Torn…

When my son went to Duke, it was fun to watch their basketball games and see if I could spot him amongst all the Cameron Crazies.  One game, he was in the first row.   Such a strange experience, seeing him yelling as the team went up and down the court.  Because he went to Duke, I started pulling for Duke. 

Then my daughter decided to go to UNC-Chapel Hill.  If you do not know about this rivalry, it is not so great in football, but in basketball, it tops them all.  The schools are ten miles apart.  UNC leads the series, but in modern times (since Coach K), the series is nearly even in wins and losses and points scored.  Duke students camp out for weeks in the dead of winter to get tickets for the North Carolina-Duke game.   

Naturally, my sweet oldest daughter asks, “Daddy, will North Carolina be your new favorite team since I am your favorite child?” I was torn.   

What do you do when you are caught between a rock and a hard place?  First, you look for a compromise.  I told both children I would cheer for the home team when Duke and North Carolina played each other.  That seemed to satisfy everyone.  Until my daughter’s freshman year, when Duke and Carolina met in the ACC Tournament.  Both kids wanted to know, “Who are you going to cheer for, Daddy?”  I proposed that I cheer for one team in the first half and another team in the second half.  This compromise was rejected.  Then I said, “I will pull for the team that is the lowest seed.”  This also was rejected.   

Then it dawned on me: my pulling for one side or the other had no bearing on the outcome of the game.  So I put down my parental foot and declared, “I will pull for whoever wins the game.” 

It is depressing when two of your children roll their eyes at the same time.  My skillful solution simply resulted in both children being mad at me. 

Then my youngest daughter decided to go to Clemson.  This worked out nicely for me.  Clemson basketball has improved, but honestly, Clemson is about football.  Duke is not really relevant in football and North Carolina, while improving, is not a football power.  It was nice not to choose sides. 

But this week, a new dilemma has emerged.  As I have often written, I have been a Florida Gator fan since I knew football had winners and losers.  I have endured the horrible losing seasons and celebrated the National Championship seasons.  Though not an alumni, I proudly proclaim that I am a boy from old Florida. 

I went to Samford University in Birmingham, Alabama, a good Baptist school.  Samford had a football tradition (Bobby Bowden once coached there) but dropped football before I attended.  It had gotten two expensive, they said.  The reality was that the three men who were supporting it with blank checks all died within six months.  After I graduated, Samford started football again, working its way up from Division III to Division I – FCS.

Traditionally, big-time programs like Florida play an FCS school down in the season.  The idea is to play a game not too challenging before playing the big rivalries and conference championship games.  This week, Florida, team of my heart, plays Samford, my alma mater.  I am torn. 

Do I root for Florida, who needs a win to get back on track after losses to South Carolina and Georgia?  Do I root for Samford, the underdog, to pull a major upset, one that will lift the program up to new heights in the Southern Conference? 

The sportswriters are saying no one cares about this game, but they are wrong.  I can’t decide which side to come down on.  I do not bet on games, but I know where I would put my money.  On the other hand, my school could join a handful of FCS schools (like Appalachian State) that defeat the big school with a game forever remembered.

One day the prophet Elijah called the people of God together to confront them about their divided hearts.  “How long will you waver between two gods?” he said.  “If Baal is god, follow him.  If the LORD is God, follow him.”  What followed was a showdown to see who would send fire from heaven.  Baal was silent – because he was not real.  The LORD sent fire. 

People sometimes say to me, “All religions lead to the same place.”  That is not true.  To worship the god of Islam is very different than worshipping the god of Christianity.  Maybe what people are trying to say is they feel torn.  I get that.  But deciding which god you will follow requires a choice: not which religion makes the most sense or feels right, but which god is real?  Think about that carefully.

Meanwhile, I still have to make up my mind about who to pull for on Saturday: Florida or Samford.  I think fire from heaven will be my sign.

Foreigner in the Stands…

Why am I such a devoted fan of the University of Florida?  As Hank Williams sang, “It’s a family tradition.”  We’ve had tickets in the North End Zone since 1962.  My sister, nieces, nephew, and countless cousins are graduates. People ask if I attended Florida.  I did not.  They did not have a Ministerial track, so I went to Samford University. 

