Done My Time…

Every small rural church has at least one matriarch.  The matriarch told her husband or her son how to vote in Deacon’s meetings, making sure the color of the new carpet was what she wanted it to be, and kept in contact with other strong-willed women in the church.   Mrs. Tucker was one of the matriarchs of the church I pastored in rural Kentucky.   She was a part of a prosperous farming family that had been in that community for over a hundred years.  I knew, without anyone telling me, I need to visit her regularly.  When you are a pastor of a country church, that is part of the job description: visit the older people. 

Mrs. Tucker was always gracious to me.  We would sit in the parlor, a room filled with fine antiques, and she would serve me sweet tea.  We would talk about farming, and she would tell me about her daughter, who taught school in Germany at an American Air Force Base.   

She did not like some of the changes happening in the community.  Farms were being divided.  Fields that once grew crops were sprouting houses.  New people were changing her world and her church.  Her way of life, so familiar, was slowly dying.  She was old-school: she still drank raw milk from the dairy, put up vegetables from her garden, and carried herself with great dignity.   

I was an outsider, of course, and anxious to reach new people.  That meant we needed more space—that required money.  As the church wrestled with these issues, I thought it was important for Mrs. Tucker to be on the committee that would decide these things.  I knew I had to ask in person.   

I made my way to her home.  We sat in the parlor and shared some sweet tea.  Then I made my big ask: “Mrs. Tucker, would you please serve on the Building Team.”   She put down her glass and fixed her school-teacher gaze on me.  “Young man…” she began.  I have learned when a conversation begins with “Young man…” nothing good is going to come after that.   

“Young man,” she said, “I have been a member of our church for over sixty years.  I am not sure we need a new building.  But besides that, I have done my time.  I have been on more committees than you can imagine.  I must decline.  It is time for someone else to carry the load.” 

I had my answer.  We made pleasant conversation after that, and I left.  But her phrase, “I have done my time,” bothered me.  The only other time I had heard that was in reference to being in jail.  Is serving on a church committee really like being in jail?  I am sure she did not mean it that way.  But she was clear: her time of serving was done. 

I thought about Noah.  What if he said, “God, I am too old to build a boat.  I have tried to serve you all these centuries; it is time for a younger person to take over.”  Would anyone have built the ark? 

I thought about Abraham.  What if he said, “God, I am too old to be changing diapers.  How can I be a Dad at a hundred years old?”  In fact, Abraham did say that to God.  God told him, “I am going to do this – believe me.”  Abraham, at a hundred, started a new life of getting up in the middle of the night and changing diapers. 

I thought about Moses.  After his major mess-up in Egypt, he wound up working for his father-in-law.  God appeared to him in a burning bush and told him to go and confront Pharoah, telling him, “Let my people go.”  Like Abraham, Moses tried to duck the assignment.  God said, “No, I am sending you.” 

There is a pattern here: God looks at older people and says, “I still have a purpose for you.”  Where did we ever get the idea we can retire from serving our God?  If you are breathing, God still has a plan for your life.  Finding out God’s purpose for you is your job.  If you ask, God will show you what your purpose is. 

If you are a follower of Jesus, and someone asks you to serve, do not say, “I have done my time.”  Instead, answer, “Let me ask my Heavenly Father.”

Sleeping in Church …

I admit it – I have fallen asleep in church.  When I was a child, and we had church on Sunday nights, the preacher’s voice seemed hypnotic.  A few minutes into his message, I would be stretched out on the pew, lost in la-la land. 

When I was home from college, late Saturday nights made for sleepy Sunday mornings.  The summer I dated Miss Hardee County, we had been out late courting on Saturday, and I was supposed to sing in the choir the next morning.  I made it in time, did my part for the choir special, and then settled in for the sermon.  I could not keep my eyes open.  I went to the old standby position of folding my hands and bowing my head, hoping people would think I was praying.  I was drifting off when Elmo Roberts, two seats over, cleared his sinuses.  I thought I had snored and jerked my head up.  My mother later told me she thought the Spirit had really spoken to me during the pastor’s message.

People do funny things when they sleep in church.  My Uncle Earl wore mirrored sunglasses in the choir every Sunday.  He did not want people to think he was asleep during the sermon.  No one told him when he fell asleep during the sermon; his head rocked back, and his mouth opened.  He looked like a thirsty man trying to drink the rain.

I have seen more elbows thrown in church than in a roller derby.  Most often, it is women elbowing their husbands who have been lulled to sleep by the sermon.  Sometimes when the elbows are delivered, the men startle awake, look around, and then try to pretend like they were listening the whole time.

There is an old joke about a preacher who was tired of a deacon falling asleep during every sermon.  He decided to make an example of the old man.  During a sermon, the preacher whispered, “Everyone who wants to go to heaven, stand up.”  Of course, the whole congregation stood, except for the sleeping deacon.  The preacher told the congregation to be seated, then he bellowed, “Everyone who wants to go to hell, stand up.”  The old deacon, startled awake, heard the words “stand up” and naturally stood.  He looked around and said, “Preacher, I don’t know what we are voting for, but it looks like you and I are the only ones in favor.”

My Uncle Bud had the best story of falling asleep in church.  He was a little boy, prone to wet the bed.  During one long Sunday night service, Granny stretched him out on one of the slat pews of the Venus Baptist Church.  About halfway through the service, my mother, Uncle Pete, and Aunt Bill noticed a thin trickle of yellow liquid making its way forward on the uneven wooden floor.  A flurry of giggles and pinches broke out until Granny noticed the growing stream.  Then she started to giggle too.  I am sure the preacher noticed the commotion; perhaps he thought that last joke he told was finally getting through.

People ask me from time to time if it bothers me when people fall asleep in church.  I used to say, “No, as long as they are awake for the offering,” but people started to think I was serious.  I know for many people Sunday mornings are the only time in the week they are still.  Sure, I wish people would stay awake while I preach, but I would rather have them sleep in church than be awake in sin. 

People occasionally tell me I am the first preacher who kept them awake.  I used to think it was a compliment until one dear saint elaborated: “Your sermons are like a slow-motion train wreck.  I just can’t look away.”

I was keeping my grandson not long ago.  He was fussy.  His parents instructed me this was a sign he was either hungry, needed a diaper changed, or he was sleepy.  I had taken care of the first two, so I knew he needed sleep.  I put him in his swing, but he was having none of it.  His fussing grew worse.  I picked him up, put his head on my shoulder, and started rocking him back and forth.  His crying grew more intense.  Finally, I put him down on my bed, put my arm under his head, and pulled him close.  He turned to me, and the crying stopped.  His eyes closed, and his breathing became regular.  He needed the safety of his grandfather being close to finally sleep.

It made me wonder about everyone who falls asleep in church.  Are they finally close enough to their Heavenly Father that they feel safe enough to let down and relax in his arms?  Maybe that is how we are supposed to live, asleep or awake.

My Kingdom …

Kevin Baugh has his own country—The Republic of Molossia—and if you don't mind, he'd prefer you call him "His Excellency Kevin Baugh." After all, he has an impressive khaki uniform with six big medals, a gold braid, epaulets at the shoulders, and a blue, white, and green sash. Oh—and a general's cap with a gold starburst over the bill.

Have you ever heard of The Republic of Molossia? That's understandable because it consists of Baugh's three-bedroom house and a 1.3-acre yard outside of Dayton, Nevada. According to an article in the Chicago Tribune, "He has a space program (a model rocket), a currency (pegged to the value of chocolate-chip cookie dough), a railroad (model size), a national sport (broomball), and—in his landlocked desert region—a navy (an inflatable boat)."

The newspaper goes on to say: "Baugh, a 45-year-old father of two, is a micro-nationalist, one of a wacky band of do-it-yourself nation builders who raise flags over their front yards and declare their property to be, as Baugh puts it 'the kingdom of me.'"

It’s tempting to try this: declare my house and my lot an independent country.  I suppose I could tell the US Treasury not to expect any more checks from me.  I wonder if Border Patrol would set up a passport check station at the end of my driveway?

I would do things differently than Kevin, for sure.  I would name my country “Claylandia.”  I would not want to be called “His most Excellency.”  I think I would prefer “The Exalted and Mighty Clay.”  Our official currency would be ribeye steaks, and since I have a pond in my backyard, I would have a better navy than Kevin: a john-boat with a 12 gauge shotgun.  The official animal of my country would be my dog, Moo.

