors.

I have known churches that build a box around a certain translation of the Bible.  If you do not read that translation, you are not going to heaven.  Another church I know says your truth can be anything you want it to be.  If you were to participate in that church and suggest there might be such a thing as absolute truth, you would find their box is just as restrictive as a church that insists on using a specific translation. 

Not too long ago, a woman asked me, “If I follow Jesus, do I have to become a Republican?”  Of course, the answer is “no.”  Partisan politics are just another box that church people try to insist you get in.   When a church insists on adherence to a box, they usually tie the box to the promise of heaven.  “If you want to go to heaven,” they say, “then you have to get in our box.” 

Jesus never talked about boxes.  Instead, he said, “Follow me.”  If you follow Jesus, you arrive at heaven, because you have a relationship with him, not because you fit in a box.  Ironically, it is harder to follow Jesus than getting in a box.  If you get in a box, all you must do is stay in the box.  Staying in the box is passive; following Jesus is active.  If you follow Jesus, you must stay close enough to see where he is going.  You must talk to him about your journey.  When Jesus says to stop and rest, you stop and rest.  When Jesus says, go, you go.  Your focus is on him. 

When that story my mother told me flits across my consciousness, I cannot help but wonder: What if my parents let the preacher’s box chase them away from church?  What if the preacher’s box chased them away from Jesus?  Then I get a picture in my mind.  I do not know if it is true or not; but the picture is of Jesus and the disciples, gathered around a fire in the cool Galilean evening, going over the day, Jesus explaining his teachings.  Then, as conversation lags, Jesus turns to Simon Peter and says, “You want to play a game of cards?”

A Daughter Takes the Plunge…

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

God Bless America...

Irving Berlin was born into a Russian Jewish family.  The family fled Siberia, looking for a better life in the United States.  Berlin was five when the family arrived at Ellis Island in New York Harbor.  The family did not find instant wealth; what they found was opportunity.

Berlin became a successful songwriter and singer (his first hit was “Alexander’s Ragtime Band”).  When World War I broke out, he was writing songs for Broadway musicals.  It was then he wrote a song called “God Bless America” for a patriotic revue.  The song, however, didn’t work in that show, so it was shelved.  There it gathered dust for 20 years.

In 1938, war clouds were gathering in Europe.  Patriotism began to surge in the United States. A patriotic radio special was planned for November 11, 1938, Armistice Day.  Berlin was asked to contribute a song.  He pulled out his old song and reworked it, writing a new introduction for Kate Smith to sing:  "While the storm clouds gather far across the sea / Let us swear allegiance to a land that's free / Let us all be grateful for a land so fair, / As we raise our voices in a solemn prayer."   Though the introduction is seldom sung today, it stated Berlin’s clear intention: this song was a prayer, like a psalm.  His father was a cantor in the synagogue.  Berlin would have known all about a song containing a prayer.

The song became an instant hit, a second, unofficial national anthem.  It was sung at both Republican and Democratic conventions and rallies.  Communities would sing the song at War Bond rallies and 4th of July celebrations during World War 2.  The song made its film debut in 1943, in an Army film called “This is the Army (not a great title).”  The star of the film was Ronald Reagan.

The song had detractors, of course.  The KKK opposed the song because it was written by a Jewish immigrant.  Arlo Guthrie thought the song glossed over the troubles of the United States, and in response wrote “This Land is Your Land, this Land is My Land.”  Others were troubled by the overt religious tone of the song. 

Though Berlin was culturally and ethnically Jewish, he did not actively participate in Synagogue.  Speaking about “God Bless America,” he said: "To me, ’God Bless America' was not just a song but an expression of my feeling toward the country to which I owe what I have and what I am."  Apparently, though his faith was not personal, he sensed he was blessed to live in a country where he had the freedom to be more than Russia would have ever allowed.

“God Bless America” is now 102 years old.  It has seen its way through two World Wars, a Great Depression, a Great Recession, wars in Korea, Vietnam, Kuwait, Iran, and Afghanistan.  Three Presidents died since the song was first written and nuclear bombs were exploded.  Communistic Russia was created and died during the lifespan of the song.  In 1918, when Berlin first wrote the song, there was no paved coast to coast road in the United States.  “God Bless America” has witnessed the rise of radio, TV, computers, indoor plumbing, the internet, and air-conditioning. 

In times of crisis, it is still the song we reach for.  Who can forget members of Congress standing on the steps of the capitol building on the night of September 11, 2001, Republicans and Democrats, singing together “God Bless America.”  We sing it when we dedicate memorials, when we gather for a sporting event, when we celebrate the 4th. 