As a Gator fan, you get used to the ups and downs.  We have been very good and won National Championships.  We have been very bad and had winless seasons.  Still, at the third quarter break, when the band strikes up “We are the Boys of Old Florida,” I still get goosebumps.  I stand and loyally sing, “In all kinds of weather, we all stick together, for F-L-O-R-I-D-A.” 

Florida State is not Florida’s biggest rival.  Our biggest rival is Georgia.  The game is played in Jacksonville, a neutral site.  The stadium is divided down the middle: half orange and blue, half black and red.  Before every football game was on cable, Florida vs. Georgia, the World’s Largest Outdoor Cocktail Party, was the one Florida game on TV every year. 

In seminary days, two of my closest friends were Bob and William.  Great guys, with one flaw: they both pulled for Georgia.  In the years since seminary, we always touch base around the Florida/Georgia game, mostly so the winners can torment the losers.   

Bob’s son, Lewis, played football for my alma-mater, Samford, and after graduation has gone to the football staff of Georgia.  Bob got in touch with William and I before the season started and asked if we wanted to go the game in Jacksonville; he could get Lewis’ tickets for free (there may have been some discussion about Lewis paying his dad back for twenty-two years of support, but I was not privy to those negotiations). The schedule worked out, and we made plans to all be together for the first time in thirty-two years. 

We had a great time catching up in Jacksonville, eating at a fine steakhouse, and meeting some cousins of mine.  Then it was game time.  As we walked into the stadium, it hit me – I would be sitting in the Georgia section.  I had been to this game before, but I was always sitting with my own kind, with people attired in orange and blue.  “The Red Zone” took on new meaning as we found our seats.  Not only was I sitting in the Georgia section, but I was also sitting with the Georgia players’ families.  Mine was the only Gator blue shirt in sight.   

It was not bad through the pre-game activities.  A couple of Georgia fans kidded me about wearing the wrong kind of shirt.  I think one guy offered to buy me a Georgia shirt, but he slurred his words so bad I was not sure.   

The pain of being a “Foreigner in a Strange Land” hit when the game started.  When Florida made a great play, I was the only one standing to cheer.  Several thousand fans in red would turn and look at me.  I could hear the expressions on their face: “What are you doing over here?  You should be with your own kind.”  Of course, when Georgia made a great play, everyone around me would stand, so I had to stand to see.  I stood most of the game. 

It was not Florida’s year.  Georgia is ranked number one in the nation and has an incredible defense.  In the last three minutes of the first half, the defense forced turnovers, and Georgia scored three quick touchdowns.   

The Georgia fans around me were kind.  With good humor, they razzed me with “How ‘bout them Dawgs!”  Georgia fans are also prone to bark like dogs when their team does something well.   A couple of Georgia fans remarked, “This is not your year.” 

 At the end of the third quarter, the Florida Band struck up, “We are the Boys From Old Florida.”  I stood and looked for someone to join me, but I was all alone.  I swayed by myself and sang the words at the top of my lungs, one lonely Gator blue shirt in a sea of red. 

 The Georgia fan seated next to me (not my friends William and Bob) punched me when I sat down and said, “I admire you.  Got to stay true to your school even if you are getting whipped today.”  It was a very gracious thing for him to say.

 I left shortly after the fourth quarter started. I had to drive two hundred and fifty miles and work the next day (occupational hazard – I work Sundays).  As I left, I had two thoughts.  Jesus said, “I was a stranger, and you took me in…”  I was a stranger in the Georgia stands, and they were very kind.  I thought, “If we can be kind during a football game, why not the rest of life?”

 My second thought was about standing by myself to sing a song dear to my heart.  I thought about the old hymn, “Stand Up, Stand Up, for Jesus.”  To be loyal to your soul, you need to stand for who you believe in, even if you stand alone.

Shocked in Williamsburg…

If you have not been to Colonial Williamsburg, you really should go.  The historical restoration is amazing and you see people doing life as they would have done in Colonial times.  For example, it humbling to see bags of rags at the printers and learn that paper in Colonial times was made from cloth, not wood.  You go to the carpenter’s shop and realize the tedious process of turning a log into lumber.  I was fascinated by the blacksmith shop (my ancestry?).  To see a man pulling at the bellows all day to keep the fire hot, and then swing a hammer with skill to turn out metal, makes you appreciate modern manufacturing.   