The truth is most of us actually do treat our lives as our own little kingdoms.  We raise a flag over our souls and declare that we are in charge.  We make decision after decision, thinking we can control people and situations. Then we are surprised when we find out people don’t recognize our kingdom.  We are outraged when cancer invades.  We can’t stand it when laws are applied to us; we think they are for other people. 

When Jesus teaches us to pray “Thy Kingdom Come, thy will be done on earth, as it is in heaven,” he’s telling us that we are better off under God’s rule than our own.  God’s soul is infinitely better than ours.  God is far more trustworthy than we are.  Everything in God’s Kingdom may not go according to our plan, but it will go according to His plan.  The question is not if God’s Kingdom will prevail; the question is when it will prevail.

Asking for God’s Kingdom to come means we are also committing ourselves to live in harmony with the ruler of that Kingdom.  Here is what makes God’s Kingdom unique: Jesus pays the price not just for us to enter the Kingdom, but to become children of the King. 

I don’t think I want to live in the Republic of Molossia.  Kevin doesn’t sound like a very appealing King to me.  But I realize I don’t want to live in the Kingdom of Claylanda either.  The King there doesn’t do a very good job. 

The best Kingdom is the one with the best King. The best King is the one who laid down his life for me and rose again with power for me. His is the Kingdom for me. And I hope, for you too.

Nicknames…

My father had one of the greatest nicknames of all time: “King Kong.”  That lofty name was bestowed upon him in high school when he was an all-state lineman in football.  In later years, his nickname was shortened to “Kong.”  Still impressive.  No wonder he was such a good bull-rider.  When the rodeo announcer would say, “Kong Smith coming out of chute number two on a bull we call ‘Tango,’” the bull was already psyched out.  When my father died at forty-two, no one remembered his mother had named him “Horald.” 

Nicknames were common back then.  My father’s cousins and friends sported names like “Cooter,” “Shorty,” “Rabbit,” “Top,” “Stink,” and my all-time personal favorite, “Puke.”  I think “Puke” moved away from Wauchula just so he could be called by his regular name. 

My childhood nicknames were not as glamorous as my father’s.  I dragged my blanket around everywhere, so I was first tagged “Linus,” after the character in the comic strip “Peanuts.”  When I stopped dragging my blanket around (I stopped by high school), my cousin Donna Mae noticed my head was round like “Charlie Brown,” also a character in “Peanuts.”  To this day, when I see Donna Mae at home, she calls out, “Hey, Charlie Brown!”   

My first name is William, which I do not use.  Do you have any idea how many “William Smiths” there are in the world?  My Uncle Earl, however, used to call me “Willie,” sometimes “Willie-boy.”  His daughter, my cousin Kay, to this day, calls me “Willie.”  She is the only one allowed to do that.  If you call me “Willie,” I will not answer. My wife sometimes calls me “Sweetie,” which I like and will answer to, but only when she uses it.  Do not call me “Sweetie.” 

Southerners default to some nicknames.  I have a Barlow cousin named “Bubba.”  My mother went through life as “Sissie.”  Her brother was named Otis Odell, but everyone called him “Pete.”  Sure beats “Otis.”  Her younger brother was called “Bud.”  Her sister Billie Jean (this was before Michael Jackson) went by “Bill.”  People used to look at me funny when I told them I had an “Aunt Bill.”   

Even my dog has nicknames, which must confuse him.  His real name is Mulawi (my son named him after the third Caliphate), but we call him “Moo.”  It fits because he is as big as a cow.  But I also call him “Buddy” and a couple of other names I can not print when he tears into the trash. 

Even Jesus had nicknames.  His name means “God saves.”  But he is also called the “Christ,” which means “The one who is anointed.”  It is better understood to mean “The Chosen One.”  Jesus is also called the “Lamb of God,” because lambs were sacrificed for sin in the Temple.  Jesus is the one pure lamb of God, offered for the sins of the world.   

Jesus is also known as “Emmanuel,” which means “God with us.”  Not only was Jesus offered as a sacrifice of our sins, but he also lived among us to show us he understands our lives.  Unlike every other god, Jesus enters his creation to participate in life.   

Jesus is called “Lord,” which is both a term of respect and a name representing authority.  People called him “Master,” which meant they recognized he was in charge.  Occasionally he was called “Rabbi,” which means “teacher.”   

Jesus referred to himself as “The Son of Man,” which sounds confusing.  It is the same term used of an Old Testament prophet, Ezekiel.  Scholars debate, but I think Jesus called himself “Son of man” as a way to identify as a prophet and a human being all at the same time. 

John opens his gospel by calling Jesus “The Word.”  Jewish people understood God could speak, and things happened (think about when your daddy said, “Get out of bed.”  No further words were needed).  John knew Jesus was God’s ultimate word because he made things happen. 

Peter gives Jesus the ultimate nickname.  One day Jesus asked, “Who do people say I am?”  They told him the gossip: people thought Jesus was Elijah, or John the Baptist come back to life, or one of the prophets come back to life.  Jesus then asked, “Who do you say I am?”  Peter answered, “You are the Christ, the Son of God.”  Jesus replied, “Blessed are you, Simon, son of Jonah!”  That is the nickname Jesus wants everyone to use because that name means you get who he really is.

There is one more nickname I have, one I treasure above all others: “Child of God.”  That nickname means my Heavenly Father knows my worst self, forgives me, and adopts me as his own.  That nickname means I do not have to adult my way through life.  My Heavenly Father is seeing me through, guiding me, taking care of me, assuring me of his love and grace. “Child of God” is more than a nickname; it is the arms of my Heavenly Father surrounding me.   

Remember…

Your country needs you.  You volunteer.  Part of the reason you volunteer is selfish: you need a career, and this is a good one.  But there is more.  You want to serve.  You know there is a real danger in taking the oath “To protect and defend the constitution of the United States, from all enemies foreign and domestic.”  But you are pretty sure you will not be one of the ones who die.   

They send you off to boot camp, put a rifle in your hand, and teach you how to be a soldier.  You learn how to take orders without debate, how to navigate in the field, how to survive with what you can carry on your back.  Most of all, you learn how not to die in a dangerous business.  After a few weeks, you ship out for additional training.  You might learn to drive a tank, or fix a plane, or jump out of a plane, or interpret sonar.  

You get your first assignment.  You are being sent overseas into a combat zone.  Your stomach tightens; you knew you signed up for this, but the danger seemed far away back then.  Even when your drill sergeant regaled you with tales of narrow misses, bombs blowing up, or a bullet that went through a sleeve but not a body, it did not seem like any of that could happen to you. 

When you step off the plane, it hits you that you are not in Kansas anymore.  This is foreign territory.  There are people out there who want to kill you, who hate that you are in their territory.  You get your quarters and get going on your job.  Then it happens. 

You might have been out on patrol.  Something looks suspicious about a car parked on the street.  Your eye catches someone running around a corner.  Before you can say a word, a bomb is detonated.  A piece of that car flies toward you at a hundred miles an hour.  There is no time to react. Your left leg is sheared off, your femoral artery is severed, and you start to bleed out. 

You might have been on the flight line.  You are topping off a fuel tank when you hear someone yell, “Incoming!”  Before you can get away from the plane, a rocket lands dead center.  You are engulfed in a fireball.  In your body’s final act, it protects you from the overwhelming pain by sending you into shock as blazing fuel coats you. 

You might have been assigned to a boarding party.  You approach what looks like an innocent fishing vessel.  Suddenly a man on deck raises a missile launcher and points it right at you as you stand in the front of the boat.  There is no time to react or jump off the skiff.  The missile is already on its way, about to pierce your body. 

Before death takes you, you have a rush of final thoughts.  You think about your fiancé and your plans to get married as soon as this tour is over.  You think about your kid brother, how he admired your dress uniform when you came home from basic.  You think about your Mom and Dad, how this was their worst nightmare.  You even think about what is next and remember what your Student Pastor said about life and death and Jesus.  Then you die. 

There will be a story on the news about your death, but they will not mention you by name.  It will be one more story about a soldier being killed in a far-off land, and they need to move on to the latest news about the Kardashians.  Your body will be brought home in a flag-draped box.  Your fiancé will sob throughout your funeral, holding onto your Mom, who is also weeping.  Your Dad will be wide-eyed in shock.  Your kid brother slowly shakes his head back and forth.  Friends will be there, but no one, not even the preacher, really knows what to say.  They will lower your body in the grave, give you a rifle salute, and play taps. 