In this strange year, we need to reach for this song again, not just to sing it, but to offer it as the prayer it was meant to be:

God Bless America,

Land that I love.

Stand beside her,

And guide her,

Through the night,

With the light from above.

Dry Rot in the Soul…

I was hauling my boat to the lake to meet up with my family.  It was just me, pulling the boat up the interstate.  About an hour into the trip, I felt a jerk.  I look at my rear-view mirrors and saw my boat trailer leaning to the right.  Flat tire.

I should say shredded tire.  I pulled over to the emergency lane, put on my flashers, and got out to inspect the damage.  The tire had simply come apart.  I didn’t understand it.  I had checked the air pressure before I left and greased the bearings.  But these things happen.

Because of my recent knee surgery, I decided to call for assistance.  When the man said it would be an hour and half, I decided I could tough it out and change it myself.  This was not the smartest idea I had ever had.  But I got the trailer jacked up, the lug nuts loosened, and unbolted the spare.  Traffic flying by at 80 mph is motivation to work quickly and pray hard.  I had to dig out underneath the axle to fit the spare onto the hub.  Good thing I carry a shovel.

Once the tire was changed, I knew not to venture too far without a spare.  I Googled for a tire shop at the next exit (thank you, God, for smart phones), and picked up a new spare.  Back on the road.

I was about forty miles further down the road, when I felt the trailer jerk again.  I looked up and sure enough, another flat on the trailer.  On the right side again!  The spare, which had plenty of tread, had blown.  When I got the truck and trailer stopped, and ventured out to examine the tire, it was shredded, just like the first one.  Was the right side of my trailer cursed?

I Googled tire stores in the next little town, mindful it was twenty minutes till five.  I explained the situation, and the man said he could send someone right out and bring me another tire.  The service man arrived pretty quick, and he had the new spare, bought 40 miles ago, on the trailer in no time (every job is easy if you have the right tools).  Then he popped another new spare on the rim of the shredded tire. 

I knew this man knew more about tires than I did.  I asked him, “What made this tire shred like this?”  I figured whatever caused it, probably caused the last one too.  He smiled because this was not his first rodeo.  He said, “You see this a lot on boat trailers.  People don’t use their boat very much in the winter, then they take it out on a long haul.  When you don’t use it, dry rot sets in.  You probably didn’t notice the small cracks or the tread being brittle.  When a dry rot tire hits the road, it disintegrates like this, because of the pressure and the heat.  Your spare probably had dry rot too.”

His words made me wonder about dry rot of the soul.  Your soul is the sum of your life: your decisions, your thoughts, your feelings, your body, and your relationships.  I think dry rot of the soul happens when you don’t use your soul.  Being self-centered is the first sign of soul dry rot. 

I wonder how many Christians have soul dry rot.  If faith is something a person does not nurture or cultivate, but only calls on in a crisis, is that why people have a faith blow out?  Maybe their faith has not been used enough.  I do not know this for sure, but I think some people who lose their faith have let it sit, unused.  The compound that holds faith together has broken down, like a tire. 

I know going to church (or watching online these days) is not the same as having a relationship with God, but it is one small way to take your soul out for a spin.  Obeying nudges from the Holy Spirit to do acts of kindness, or to speak words of witness, or to speak for those who cannot speak can keep your faith fresh.  If you really want to keep your faith well exercised, try serving the least of these.

In these days, I’ve thought a lot about our nation.  We seem to be going through a national spasm, fed by fears of COVID, financial pressure, and an awaking to the racism that still exists in our country.  I remember 1968, which also felt like a spasm in our history.  These spasm years feel like – well, like a boat trailer jerking and swaying and telling you it is time to get into the emergency lane. 

A nation has a soul, just like a person.  Collectively we make decisions, share thoughts and feelings, and have relationships based on being Americans.  Our nation is a body that expresses its will through our government.  We don’t seem to care about truth or compassion anymore.  We assumed that our Judeo-Christian ethic could be taken for granted, that everyone would respect each other and make an effort to get along.  It’s not happening.  It takes effort to get along.  I think our national self-centeredness has caused dry rot to set in. 

Someone asked me the other day if I thought the turmoil of 2020 was a sign of the end times.  I wish I had thought to say, “I’m not sure, but it may be a sign of a dry rotted soul.”

Fathers of the Bible…

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Waiting…

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Racism Needs to Die…

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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.”