I have been to Colonial Williamsburg before, but each trip was a brief excursion.  But I returned recently to visit.  My son and his wife are history nerds; you do not want to play historical trivia against them.  They had given me a trip to Williamsburg for my birthday pre-COVID, and we finally made the trip this fall.  Of course, my amazing grandson was with us.  His favorite part of Williamsburg was petting the horses and rolling in the grass.

 The Colonial Williamsburg Foundation has done a magnificent job recreating a picture of life in colonial times.  Most of the workshops only had natural light; except for a few accommodations to modern necessities, like indoor plumbing, the historical area is as close to original as it can be. 

We toured to the apothecary.  A bright young woman explained to us the uses of various remedies and medicines in colonial times.  After listening to her presentation, I am glad I was born in the era of modern medicine.  We shuffled back and saw the colonial medical instruments, then turned the corner to find our way to the exit. 

I saw a woman in colonial dress standing on her tiptoes, trying to change a light bulb.  This was definitely not a colonial light bulb; rather, it was a concession to the safety of the guests, illuminating a dark corner corridor, before the turn to the sunlight coming through the front windows.  She was muttering under her breath: “It won’t go in.”

It is hard to replace a lightbulb on tiptoes.  Being about eight inches taller than she, I smiled and said, “Let me try.”  She replied, “Oh that would be so nice!”

I took the lightbulb, and started to turn it, but like the woman, I found it was not going in.  I have encountered this problem before.  It meant the socket was rotating as I was turning the lightbulb.  The solution was simple: cupping the light bulb in the palm of my hand, I reached up with three fingers to hold the socket.  I began to turn the bulb with the palm of my hand while holding the socket in place. 

I made one full turn, when I hit the bare wire.  I could feel the current shoot down my right arm and down my right side.  As I have shared before, it is amazing what goes through mind in a micro-second.  My first thought – and I am no making this up – was “I did not think Colonial Williamsburg would have something that would shock you.”  My second thought was “Let go!”  My third thought was to yell, “Aurgghhhh!”   

It was my third thought that attracted the most attention.  My wife quickly asked, “Are you alright?”  I assured her I was.  The Colonial Lady asked, “What happened?”  I explained I was shocked by a bare wire in the fixture and an electrician should replace the fixture.  My son and daughter-in-law expressed concern and I assured them I was fine.  This was not the first time I had been shocked, just the latest.  Any farmer with electric fence gets shocked regularly when he forgets and grabs hold of a strand of electric fence stretched across a pasture.

 My grandson seemed to enjoy the moment.  He smiled and I am sure he thought, “PaPa sure is funny.”  I live to entertain.

 I have no lasting effects from my shocking experience in Colonial Williamsburg.  But my experience there made me think about people encountering our living God.  When you get close to God’s power, you feel it.  You experience his presence.  Some people decide they do not want that kind of power in their lives.  They vow never to get close to God again.  A smaller number of people realize this is the power they have needed all their lives.  They come back, because they know without God’s power, they are going to be stuck in a dark corridor. 

I am not suggesting holding onto God is like grabbing a live, bare wire.  I am saying God’s power will either shock you or light up your world.  Your choice.

Smart People…

We were working cows the other day at the Florida ranch.  Greg, who has helped us for years and knows cattle, is running the show.  Someone asked me what my role was.  I replied, “My role is to ask Greg what he thinks we ought to do, listen to what he says, and then say, ‘I think that is what we ought to do too.’”  Greg has a lot more cow sense than I do. 

The next day I met with my cousin Ned and an old friend Jed (have you heard the one about Ned, Jed, and Fred walking into a bar?).  We were going over a fertilizer and spray plan for the orange groves.  Rather than treating all the groves the same, we were going to use a cheaper mix on one block and a more expensive mix on another block.  I listened to Ned and Jed talk back and forth and felt like I was back in Beginning Hebrew.  I had no idea what they were talking about as they discussed different options for attacking problems in the grove.  Finally, they worked out a solution, turned to me, and said, “How does that sound to you, Clay?”  I told them I thought they were on the right track, and that was the direction we should go.  My job at that meeting was to listen to people a lot smarter than me and figure out if we had the money to do what they said.   