Your Mom and Dad will never be the same.  They come to your grave every week.  Just to stare, just to cry.  Your fiancé isolates for a year then moves on.  She finds someone else, marries, has kids, but she always wonders, “What if…”  Your kid brother, in a move that your parents opposes, joins the military.  He, too, gets sent into combat but emerges unscathed.  He does his twenty years, gets out, and starts a new chapter. 

But every Memorial Day, these most important people in your life pause and remember.  While everyone else is cooking out or going to the lake or sitting on the beach, these people remember your life, your sacrifice, and all that could have – should have – been. 

This Memorial Day, even if we do not know your name, we pause for just a moment and think of you too.  We wish we could say “Thank you,” but that does not seem like enough.  We know we counted on you, and you did not let us down.  We are sorry this happened to you.  Most of all, we remember.

Why Does the Preacher Talk So Much About Money?

Word has reached me yet again: “Clay talks about money too much in his sermons.”  I am sure other preachers face the same criticism.  Let me assure you, none of us went to seminary to become experts in money messages.   

I do know there are some preachers who go past what is reasonable.  Let the preacher find out someone in his congregation has won the lottery, and I promise you will have an eight-week series on giving.  Some churches give the preacher a percentage of the offering.  You better believe he is going to preach about stewardship at least once a month. 

Yes, I have seen the stories about TV evangelists who have private jets.  I have a private eight-year-old pickup truck.  Some of the brothers and sisters of TV fame do live in very nice homes.  They often say they were able to purchase their nice house not with the money the church paid them but with book contract money.  May God grant that my books sell like theirs. 

Most of the pastors I know are not overpaid but underpaid.  After four years of college and a couple of years of graduate work, they often work for salaries less than a starting teacher (and yes, I think teachers are underpaid, too).  The reality is the pastor’s salary is a small percentage of the overall church budget.  The money the church receives goes to pay other staff members, building upkeep, Bible Study supplies, and taking care of the poor.  No one explains this to you when you say you feel called to the ministry. 

My first church had a budget of about $42,000.  We had twenty-six people.  About half were kids and students.  That left thirteen to fifteen adults to carry the financial load.  We had no professionals, no rich people.  The church was a gathering of hardworking, blue-collar folks.  But they gave, and we did church.  I never preached on money once. 

In my second church, I should have preached on money more.  We had people who had means, but every Sunday was questionable about whether we hit our offering goal.  Heaven forbid that someone give up their Kentucky Basketball tickets so they could tithe.  My third church was constantly broke – and I mean, constantly.  Most people were retired.  I had to preach on giving, or I wouldn’t get paid. 

When the church I currently serve outgrew their building, I realized I would have to get comfortable preaching on giving.  It takes money to do ministry.  It takes sacrificial giving to bring vision to life.  I don’t know that I am good at motivating people to be generous, but I know some very generous people stepped up to share resources God placed in their hands.  Faithful givers keep stepping up and help our church do things for Jesus in our community and all over the world. 

But let me tell you the real reason your preacher preaches about money:  Jesus did.  Jesus talked most about life in the Kingdom, followed by salvation.  Money and Hell are the next two most frequent topics of his teaching. 

Jesus actually told us why it was so important to talk about money: “Where your treasure is, there your heart will be also.”  Your treasure (literally, “your stuff”) says a lot about what is most important to you.  Your allocation of your money is like soul blood pressure.  When you measure what you have against what you give, it tells a truth about your soul you may not want to hear.  You may drop a twenty in an offering plate and feel generous, but what does it say to you that an eighty-five-year-old woman gives ten percent of her Social Security check?   

A story with a riddle: When is $40 more than $400?  During the offering.  If the boss is pulling in $6,000 a week and he puts in $400 a week, he is giving about 6.6% of his income.  If his secretary is giving $40 out of her pre-tax income of $400 a week – well, you do the math.   She is giving 10%.  What does the boss’s giving say about his heart?  What does the secretary’s giving say about her heart?  More important is whose heart would you rather have? 

Maybe the reason the preacher preaches so much about money is he knows the church needs to pay its bills.  Or maybe the preacher is concerned about your heart.

Every Rug Has a Home…

We decided to get a new rug for our breakfast room.  I admit I was barely aware we had a breakfast room.  But I knew I had agreed we needed a new table, and that meant we needed a new rug.  Funny how these things interlock. 

There is a store in Gaffney, my wife’s hometown, that has hundreds of handmade Persian and Turkish rugs.  What is the difference between a Persian rug and a Turkish rug?  Turkish rugs are usually not made in Turkey but Iran.  Persian rugs are often made in Pakistan or India.  There are even some Persian and Turkish rugs made in Dalton, Georgia.   It is not too far from Rome.

 On a trip to Upstate South Carolina, we made a swing by the Rug Store.  Rugs hung on enormous racks, thousands of rugs.  A helpful saleslady asked, “What are you looking for?”  We gave her the dimensions, and off we went into the racks. 

I am better at knowing what I dislike than what I like.  As we flipped over rug after rug, I saw some definite “Do not likes.”  As in hideous.  As in “Who in the world would buy a rug like that?”  One was hot pink and orange.  Looking at it made me queasy.  Another was pale blue and pink.  It looked like a gender-reveal event with an uncertain outcome.  A black and white weave gave me a headache.  Another rug was the color of the processed cow-food I often write about.  I am thinking “Who in their right mind would buy something like this?” 

After the eighth or ninth hideous rug flipped by, I said to the saleslady, “Who buys rugs this ugly?”  She smiled and said, “Oh, you’d be surprised.  We have a saying: Every rug has a home.” 

As we kept flipping past rugs, I thought back to what she said: Every rug has a home.  I thought some of the rugs belonged in a home at the landfill.  But something told me one man’s revulsion is another woman’s beauty. 

There is a story about Jesus that is like this.  If you grew up in church, you probably know it.  Jesus was walking through the streets of Jericho.  A throng of people surrounded him, with more lining the streets.  A certain man, Zacchaeus, wanted to see Jesus, but because he was short, he could not get a clear view. 

Zacchaeus was a chief tax collector.  Tax collectors in Palestine were not popular people.  They were considered collaborators with the enemy (Rome).  Tax collectors had to bid for their posts.  They had to pay the Roman government a certain amount; anything they could squeeze out of people over that, they got to keep.  It was a system open for corruption, and corrupt it was.  A chief tax collector had become successful enough to bid for a larger area of collection.  He would employ assistants to do the collections while he would manage the bribes and kickbacks.  He would also consult with Roman officers about the deployment of troops to make sure people were paying.  

Zacchaeus has power.  Zacchaeus has money.  But Zacchaeus knows he is missing something, and he has a hunch Jesus might have what he needs.  So, Zacchaeus overcomes his vertical challenge and climbs a sycamore tree so he can see Jesus.  To his utter amazement, Jesus stops underneath his tree and tells him to come down. Then, to the astonishment of the crowd, Jesus says, “I must stay at your house today.”   

It was unthinkable for a Jewish Rabbi to stay in the home of such a notorious traitor.  But Jesus never let that stop him.  I think he was saying to Zacchaeus, “Not only am I coming home with you but there is a home for you with me.”   

These few words, coupled with the power of Jesus, changed Zacchaeus in an instant.  He does come down and offers to pay back anything he stole and give away half his fortune to the poor.  Impressive.  

Jesus said, “Today salvation has come to this house because this man, too, is a son of Abraham.”  Salvation came because Jesus knew Zacchaeus belonged, even if Zacchaeus did not know it yet.  Jesus finished by saying, “For the Son of Man came to seek and to save the lost.”  Jesus wants all the rejected people to know he has come for them.  He wants them to find hope, love, grace, and peace. 

I have a feeling if Jesus had been in the rug store, he might have said to the saleslady, “Gather up all the ugly rugs.  I’ll take them home with me.  I have just the place for them.  And yes, I will pay full price for them all.”

Carry the Load…

I was carrying a load of heifers to the market.  They had made weight, and I was out of grass.  It was time for them to meet their destiny.  

I have an old gooseneck livestock trailer my Dad bought over forty years ago.  My brother Steve had it reworked and let me have it.  He made sure it had four good tires.  I pulled that trailer from Florida back to South Carolina.  I hauled cattle to new owners and picked up calves to fatten.  The tires were good and solid.  I thought. 

I have written previously about my trouble with tires and trailers.  Once I blew out two boat trailer tires in one trip.  But the tires on this trailer were less than a year and a half old.  I was not worried. 

In the early dawn, I loaded the cattle, eleven heifers, and made my way to the highway.  The first twenty minutes were uneventful.  I pulled onto the interstate and started to build up speed when I heard that awful flapping sound.  I thought: “This cannot be happening.”  But it was. 

I pulled over on the side of the interstate, walked around, and sure enough, one of the tires had shredded itself.  As Yogi Berra famously said, “It was Deja-vu all over again.”   

This time, however, I was prepared.  Thanks to good advice from my brother Steve, I had purchased the biggest cordless impact wrench I could find to carry in my truck.  I had a five-ton jack.  I was about to give my fellow travelers a cowboy version of a NASCAR pit-stop.  I confidently put my impact driver on the lug-nut, pressed the button, heard the electric motor whine, and …nothing.  The lug-nut did not budge. 

These things happen.  I got my stand-by lug wrench and tried the old-fashioned way.  I pulled.  I strained.  I wondered about the price of a hernia operation.  I tried the other lug-nuts.  They apparently had a convention and decided they would not be moved.  Eleven heifers looked at me.  They registered their opinion of my efforts in a rather odiferous manner. 

It was 6:45 AM, and I knew nothing was open.  I decided to limp down to the next exit, where there was a truck stop.  I had one good tire on that side that was bulging, and I prayed for that tire with the fervor found at a Pentecostal prayer meeting.   

Ten very slow miles and a Google search later, I found a tire store that said it would open at 7:30 AM.  Sure enough, thirty minutes later, an older man came up to my driver’s side window and said, “Did you know you have a flat tire?”  I thought about Bill Engvall and almost said, “Nope!  I was passing through and just thought I’d let my heifers see a tire store.  Here’s your sign.”  But I did not say this because I learned a long time ago never to pick a fight with a man who has his name on a shirt.  He can and will whip you. 

I got out, and we looked at the tires.  He told me he had that size in stock and went to check.  Meanwhile – and I am not making this up – other employees were coming to work, stopping, and taking pictures of my heifers on the trailer to send to their kids.  They must not have cows in that part of the state. 

The older man returned with bad news.  All they had were radial tires.  For those of you not properly educated in tire-ology, radial tires and bias tires must be segregated.  If placed on the same vehicle, they work against each other.  Like Baptists in a business meeting, they react differently to curves and can cause the trailer to sway out of control.  I knew this.  Now instead of buying one tire, I would be buying four tires.   

The older gentleman – who really was the nicest guy – pointed out the load limit on the bias tires already on the trailer – All four together, they were rated at about 8,000 pounds.  The problem was the trailer weighs 2,000 pounds, and I had 7,000 pounds of beef on the trailer.  Now I understood why I was blowing tires. 

I bought four new tires.  The older gentleman had to jack up the trailer and work with eleven heifers who thought they had entered “The Twilight Zone” mooing their opinion of his work. After an hour, I was back on the road with tires strong enough to carry the load. 

I know I load up my life with more than I can carry.  I jam-pack my schedule, I put unrealistic expectations on myself, and when life throws its little surprises, parts of my soul start to shred.  I bet you know people just like me.  You might even be just like me.  That is why Jesus’ words mean so much to me: “Come to me all you who are weary and heavy laden, and I will give you rest.  Take my yoke upon you and learn from me, for I am gentle and humble in heart, and you will find rest for your souls.  For my yoke is easy and my burden is light.” 

I do not know all that Jesus meant when he said this, but I am pretty sure he at least meant he can handle your load if you give it to him.

It All Smells the Same…

I traveled last week to Oklahoma City for a conference.  Accompanying me were three other team members.  We had about four hours before the first scheduled event.  As we traveled to get the rental car, I told them, “Now look what there is to see in Oklahoma City, or you will wind up seeing what I want to see.”  To my surprise, no one pulled out their phone and began looking for interesting places in Oklahoma City. 

We got in the rental minivan, and I said again, “What do you want to see in Oklahoma City?”  There was a pause in their conversation, and then they continued discussing an unrelated subject.  I pulled onto the Interstate to Downtown and said yet again, “Have you decided what you want to see in Oklahoma City?”  This time I was greeted with, “Whatever you want to see is fine.”  I tried to warn them, “What I want to see in Oklahoma City is probably not what you want to see.”  My team said they trusted me to lead them to interesting sites in Oklahoma City. 

They were a little surprised when I headed for Stockyard City, a neighborhood where the Oklahoma City Stockyards is located.  I knew we were getting close when we passed an eighteen-wheeler pulling a cattle trailer. 

I grew up in the cattle business.  Our family has owned the Buckhorn Ranch for one hundred and sixty-one years.  My Grandfather and my Uncle purchased the Okeechobee Livestock Market and turned it into the largest Livestock Market in Florida.  My cousins, Jeff and Todd, still own the market.  My cousin Kelly, along with my Skipper cousins, are cattle-brokers, buying and grading cattle and shipping them to Western feedlots.  During my seminary days in Louisville, when I got homesick, I would go to the Bourbon Stockyards and watch the cattle sale.  It smelled like home. 

I wanted to see the Oklahoma City Stockyards, the largest livestock market in the world.  They have survived for over a hundred years, right in the middle of town.  We wound up on the backside of the Stockyards, driving the only minivan insight.  Stretching over the pens were elevated catwalks.  I parked and said, “Let’s take a look.” 

I am pretty sure the catwalks were not up to OSHA standards.  They were solid but reached by rickety stairs.  A powerline ran next to the catwalk, so close you could touch it.  Stretching out as far as you could see were cow pens, full of – you guessed it – cattle.  About half a mile away was a large brick building, the auction house. 

Men were moving and sorting cattle right below us.  I explained to my team members what they were doing when a cow got by one of the men.  He began to use four-letter words that my team members may not have heard before, but I heard them many times; in fact, I myself use them on occasion.  My Uncle Tiny, a country Baptist preacher, said God made certain four-letter words so cattle could understand you. 

The stockyards smelled like… stockyards. Cows tend to have loose bowels when they are nervous, and believe me, cows get nervous in a stockyard.  There was about eight thousand head of cattle in the pens, give or take a few hundred.  Believe me when I say there was a lot of nervous material left on the ground.  Underneath all this material was brick.  More than once, we saw a cow slip on the muck and fall.  It is hard to get much traction. A front-end-loader went by, hauling out a load of the accumulated material. 

I could have stayed there all day; I was in my element, I was among my people, I was smelling the smells of home.  But it was suggested to me there might be other interesting things to see in Oklahoma City.  Before I left, I took a picture of the Stockyards and sent it to my brother and my cousins Kelly, Todd, and Jeff.   

Kelly sent me back a picture of his wife Elizabeth, standing on the same catwalk.  They had visited a few years earlier.  I told Kelly he really knew how to impress a woman.  He replied she would have rather been shopping.  My cousins Jeff and Todd have made that trip too.  Jeff texted me back, “Big place! But smells the same as it does everywhere.” 

I thought about that.  Processed cow digestive material smells the same in Florida, South Carolina, Kentucky, Oklahoma, and just about everywhere.  Processed grass is processed grass. 

I thought about sin.  It is so easy to look at my sin and think “It’s not so bad.  I’m not hurting anyone.  I’m not as bad as that guy in the news.”  But the truth is, sin is sin.  It smells the same.  When it gets processed through our souls, we wind up standing in it.  Sin makes it hard to get traction in life.  Sin accumulates over time. When we attack sin ourselves, we would be like one man in the Stockyards with a shovel trying to clean it out while more is being made every day. 

I think my life is like the stockyards.  I have accumulated a lot of sin in my life.  It limits me.  But the good news is I have a Savior who cleans out my sin, who cleans me up, and who sets me on a different path.    

Have you done a smell test of your soul lately?  Maybe you need to turn over your life to the Savior who will clean you up.

Why There Must Be Justice; Thank God for Mercy…

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Resilience…

“When life knocks you down (and it will), and you get back up, that’s resilience” – Marcus Buckingham. 

I grew up around resilient people, shaped by the Great Depression.  They did what needed to be done.  My Aunt Ouida, as a high school student, would go down to the barn, shoot a steer, dress it out, layout the pieces on the back seat of a Model A Ford, drive to town, and trade the meat for flour and sugar.  That is resilience. 

COVID has been a stress test of resilience, a tough time for everyone.  It has brought out the best in some people, the worst in others.  Some people have chosen to see themselves as the victim; others have used this time as an opportunity.  What do resilient people do that is different than other people?   