I went to the Dermatologist last week.  It was a full-service visit, meaning I had to put on my shorts with no shirt and let her look at the spots on my skin.  I pointed out a couple of places that worried me.  She looked at them and quickly said, “Those are nothing to worry about.”  Then she pointed at three spots on my bald head.  “These look pre-cancerous to me.  I want to freeze them off.  Is that alright?”  Is that alright?  Absolutely.  You went to medical school and did a residency.  You know what to look for.  You are a lot smarter than me.   Stick my head in the freezer and get these things off me. 

Not everyone listens to smart people.  I was visiting with someone in the hospital when the doctor came in.  He outlined what they had found, described his treatment plan, and then asked, “Any questions?”  The patient/parishioner shook his head “no,” the doctor left, and then the patient/parishioner said, “Those doctors, they don’t know what they are talking about.”  I guess the doctor slept through med school.  This scene has played out multiple times. 

I am just as guilty.  My mechanic says, “Your tires are really getting worn.  You need to replace them soon.”  A little voice in my head says, “He just wants to sell me tires.  I bet I can get another five thousand miles out of them.”  A few weeks later, sitting on the side of the highway, changing tires, I cuss myself for not listening to someone smarter than me. 

I admit I get frustrated after I preach when someone comes up to me and says, “I disagree with your sermon.”  My responses are usually, “Thanks for sharing that.  What did you disagree with?”  They tell me, and then I say, “Why do you believe that?”  “I just do,” they reply.  I am not saying I am smart, but I did go to school a long time to learn the Scriptures and teach the best I can. 

There is a verse in the Bible, in the book of Judges, that says, “In those days, there was no King in Israel.  Every man did what was right in his own eyes.”  There is nothing new.  It seems to me that we live in an era when everyone feels like they get to decide what reality is.  People may believe that dog worm medicine cures cancer, but I am pretty sure that is not the case.  People may believe they control their own destiny, but one phone call can change all that.  People may even believe they get to define who God is, but I am sure God defines himself.  My hero, philosopher Dallas Willard said, “Reality is what you run into while you are chasing your beliefs.”  Smart man. 

Not too long ago, I visited with a man who is dying and knows it.  I was impressed by his calm.  He radiated peace.  Though I knew the answer, I asked him about his soul.  He replied, “A long time ago, I put my soul in the hands of my Savior.  I am not afraid, and I have a peace that passes all understanding.” 

Smart man.

To Boldly Go…

Growing up in Florida in the 1960s, you could not escape the space race.  We could see rockets launched from a hundred miles away, flames ascending into the sky.  I remember touring the Kennedy Space Center right after Apollo 11 first landed on the moon.  We saw Apollo 12 spacecraft on the launch pad, ready to return.   

All things space were cool.  I am old enough that I remember watching “Star Trek” each week.  We were amazed of the idea of space travel across the galaxy, the power of the “Enterprise,” the logic of Mr. Spock, and of course, the swaggering Captain, James T. Kirk.  Each week he managed to escape death or outwit the Klingons.  Sometimes I think my own desire to be a leader stems from the show.  After all, the Captain got to sit in that cool chair that swiveled and had all the buttons.  Everyone wanted to sit in that chair.  And who would not want from time to time scream out, “I need more power, Scotty.” 

Lesser souls decided the show should not be renewed after three seasons.  An independent station in our area made a fortune showing Star Trek re-runs we watched in the afternoons after school.  Then came the Star Trek movies and “Star Trek: The Next Generation.”  I saw all the movies and most of The Next Generation episodes.  By then, I was married with children, and I could not keep up.  I never got around to watching “Deep Space Nine” or “Voyager” or “Enterprise.”  There was too much life and not enough time. 

Still, when the night sky is clear, the stars twinkle an invitation: “Come, explore, find out all the beauty and majesty of space.”  A verse in Psalms says, “When I consider your heavens, the work of your fingers, the moon, and the stars, which you have set in place, what is man that you are mindful of him, the son of man that you care for him?”  If the pictures from the Hubbell Telescope are clues, to be out in space would be a journey never to be forgotten. 

Scientists keep searching for evidence of life on other planets, in other worlds.  We even listen to radio signals from space.  So far, nothing.  Granted, we have not been searching for that long.  But what if we are alone in the galaxies?  What if there is no Klingon home world, no Vulcan, no new life, or new civilizations.  What if it is just us? 

If it is just us in the universe, it would mean God made all of this – all the stars, gas giants, dark matter, and galaxies just for us to admire, an expression of his extravagant love.  Maybe that is why God made space; to remind us how vast he is and how much we depend on him to keep the universe in order.  Maybe the vastness of space is not to make us feel small, but instead to help us feel amazed that such a great God would love us, send his Son to save us from our sins, and promise one day to return and reclaim this world we have messed up.   

William Shatner played Captain James T. Kirk in the original “Star Trek,” and in the movies.  He boldly went where no man has gone before each week, except he didn’t.  Instead, he was on a sound stage in Hollywood, acting a part.  The rest was special effects and set design.

Shatner is now ninety years old.  This week, he actually went into space.  Not very far, mind you.  He was on Blue Origin, Elon Musk’s spacecraft.  It was a short, ten-minute, sub-orbital flight, up to 350,000 feet.  But Shatner saw the sky turn from blue to black; he saw the stars.  He was not the first to go, but he is now the oldest person ever to fly to space. 

Upon landing, Shatner said, “I am overwhelmed.  I had no idea.  I'm so filled with emotion about what just happened. It's extraordinary, extraordinary. I hope I can maintain what I feel now. I don't want to lose it. It's so much larger than me and life." 

Maybe what it really means to “consider your heavens, the work of your fingers” is to know there is God, a creator of heaven and earth, and you are not him.  Then remember that same God knows your name, knows the number of hairs on your head. 

When you know that, really know that it is extraordinary.  You are reminded why you go outside, stand under the stars, and worship our amazing God.

Truck on the Loose...

I needed to pick up some heifers in Gaffney.  I went out mid-morning to hook up my old goose-neck trailer.  My trailer is a cast-off from the ranch down-home; it is about forty-three years old but has a new bottom. For those of you unfamiliar with goose-neck trailers, instead of hooking to a ball on the rear bumper, it hooks to a ball in the bed of the truck, affixed to the frame.  To hook up, you must lower your tailgate, back the truck under the neck, and then lower the trailer onto the ball.  It is not as simple as it sounds.  Since my truck lacks fancy things like two back-up cameras, it is a matter of trial and error.  Sometimes you get it on the first try; sometimes, it takes two, three, or as many as ten tries to get it right.

On this morning, I whipped my truck around, started backing up, then heard and felt the thud.  The hitch had collided with my tailgate.  I had parked the trailer some five weeks earlier, and it had settled just enough to not clear my tailgate.  I gave a deep sigh, pulled up a few feet, and got out.

I went to the trailer and began to turn the big jack handle.  They should use this exercise to do nuclear stress tests on your heart.  Turning that big crank over and over will get your heart rate up. I finally got it cranked up as high as it would go and turned to go back to the truck. It wasn’t there.

My truck was leisurely driving across the pasture, driver door open, taking in all the sights.  I had forgotten to put it in “Park.” 

I am not a runner; I am a walker.  But a walker can become a runner if he or she has proper incentive.  I thought about having to haul my trailer on my own back to Gaffney.  I thought about the fence I would need to repair.  I thought about my truck becoming feral and wandering through woods in the northern part of the county.  Funny how much can run through your mind in a split second. 

I took off running after my truck.  My body was surprised and immediately began sending messages back to my brain, “Are you sure about this?”  My bad knee registered a complaint with management which was ignored.  My heart and lungs also were letting their displeasure be known: “You have not done this in years.”  They were right.

I wish someone could have captured my gallop on video.  I think it would have thousands of views.  A chubby bald man running to catch his truck is worth two or three chuckles. 

My truck was moving slow, and I was gaining ground all the time.  But there was a slight downhill grade ahead, and I knew if the truck reached it, I would never catch it.  Somewhere screaming in my circulatory system was a voice that said, “We can’t take much more of this, Captain.”  Marathon runners talk about hitting a wall about mile eighteen.  I was hitting my wall at about mile one-tenth. 

I pulled even with the rear of the truck, then caught up to the open door.  I grabbed the door and leaped on the running board—truck in hand.  I dropped in the seat, put my foot on the brake, and the truck came to a complete stop.

It took a few minutes for my heart to re-regulate.  After letting everything calm down, I drove my truck back to the trailer, backed up, and got a perfect alignment.   I dropped the trailer, hooked up, and I was on my way.