Resilient people are curious.  They ask, “What can I learn from this crisis?”  You may not think of curiosity as an emotion, but it is.  Sometimes it is called “wonder.”  We have heard Einstein’s supposed definition of insanity: “Doing the same thing over and over and expecting different results.”  Resilient people learn from failure and do something different. 

Resilient people have passion.  Passion is an internal compass that points you to true truth.  Some people call it drive.  Larry Bird, the great NBA start of previous generation, was famous for staying after practice to work on his shots.  He made perimeter shots look easy.  Resilient people hang in a little longer, give a little more effort, and do one more thing.  I asked a Mom of three preschoolers how she did it, and she said, “I am driven to be present for my kids.  I want them to know they are cherished and loved, and that starts before they can remember.” 

Resilient people know their purpose.  “Purpose” is a word describing an emotion that has no English word.  Men will talk about being “tough” or having “guts.”  Old English expressed it like this: “The King purposed to send troops into battle.”  Purpose means you know your unique contribution to the world, and you sell out to it.  Strangely, when you meet someone with a strong sense of purpose, they seem a little nutty or abnormal.  It could be they are the normal ones, and the rest of us are abnormal because we are not living out our purpose. 

Resilient people live in hope.  Hope is stronger fear.  Need proof?  Every second child born to a couple is a testimony to hope.  Fear of birth pain is overwhelmed by hope.  If you live in hope, you will still have days of discouragement; however, you will not let failure define you.  You hold onto a future better than your present.   

In 1945, the USS Indianapolis was sunk by a Japanese submarine after a secret mission.  Nine hundred men survived the sinking; only 316 survived a four-day ordeal of exposure and shark attacks.  When the survivors were debriefed about their traumatic experience, they told of men who would deliberately detach from the circles of men treading water and swim off by themselves.  These outliers would quickly drown or be consumed by sharks.  When asked why men did this, one survivor remarked, “They were the ones with no future ahead.”  They had no hope. 

You can choose to be resilient.  You can be curious.  You can live out your passion.  You can embrace your purpose.  You can live in hope. 

Resilience is a spiritual process.  The Apostle Paul spoke of being beaten, stoned, shipwrecked, and beaten for the cause of Jesus.  He wrote, “We are hard-pressed on every side, but not crushed; perplexed, but not in despair; persecuted, but not abandoned; struck down, but not destroyed. We always carry around in our body the death of Jesus, so that the life of Jesus may also be revealed in our body (2 Corinthians 4:8-10).”  I would say Paul was a pretty resilient guy.  How did he do it? 

Paul always remembered he was a forgiven man – that is what it means to carry around the body the death of Jesus.  Whatever mistakes he made, whatever failures he faced, he knew the grace power of Jesus was greater.  The resurrected life of Jesus was able to shine through Paul because Jesus's resurrection means nothing ultimately defeats the one who follows Jesus.     

Resurrection is ultimate resiliency.  As one of my mentors said, “Followers of Jesus are Easter People.  We live in hope.”

Major Scandal …

There is a Major Scandal in Washington.  In that dog-eat-dog town, the President’s dog, named Major, has bitten not one but two people in the White House.  He bit a Secret Service Agent.  He nipped at a Park Service employee. 

The Biden’s have two German Shepherds: Champ, who they adopted as a puppy when Joe Biden was elected Vice-President; and Major, who was fostered out of a home where he had been exposed to toxic material.  The family could not afford the Vet bills, so they put him up for adoption.  The Biden’s took Major in, then adopted him, making him the first shelter/foster dog in the White House. 

I have a soft spot for German Shepherds.  When I was a toddler, we had a German Shepherd named Mo.  Mo was my companion for adventure.  About age two, I wandered off with Mo.  Apparently, I got tired and laid down under an orange tree.  When they found me after several hours of searching, Mo was curled up around me, standing guard. 

The county rest home, called Resthaven, was half a mile up the road from our place, and the residents would occasionally try to escape.  Once again, I wandered off and found an old man who had escaped from Resthaven.  He was lost and was trying to get through one of our barbwire fences.  He was tangled up and cussing up a storm.  When they found me (and him), Mo was sitting beside me, and I was sitting crisscross, entranced by this old man.  We learned new words that day.  

Mo was run over by a car, and we got another German Shepherd.  This one did not stay long.  My Uncle Dow came by the house, and the dog attacked him.  It ripped his shirt off and tore his back up.  I can still see the blood running down Uncle Dow’s back.  I am not sure what happened to that dog, but he was gone by the end of the week. 

I can understand why a President wants a dog.  There is a saying in Washington: “If you want a friend, get a dog.”  Every President, except James Polk and Donald Trump, had dogs in the White House.  I suppose every President needs someone who loves him, even when he messes up, even when the First Lady is mad at him.  After the Monica Lewinsky affair became public, Hillary Clinton wrote their dog “Buddy” was the only member willing to hang out with Bill.  I know men who were not President who had the same experience after they cheated on their wives. 

The White House is not the easiest place to live.  Harry Truman referred to it as “The Great White Jail.”  People are coming and going all the time.  Some are there to protect; some are there to serve,and others are there to govern.  If you are a dog, it is very confusing. 

The dog behavioral experts say the problem is not with Major but with the environment.  Major, they say, has had trauma in his life and reacts badly to the unfamiliar.  I know some people like that.  Major was packed off to Delaware after the first bite to undergo further obedience training.  The experts agree this was a bad move.  The key, they say, is to make the White House a less stressful place and for the Biden’s to participate in his training.  I am not sure that is realistic.  Can you imagine the President saying to the Kim Jong-un of North Korea, “Sorry, I need to get off the phone.  My dog needs my attention.”  Kim Jong-un might take offense and launch a missile. 

Maybe having a biting dog in the White House is a good thing.  I bet more than one President wishes he had a dog he could sic on a political opponent.  They say you can train a dog to tell when someone is lying.  If that is so, I would support an effort to deploy that dog in Washington, New York, and several Baptist churches I know. 

Fun fact: Dogs are mentioned forty-one times in the Bible.  Granted, they are usually not mentioned in a positive light.  In the ancient world, dogs were scavengers, not warm, cuddly puppies.  However, cats are not mentioned in the Bible at all.  Not once.  Draw your own conclusions. 

One mention in the Bible of a dog is in Proverbs 26:17 – “Like one who grabs a stray dog by the ears is someone who rushes into a quarrel not their own.”  Here is what I know about grabbing a stray dog by the ears: Don’t.  This verse might be the guidance needed in Washington: stay out of quarrels that are not yours.  It might just be good advice for you, too.   

Maybe Major needs to wear a sign around his neck that simply says: “If you know what is good for you, do not pull my ears.”

The Centurion…

He took off his helmet and set it on the stone pavement.  Then he unbuckled his breastplate and let it fall onto the stone floor.  Sitting on his cot, he unbuckled his sandals and rubbed his tired feet.  He could feel the fatigue of a long, strange day.   

He was a centurion, a Roman soldier in charge of a hundred men – theoretically.  In truth, his command occasionally shrank to less than fifty; a new influx of recruits might bring the total up to eighty.   

The centurion had seen his share of blood.  He enlisted in Caesar’s army at thirteen, fought the Barbarians at border outposts, stood guard over a government treasury in Philippi, and finally rose to be an independent commander.  Master of the whip, he knew how to rip the flesh off a man’s back, leaving him in agony but short of death.   It took a hard soul to persevere in hand-to-hand combat; a calloused soul was needed to crucify a man. 

The day started with word that a quick trial was going to take place at Pilate’s palace.  He sent some of his men there to guard the prisoner and went about organizing the rest of his troops for the missions of the day.  A messenger arrived from Pilate: he was sending over the prisoner for a whipping.  There were clear instructions: do not kill him, just bloody him up.  The centurion thought this over. Usually, he would let one of his squad leaders handle this, but he had just sent out his best man on another assignment.  No one on the guard detail was skilled enough yet to know just how much to beat a prisoner and leave him alive.  He would have to do this job himself. 

They brought the prisoner into the courtyard, and the centurion recognized him.  He was the man they called Jesus, the one who nearly created a riot the Sunday before.  Some of the Jews were spouting their usual non-sense about this Jesus being a Messiah, the one to deliver Israel.  “Not a chance while I am on duty,” thought the centurion. 