For some reason, the phrase in the Bible that says, “Be still and know that I am God,” kept coming to mind as I traveled.  I thought about how much of life is chasing things that I should have put in park.  But I try to cram too much in my life, and I forget little details.  So I run after things that get away from me.   I think this is why God gave us a command to rest: “Six days you shall labor and the seventh you shall rest.”  It is probably the commandment we break most often. 

Make sure to put life in park from time to time. Otherwise, your soul will get away from you, and you will end up chasing what should.

Leap of Faith...

For some reason, my brain is wired to ask, “Why not?” This has gotten me into trouble. Like looking at a rain-swollen creek in the dark and saying, “Why not try to cross it? I’ve got four-wheel drive.” Did you know that headlights will shine underwater? Or there was the time I got into a pen with a two-thousand-pound bull to move him into another pen. Why not? It turns out a ton of beef can move faster than you think.

On the other hand, taking a leap of faith has worked out for me. Why not ask the prettiest girl in school to marry me? She said, “Yes.” Why not apply for the Ph.D. program? They let me in. Why not suggest to the Pastor Search Team the church ought to relocate? They called me as pastor anyway, and we did relocate seven years later.

Sure, there is a time to be cautious. If you ask me to hold a rattlesnake, I will not say, “Why not?” I will say a firm, “No.” If you ask me to jump out of a perfectly good airplane, I will not say, “Why not?” Even with a parachute, I think my odds are better if I stick with the plane. If you approach me and tell me you have a surefire way to double my money in thirty days, I will not say, “Why not?” I will get a firm grip on my wallet and be on my way.

I want there to be cautious people in the world. I prefer my airline pilots, surgeons, and nuclear scientists to be cautious and meticulous. The last thing I want to hear my accountant say is, “I never heard of that IRS rule.”

But I have seen excessive cautiousness lead to missed opportunities. A friend of mine told me his dad could have bought three thousand acres of beachfront property during the depression for two dollars an acre. His dad had the money but would not do the deal because he couldn’t see any future in owning the land. After all, it was not any good for farming.

In my world, I see church after church miss opportunities because they are afraid of failing, or they are afraid of the unknown. One church I consulted with was landlocked and had inadequate parking. One of the old-timers remarked, “We could have bought two acres across the street for parking fifteen years ago but never thought we would need it. Now someone else bought it and put an office building on it.” When I pressed him further, he said, “Back then, the chairman of the Building Committee lived half-a-block from the church, and he walked to church. He could not fathom paying ten thousand dollars for two acres of land just to park cars.”

I was talking one time with a man about following Jesus. He asked me, “Can you guarantee me that if I become a Christian, my troubles will go away?” I knew I needed to tell him the truth. “No,” I replied, “There is no guarantee for a trouble-free life. But I can tell you I have found Jesus to be bigger than my troubles.” The man never decided to follow Jesus. He would not make the leap of faith.

You probably have a leap of faith in front of you. You may need to make a hard decision, take a risk at work, or even follow Jesus into a new adventure. There is nothing wrong with doing your homework and knowing as much as you can before you leap. But you will never have enough information to avoid risk. Faith is part of life. So gather your courage. Take the leap.

She might say “yes.” You might get in. You may sink the truck. But if you follow Jesus, you have someone who will lead and guide you, whether you land on your feet or fall on your face.

Lining Up Hope...

We talk about European explorers “discovering” new lands in the 15th and 16th centuries. Of course, they weren’t really discovering anything; they simply became aware of land or oceans that were already there, but they had never seen.

Europeans had long dreamed of finding a sea route to India. India was the land of spices, in those days a commodity more valuable than gold.  The merchants of Venice and Genoa developed a complex system of trade with Arabs and Turks.  Other European merchants and Kings resented this; it made the Venetians and Genoans rich and put control in their hands. 

By the 1400’s European explorers were actively seeking a sea route to India.  It was a way to break the stranglehold of Venetians and Genoans.  European explorers, especially the Portuguese, began explorations down the western coast of Africa.  They established colonies but could not find the end of the continent.

Part of the problem was the farther they went from their home, the more anxious they became.  They were not worried much about falling off the edge of the earth; they were worried about being out of sight of land, in a place they had never been, not knowing when they would get fresh food or water.  Their anxieties made the storms seem bigger.  Every storm seemed to be a signal to turn back and let someone else do the work of exploration.  Funny how fear makes a storm seem fiercer and increases the allure of heading home.