He gave the instructions to bend Jesus over a high-rounded piece of wood.  A rope was passed over the man and under the wood to hold him fast.  The centurion lifted the whip from a nail driven in the stone, unfurled it, and sent out the first lash.  The bits of pottery and stone weaved into the leather dug into the flesh.  The centurion pulled back on the wooden handle, and chunks of the man’s back flew across the courtyard.  The blood began to flow.  One of the new soldiers, a boy of fourteen, turned green.  He turned aside to throw up; but resumed his tough demeanor when his comrades made fun of him.  Thirty-nine times the lash struck Jesus’ back.  He screamed like any man would, but there was something different about him.  The centurion could not put his finger on it, but no matter.  Jesus was one more Jew who needed some sense beat into him. 

The soldiers untied Jesus.  Then the young soldier, the one who had thrown up, came out of the barracks with a purple cloak and thorny vine he was weaving into a crown.  The centurion saw the men put the crown and the cloak on Jesus and hit him.  Soldiers have to have their fun. 

They sent Jesus back over to Pilate, and the centurion thought that would be that.  He could hear a crowd shouting in the direction of the palace, but he could not make out what they were saying.  A messenger came back with instructions from Pilate: Release Barabbas (a notorious rebel), get the two other condemned men, come to the palace, and get Jesus, crucify Jesus and the other two, and make sure they are dead before sundown.   

The orders made no sense.  Whoever this Jesus guy was, he was no threat to the Empire.  Barabbas was trouble; he was the one they should be crucifying.  But a soldier learns not to question orders, not even from politicians.  Just carry them out.  And the centurion knew he would have to supervise this crucifixion.  All his squad leaders were out on assignments. 

He instructed his men, took charge of the detail, and went out to get Jesus.  He was weakened by the beating, no question.  The centurion was not sure he would even make it to Skull Hill, where the crucifixions were done.  He picked a man out of the crowd, a foreigner in town for the big Jewish feast, and made him carry the heavy crossbeam. 

When they got to Skull Hill, he issued the necessary orders and watched his men move swiftly to stretch the men out.  The two from the dungeon struggled; they all do.  But not Jesus.  The centurion could not tell if this was from his weakened state or that same thing that made him uneasy during the beating. 

The soldiers divided up the clothes and gambled for them.  It was how the young soldiers passed the time.  As the centurion, he could, of course, claim the best pieces for himself, but it was good to let young ones get their fair share. 

Jesus said things he had never heard from a man on the cross: “Father forgive them, they do not know what they are doing.”  What did this mean?  The two rebels on either side argued, then Jesus said to one, “Today you will be with me in paradise.”   

It got dark about noon, an eerie silent dark, unnatural.  He had to stay at his post.  There were more words from Jesus.  He spoke to his mother who was crying, to a young man, giving her into his care.  Then in rapid succession: “My God, My God, why have you forsaken me;” “I thirst (one of the detail offered him vinegar as a joke); “It is finished;” then, “Father, into your hands I commend my Spirit.” 

The ground shook; an earthquake.  The centurion was not a religious man, but he was superstitious.  The earthquake and the darkness seemed like a sign the gods were angry.  He wanted to tell Zeus he had nothing to do with this.  He looked and saw Jesus breathe his last breath, and his sigh seemed to cover all the darkness.  Words he never thought before came out of his mouth: “This man was a Son of God.” The centurion felt the moment was almost holy, strange like a portal had opened to another world. 

They had to break the legs of the other men; they died quickly.  The detail carried the men off to graves.  Jesus went into a new tomb, provided by a friend.  They worked quickly.  The Jews were so touched about their work after sundown on the Sabbath. 

Now, alone in his room, the centurion could not make sense of all he saw, all he felt.  What had made him cry a confession – a confession of faith?  Something in his heart leaned in the direction of this man Jesus.

Sleep would not come.  He heard the snores of the soldiers in the barracks next door.  His soul was wide awake.  What if Jesus was a son of God?  The centurion knew what that meant.  If you killed the son of a God, it meant you would hear from that God.  How long before he would find what the Father of this Jesus would do? 

On Sunday, he found out.

Shoot the Cow…

I went back home to help work cows.  The cows needed worming, a few old cows and infertile bulls needed to be sold, and we needed to turn some bull calves into steers (please do not ask me to explain that process to you).   

Our cow pens are built near a pond, which has a boggy spot of mud.  One old cow got into the mud and sank up to her belly.  You have heard of quicksand; on the ranch, we have quickmud.  We carefully went over to her and twisted up her tail.  Normally, that will move a cow; nobody likes to have their tale twisted.  She stayed stuck.  She tried to get up but did not have strength.   

Now we faced a dilemma.  We could put a rope around her neck and try to pull her out.  The force required to get her out of the mud, however, would probably cut off her windpipe, and she would suffocate.  Or she might choke to death.  Or pulling her out might break her neck.  Being old, she was weakened by her ordeal.  We doubted if we got her out, if she could even stand.  There is no use trying to sell a cow that will not stand.  Nobody wants to buy that kind of cow. 

The easiest thing to do was nothing.  We could leave her there to starve and die of thirst, with water thirty feet away.  If we left her, the buzzards would come and nibble her to death.  It would be an agonizing way to die.  Nature is cruel.   

What do you do when there are no good choices?  My brother Steve went back to his truck and got his pistol.  He came up beside the cow, pointed the gun at the back of her brain, and squeezed the trigger.  She died instantly.  We hooked a chain around her and drug her off. 

That is not a pleasant story.  If you are an animal lover, you might be upset.  But this was not the first downed cow we had dealt with, and we knew the outcome.  Even if we had called the vet, there was really nothing that could be done. 

I think about other situations when there is no good outcome possible.  At the onset of World War II, the United States faced a situation with no good outcome.  We could be pacifists and let Hitler and his evil schemes go unchecked or we could fight a war.  The Japanese made the choice for us. 

I think about the woman who is being abused by her husband.   She has two small children.  To leave him means she will lose security.  To stay means she may lose her life.   

I think about the man who finds out his company is falsifying documents.  If he reports it, he knows he will lose his job.  If he goes along, he becomes part of the conspiracy.   

I think about the pastor who knows the message God has for his congregation.  If he preaches it, he will lose his job.  If he does not, he compromises his soul. 

I think about the teenager who is being pressured by her boyfriend for sex.  If she refuses, she loses someone she thinks she loves.  If she has sex, she loses her self-respect. 

Every day, people face situations where there is no easy choice, no good choice to be found.  Shooting a cow to end her misery was not a good choice, but it was the right choice.  When you find yourself in that situation, seek to do the right thing.  The choice may still be unpleasant, but knowing you did the right thing gives you a strength that can never be found by doing the easy thing. 

I think about Jesus.  If he refuses to go to the cross and die, he fails to complete his mission.  If he goes to the cross and dies, he will bear the weight of the sins of the world.  Jesus, who had never sinned (amazing), would feel the guilt, the pain, the weight, the fracturing of every sin ever committed.  He faced the ultimate situation without a good choice. 

I think this is why Jesus in the garden of Gethsemane prayed, “Father, let this cup pass from me.  Nevertheless, not my will, but your will be done.”  Facing the situation with no good outcomes, he chose the hard path before him.  He did the ultimate right thing.  He chose the will of his Heavenly Father. 

Shooting the cow was not pretty, but it was the right thing to do.  Jesus dying on the cross was not pretty, but it was the right thing to do.  Doing the will of your Heavenly Father, even when it is not easy, will always be the right thing to do.

Your Pastor Would Like You To Know…

I am a pastor. I have 37 years of active service. I talk to pastors. Trust me when I say there are some things a pastor wants you to know. Even if you are not part of a church, the pastor of the church you do not belong to wants you to know some realities he deals with every day. To help out my brothers (and sisters – I know there are women pastors too), I thought I would offer you insights pastors would like to share with you: 

Your pastor would like to you know he is a real person. Being ordained and going to seminary did not change him into a saint. He is on a journey just like you. He fights with his spouse (usually on Saturday night), makes mistakes as a parent, and has worries about money. If you expect your pastor to be perfect, you will be disappointed. Your pastor would really like you to give him the same grace and understanding he offers you. 

Your pastor would like you to know he really works hard at preaching and teaching. Imagine writing a term paper every week. That is what your pastor faces. Sunday comes every seven days, and people expect to hear something fresh from God. So he studies. He prays. Preaching is hard work. A good sermon is like a recipe you make each week: it must contain truth, humor, an engaging story or two, and be convicting and uplifting. If you think it is so easy, try it. Not once, but for three months. Throw in doing a couple of funerals and weddings on top of the regular load, and you get a feeling for the challenge. 