One explorer, Bartolomeu Dias, pushed past his fears and through the storms.  Losing sight of land, he turned east, expecting to run into the coast.  The storms continued.  His crews urged him to turn back.

He turned north and then west, heading back to Portugal.   On March 12, 1488, he saw a cape and no land to the south.  He named it “Cape of Storms,” no doubt memorializing the storms that raged in the meeting of the Indian and Atlantic Oceans.  He knew he had found the end of the African continent and possibly the long-sought sea route to India.  He reported his finding to King John of Portugal, who declared that instead of the “Cape of Storms,” the cape should be called “Cape of Good Hope.”  King John knew for thousands of years traders and kings had sought the sea route to India.  This “Cape of Good Hope” was more than a new sea lane; it was a chance to change the economic order in Europe, a hope that there could be new opportunities.

Ten years later (things moved slower then), Vasco de Gama followed Dias’ route and again saw the cape as the turning point to sail east.  He completed the voyage to India and is credited with changing the way the world saw itself.  People could be connected across vast distances and interact across cultures.  Venice and Genoa did not know it, but their days of exerting control and power were coming to an end.

The Portuguese government eventually ordered two crosses erected on the Cape of Good Hope.  One honored Dias; the other, de Gama.  When a ship or boat enters False Bay (that really is its name), they must avoid Whittle’s Rock, a large, submerged rock that can sink a ship.  If the sailor lines up the two crosses on the Cape of Good Hope and keeps the bow of his or her ship lined up on the crosses, he or she will stay in the safe channel and avoid the rocks.  Staying lined up on the crosses shows you the safe harbor from the storms.

There are many submerged rocks that want to snag you.  Some are temptations that become addictions.  Some are people who want to harm you or take advantage of you.  Still, other rocks are the unforeseen crisis of health and finances that snag us without warning.  How do you find your way into the harbor safe and sound?

You line up on the cross.  You remember that Jesus is at work in your life.  Stay focused on him.  Do not let today’s crisis control your life.  When you are tempted to look in another direction, stop and think.  There are rocks out there.  They will sink you.  But not if you line up on Jesus.

Grief From the Inside…

The pain of losing someone you love doesn’t stop when you leave the cemetery.  In many ways, it is just beginning.   

It has been three weeks since my brother passed, and I am still kicking over rocks, finding feelings I did not know I had.  What makes this strange, I suppose, is I have walked with hundreds of families as they grieve.  It is the occupational hazard of being a pastor.  I have been the one giving advice, direction, and guidance.  

I am reminded every grief is different.  It hurt when my stepfather died, but he had cancer, and it was time.  It hurt when my mother died, but she had suffered from Alzheimer’s Disease for seventeen years.  When she passed, I was relieved that she woke up in Jesus’ presence in her right mind. 

When my sister passed away last year, the grief was unfamiliar.  In some ways, you prepare all your life for your parents to pass away, but I was not ready for my sister to pass.  In my mind, I had a vision of all my siblings growing older together, way up into our eighties.  I still miss Clemie Jo, because I want to call her and tell her the latest brilliant thing my grandson has done.    

When Steve died, I lost my best friend.  He was older than me by seven years, so he could prepare for what lay ahead.  He gave me early warnings about joint pain and bladder shrinkage.  Brothers can talk in “guy code,” using a few pithy phrases to convey vivid images.   

Losing your siblings is like peeling a banana.  Pieces of your life fall aside and never come back.  That hurts.  When people are dying, I often counsel families to tell their loved ones everything because the curtain is drawing to a close.  What I forgot is no matter how many times you tell someone you love them, you always long to tell them of your love one more time. 

I have been on the receiving end of people’s concern.  The handwritten notes in cards mean a lot.  People took the time to express care and be vulnerable.  Everybody says, “If I can do anything for you, let me know.”  I have decided, if I can remember, never to say that again.  Instead of telling people, “All you have to do is ask,” I will tell people what I will do.  I will pray for you for the next two weeks.  I will cut your grass.  I will take care of that detail.  True care moves into the need instead of waiting for the need to be expressed. 

I have also decided, as much as possible, not to tell people I will pray for them but to actually pray with them.  One of my cousins, who does not really fit the picture of a “praying guy,” told me he put me on his prayer list.  That moved me.  The people I work with asked me to sit in a chair, then put their hands on me, and prayed for me.  That brought me to the point of tears.  Prayer, not the intention of prayer, has healing power. 