Your pastor would like you to know that he notices when you sleep through his sermons. He is not fooled by your comment at the door, “Nice sermon today, preacher.” 

Your pastor wants you to know he has heard the tired old joke about working only one hour a week. He would also like you to know that he was called out at 2 AM to a family who just found pot in their thirteen-year-old’s sock drawer. He averages two or three meetings a week, usually in the evening when he wishes he could be at his kid’s soccer game. His day off gets interrupted about twice a month with a funeral or a crisis.  He spends a lot of time on the phone; some calls are important while others are from people who need to feel important. Every night when he goes to bed, he knows there was more he should have done that day for Jesus. 

Your pastor would like you to know that he went into ministry because he was called. He wanted to help people. He wanted people to find Jesus and follow him. No one told him he would also be an administrator, a counselor, a theologian, a prophet, a companion for life’s toughest journeys, and a motivator. Most weeks something will be thrown at him he never prepared for, like the guy who walks in and needs to talk to the pastor. He confesses he asked his girlfriend to do some inappropriate stuff, and she did, and now he feels betrayed. Your pastor’s “Pastoral Care in Human Crisis” class never covered this particular situation. Nor did seminary prepare him to know the right debt to asset ratio for the building project the church needs. In an age of specialization, the local church pastor is the last of the generalists. 

Your pastor would like you to know it is tough to keep your own journey with Jesus separate from working for Jesus. It is part of ministry no one talks about. Daily Bible reading can turn into sermon research. Praying for yourself and your family can be washed away by the tidal waves of prayer requests to pray for Aunt Suzie’s broken toe. He needs time to listen to God; it is hard to listen when you are supposed to on-call 24/7.

Your pastor would like you to know he is underpaid. Kids, six years out of college, are making more than he is. A hundred years ago, the pastor was often the highest-paid professional in town.  Not anymore. Most churches live by the motto: “The pastor will keep us spiritually fed; we will keep him humble.” Maybe one church in 50 bothers to look at clergy compensation studies to find clergy pay trends. Your pastor is definitely not in it for the money, but he still needs a car to drive, and his kids need clothes. He would really like it if someone advocated for him to get a raise. 

Your pastor would like you to know he is tired. He knows you are, too, so he feels guilty saying anything. COVID has worn everyone out, but it has been a double strain on the clergy. He had to completely retool how he does his job. The world changed, and he is trying to keep up. His two weeks of vacation are not enough. You can take a weekend off and get out of town.  He can’t.  

Your pastor would like you to know criticism, even if it is justified, hurts. The words the pastor hates to hear more than any other are: “Some people have come to me, and they want you to know…”. Your pastor really wishes if you have something to say about him that you would say it to him.   

Most of all, your pastor would like you to know he needs your prayers. He needs you to pray for him to have strength and wisdom. He could use an encouraging word from you. Being a shepherd of God’s flock is a high and holy calling. Sometimes it helps to have a holy cheer from those he leads. 

Harry, Meghan, and the Royal Family…

I would hate to be born a royal (not that it was an option).  Your choices are limited; your life is under a microscope.  People cheer when you rebel against the “system” and then condemn you when you cross the line.  If you are in the line of succession, you do not get to pick a career; it is picked for you.   

The headlines of late are about the strained relationship between Prince Harry, his wife, Meghan, and the Royal Family.  All their troubles are not new to me. 

Meghan married into a challenging family.  She knew that, but no one knows how challenging a family will be until they are in it.  I have done pre-marital counseling for couples that are trying to blend families.  They anticipate no problems with his, hers, and our kids.  Usually, about six months later, the couple is back in my office telling me one of the kids is having a hard time adjusting.  Making a family is difficult.  Imagine doing it in the spotlight.

People apparently said stupid things to Meghan and Harry, including a remark wondering about their baby’s skin color.  That kind of remark is out of line, but no surprise to anyone who ever had to deal with an aunt who has the sensitivity of a brick, or an uncle who had tipped a little too much wine at Thanksgiving.  Pat Conroy had a great line in South of Broad: “Family is a contact sport.”  You often must decide the price tag of maintaining a relationship and ask yourself, “Is it worth it?” 

Prince Harry was estranged for a period of time from his dad, Prince Charles.  Moving halfway around the world will do that.  It is said Prince Charles was not taking calls from Harry.  If I had a nickel for every time a parent or a child told me, “I haven’t heard from my (dad, mom, son, daughter) in years,” I could retire to a very large cattle ranch.  On the positive side, apparently, Prince Charles is talking to his son now.  That is good.  No relationship problem can be solved by lack of communication. 

Meghan said she felt suicidal during her pregnancy.   I hope someone told her that is not unusual.  Since I have never been pregnant, I can only rely on what women have told me.  Hormones are going crazy; a human life is growing inside of you, your body is not your own.  Frankly, I think every pregnant woman should be treated like royalty, and her feet should be rubbed every night. 

Prince Harry felt like he had to choose between his wife and his family.  Every husband will face that choice.  Your first loyalty is to your spouse.  My Mama told us when she and Daddy married, she would have left him a hundred times the first year if she thought her mother would take her back in.  It was only years later that Granny confessed she would have taken Mama back, but she thought Mama needed to know what “for better or worse” really meant.  I tell couples before I marry them that I cannot predict the future, but I can guarantee “for worse” will come. 

Harry and Meghan have stepped out from the protective umbrella of the Royal Family.  They are making their own way in Hollywood, albeit in a $14 million mansion. My parents were very clear: “The day you get married is the day you are on your own.”  I remember how excited I was to be called as pastor of Finchville Baptist Church in Finchville, KY.  I was excited to serve God’s people, but I was more excited because I had a paycheck, and the church furnished a house.  That meant I could propose to Gina.  Being on your own, away from family, is a good way to start a marriage.  You must figure out things on your own. 

I find myself wishing Harry and Meghan had not done the Oprah interview.  I have learned the more people you involve in your relationship, the more complicated it becomes.  Harry and Meghan invited 17 million viewers into their relationship.  That just does not sound healthy to me.  I am not familiar with royal protocol, but I think it would have been healthier for all involved if Harry and Meghan had called up Charles and said, “Can we sit down and talk?” 

I get that Harry and Meghan are going through a hard time.  It sounds like the Royal Family is too.  Most families I know have had a hard time over the last twelve months.  I think that is why Jesus told us the story of two builders.  You remember the story:  One man built his house on the sand, and when the storm came, it was washed away.  The other man built his house on the rock.  It was a lot harder, but when the storm came (and it always does), his house stood.   

Even if you are royal, sand is sand, and rock is rock.  It all comes down to a simple question: Where are you building your house?

Which Man Do You Want to Be?

I’ve known some great givers in my life.  I can’t tell about some of them because they are still living.  They would be embarrassed if I called them by name.  God blessed them, and they blessed others by their generosity.   But I would like to tell you about a great giver and a man who could have been a great giver.

My stepfather, Lawrence, was a great giver.  Lawrence came into my life when I was eight.   He married my mother, who had been widowed.  I knew Lawrence was generous when he bought me milkshakes that my mother wouldn’t allow me to have, mostly because she couldn’t afford them. 

I remember every Sunday Lawrence writing out a tithe check.  This was a step of faith because we only got about 8 checks a year from selling oranges and cattle.  Yet, Lawrence trusted that God would provide.  In our home church, when the preacher needed a new car, Lawrence would talk to a couple of other church members, they would come up with the money, and the preacher would get a new car.  The preacher also got a side of beef and a new suit every year for Christmas. 

But Lawrence was not generous with just money.  When our cousin Willard was done picking watermelons from his field (usually about 200 acres – which is a big field!), Lawrence would take me in the truck and say, “I hate to see those watermelons go to waste.  Let’s go get a couple.”  A “couple of watermelons” would turn into 77 piled on the back of a Ford pick-up.  We would stop at every widow’s house in our community of Lemon Grove and drop off four or five melons. 

Lawrence would see young ladies come to church dressed in old clothes, and he would arrange for them to shop at the Red Apple.  The girls never knew where their new clothes came from.  Lawrence saw needs, and he wanted to meet them because he knew God had blessed him.  He was like a mainline pipe that brought resources to other pipes so God’s work could be done.

I knew another man who could have been a great giver.  His genius was making money.  He started with next to nothing and built a business empire.  But there was still an emptiness in his life that his wealth couldn’t fill. 

God had begun to work in his life, and he had returned to the faith of his childhood.  He made the decision to join our church and then offered to take me to lunch.   Over lunch, he asked me about tithing.  I explained it the best I could.  Tithing, I told him, was giving 10% of your income to God.  Doing this simple spiritual discipline showed you put God first in all areas.  You were using what he had given to you to bless others.

Knowing his wealth, I told him that God had probably blessed him with all his resources so he could begin to know the joy of giving.  There were people whose lives would be forever changed by his generosity.  He looked uncomfortable and changed the subject.

A few months later, the rich old man suffered a stroke and passed away.  When he died, he had given nothing to God’s church, to the work of Jesus.  Whenever I think about that man, it breaks my heart.  He died with his fortune intact and his gift of giving unused.  Sometimes when I am at the cemetery doing a funeral, I walk past his grave.  “What a waste,” I think.  He could have done so much for so many. 

Which man do you want to be?

Charlie Shedd’s 7 Rules for a Good, Clean Fight

1. Before we begin we must both agree that the time is right.

2. We will remember that our only aim is deeper understanding.

3. We will check our weapons often to be sure they’re not deadly.

4. We will lower our voices one notch instead of raising them two.

5. We will never quarrel or reveal private matters in public.

6. We will discuss an armistice whenever either of us calls “halt.”

7. When we have come to terms, we will put it away till we both agree it needs more discussing.

Questions from the Kids…

They asked me to meet with the kids at church and answer their questions.  No problem.  I figure with a college degree and two graduate degrees; I can handle what the kids throw at me.  Can anyone see the humble train coming down the track for me?  

Question:  Why are there bad people?

Answer: “All of you kids are bad people.”  Their little faces were shocked when I said this.  One little boy instantly protested, “I’m not bad, except when I lie.”  And there it is.  I told them all of us are bad, myself included.  Being bad is called “sin” and it is such a big deal, Christians believe God sent Jesus to die in our place so we could be forgiven.  I am sure I will get some protests from parents about their sweet darlings, but I guarantee by the time their children hit age 12, every Mom and Dad believes in original sin. 

Question:  Who is God’s Father?

Answer:  I was so tempted to reply Vito Corleone, but I realized most of them never saw “The Godfather.”  I tried to explain God does not have a father because God always has been and always will be.  He has no beginning.  If you think about it, it makes sense: it would take an infinite being to create a finite creation.  One little girl held her head and said, “Whoa.”  I know.  Realizing how infinite God is will make your head hurt.   

Question:  How old is God?

Answer:  See above.   

Question:  Why does God make me have nightmares?

Answer:  God does not make you have nightmares.  I told them nightmares happen because we are afraid, and at night, our brains bring up our fears.  “Give your fear to God,” I said.  “Every night when you go to sleep, ask God to hold your fears until you wake up.”  As I heard myself say those words, I thought I should take my own advice. 

Question: Is Jesus more powerful than The Avengers?

Answer:  I know you see movies and video games and they seem real, but they are not.  They are pretend.  Jesus is real.  So yes, Jesus is more powerful than The Avengers. 

Question:  Is Jesus an angel?

Answer:  No.  Jesus is the son of God.  A lot of adults misunderstand this too.  Angels are messengers.  Jesus is Savior, King, Leader, Maker of Heaven and Earth.  Jesus is better than an angel. 

Question:  What did you want to be when you were a kid?

Answer:  I wanted to be a pastor.  I know, this makes me strange.  From the time I was a little boy, I wanted to pastor a church.  God put into my soul at a very young age a calling.  I am one of those blessed people is doing exactly what I was made to do. 

Question:  What happens when you die?

Answer:  You meet God.  If you follow Jesus on earth, you get to be with Jesus after you die.  But God does not make you be with him.  If you want to be away from him, he lets you.  You go to hell (Lots of wide-eyed reactions).  I try another to give a word picture: “If God made you be with him, that would not be fair, would it?  God gives you a choice to be his friend or not.”  Head nods.  I think I get through. 

Question:  Why did God make people who do not have arms or legs?

Answer: “Well, I see our time is about up.”  For little people, these are serious questions.  I tell them the world is broken, so it is not the way God wants it to be.  Jesus came to make the world better, but everything is not put right yet.  That is why people are born without arms and legs.  But I go on to tell them some people do not have arms and legs because of war.  War is bad.  We need to love people, so no one has to lose their arms and legs.  Nods from the crowd.  Funny how kids get this, even when politicians do not. 

Question:  Do you have children?  Were they ever little?

Answer:  Yes, I have three children.  They are all now adults, but they all grew up in this church and had classes in this very room.  They learned to love Jesus and I hope all of you learn to love Jesus too. 

And the best question of the day:

Question: Why does God make me hurt when I poop?

Answer:  I do not think God makes you hurt when you poop, but you might need to change your diet.  Talk to your Mom.   

Prejudice…

I pumped gas into my truck, hung up the nozzle, and climbed back in.  Before I could shut the door, a young African American male came up and asked me how I was.  It was a little strange; people wave and nod at the gas station, but do not make conversation.  He asked me about my dog, what breed he was, and how old he was.  Then the young man saw the empty feed bags in the back of my truck, and he assumed I was a farmer (well, sort of).  He told me about his grandmother’s farm, how he loved to go there, and about her dogs.  All this was interesting, but I had somewhere to be in 25 minutes and I had to go home and change clothes. 

Then he hit me up.  He was a painter, he said.  He had come to my town to work for a man, and that man did not pay him.  He had no money and was living on the street.  Did I have any money to help him?  Even a dollar or two, he said, would help him get a place for the night.  He would even work for the money. 

If you do what I do, for as long as I have done it, you have heard lots of requests for help.  I have had people show up at my house at one in the morning, telling me they have run out of gas.  Sometimes, they have.  Sometimes, they ask for gas money with their car running in my driveway.  People asked me for money for food.  I offered to take them to a restaurant and get them a meal.  They turned me down.  In reality, they were thirsty and needed a drink.  Everyone, I suppose, has a tale of meeting someone who needs help, and they were taken advantage of. 

I know we must be wise about helping people.  Still, Jesus told his followers to help the poor and needy.  My job is not to qualify people for help; my job is do what I can.   

After the young man asked for money, there was a pregnant pause.  No matter how many times you have done it, it takes courage to ask for help.  I knew down in my wallet a $20 bill was nesting among the $1 bills.  I dug out my wallet, sorted through the bills, found the $20, and gave it to him.  He told me how much he appreciated it, how much it meant to him.  Then he walked off. 

I cranked my truck and began to drive off.  I needed to make a call, so I reached for my phone.  It was not in the cupholder. Checked my pockets.  Not there.  I checked again.  Still no phone. 

Then this thought came to me, unbidden, from some dark corner of my soul: “The black guy took it.”  In a nano-second, I was mad.  “Try to help someone, and this is what happens,” I thought.  I was about to wheel my truck in the direction I saw him headed, when a small voice in my soul said, “Look again.”   

I put my truck in park, got out and saw my phone.  It was wedged between the seat and the console.  I was relieved.  Then I felt ashamed. 

There was no way the young man could have stolen my phone.  His hands were never in my truck.  He never threatened me.  He was as courteous as a person can be when they ask for help.  I had profiled him and assumed he was the perpetrator of a crime.   There was no crime, just carelessness on my part.

I realize now that small voice in my soul telling me to look again belonged to God.  The shame I felt for thinking a man committed a crime when there was no crime was from God too.  Old prejudices from childhood, from growing up in the South, from past hurts took control of how I saw a fellow human being.  I had judged him because of the color of his skin, and because he asked for help. 

In my seminary ethics class, I was taught by the great Henlee Barnette.  He was an early advocate for civil rights, which in his day was a dangerous position for white Baptist seminary professor.  I took his class when he was in his seventies, when he could reasonably point to rightness of his early positions.  But I never forget his humility, when he told our class that he had finally accepted he would harbor prejudice in his soul until he reached heaven.  I remember my shock when he said it.  Here was this champion of civil rights admitting there were times he still struggled.  Dr. Barnette looked at us with his piercing eyes under bushy eyebrows, and said, “But ladies and gentlemen, I must still fight.  I must fight until I can love all men as Jesus loves them.” 

I must fight too, Dr. Barnette.  Sometimes to love like Jesus means you must fight the darkness in your own soul.