I am going to remember that every family who grieves has a ton of decisions to make and lots of details to chase.  As soon as my brother passed, the Hospice nurse wanted to know what Funeral Home to call.  There was a service to arrange, pictures to sort through, and bulletins to be printed.  We had to decide on love offering amounts for those speaking and singing.  Then there is the sorting of the personal effects.  That will take a long time.  My brother had tools, guns, binoculars, and more.  It is a reminder to me to ask, “After I am gone, will anyone want this?”   

Most of all, inside of grief, I am reminded that every person who grieves needs something unique from God.  The promise of Psalm 23 is that God will be with us through the valley of the shadow of death.  Right now, I need God to give me rest, strength, and wisdom in that order.  Part of him being with me is telling me to stop, drop, and sleep.   

I think about other members of my family.  They might need reassurance that God has them, that they are not alone.  Some members of my family need to ask God to take charge of their lives.  Still, others need God to guide them in major relationship and career decisions.  The world does not stop when we lose someone, and God still knows our best next step. 

Years ago, my cousin Dennis died in a tragic accident.  His dad, my cousin Tiny, was a preacher.  I remember what he said to me after Dennis’ death: “It is a lie that time heals all wounds.  Time simply helps you adjust to a different saddle.”

 No matter saddle falls on our backs, we do not carry it alone.  Our God walks with us, if we let him.  His rod and his staff, they comfort us.

Steve …

My brother Steve died two weeks ago.  He was more than a brother; he was my best friend, my hero, and yes when we were children, my tormentor.   

Steve was seven years older than me.  After my Father died, Steve was the male role model in my life.  He gave me my first and last plug of chewing tobacco.  He told me it was candy, and I swallowed it.  Then I un-swallowed it all over the Jeep.   

He taught me how to stand up to the school bully, how to saddle a horse, and how to sharpen a pocketknife.  When I was six, he taught me how to drive the old Jeep, which had a manual transmission.  Might as well learn the hard way.   

Once, when we were riding after school, my one-eyed Shetland pony ran away with me, headed back to the barn.  Steve rode up to me on a mare we called “Ginger.”  “Jump,” he said, “like John Wayne in the movies.  Jump on the back of my horse.”  I let go of the reins, leaped toward his horse, … and missed.  I tumbled into the dirt while Steve corralled my horse and led him to the barn.  I went to the house.  He came and got me, telling me, “Even if your horse throws you, you still go to the barn and unsaddle him.”  That is the cowboy code and is pretty good advice for life. 

He was a generous man.  He gave me every gun I own, mostly because he had plenty to share.  When he deemed my pocketknife inadequate, he bought me a new one.   If the check was laid down on the table, his hand reached for it first. 

More than me, Steve lived in the shadow of our Father.  Our Father was the football hero, the rodeo champion, the announcer of horse shows and rodeos, the friend of everyone.  He even had the epic nickname of “King Kong.”  He told me once when Daddy died; people said to him, “You are the man of the house now.”  That is a heavy burden when you are eight-and-a-half years old.  Steve did not inherit our Father’s athleticism, but he inherited his gift of friendship.  If you needed help, you just had to call.  He would be there, day or night, rain or shine.   

He could strike up a conversation with anyone.  Once, when he was repairing a phone, he was talking to the man of the house.  The man looked at him funny, saying, “You remind me of someone I knew a long time ago.”  “Who was that?” Steve replied.  The man answered, “Kong Smith.”  Steve swelled up with pride and said, “He was my Daddy.”  “Is that so?” the man replied.  He continued, “We were in a juke joint at the County Line, and me and your Daddy got into a fight.  He knocked out this eye (pointing to his left eye) out of its socket and then put some sand in it and put it back in.  I have not seen out of it since.”  Steve, for once, didn’t know what to say, and then the man said, “I miss ol’ Kong.”  By the time Steve left the man’s house, he had a new friend. 

When our stepfather got sick, Steve took over the family ranch.  He loved that ranch.  Nothing made him happier than riding out over the pasture, gathering cows, working them in the pens.  He was in his element, doing what he was born to do. 

My sister passed away nine months ago.  Now, I have lost my brother.  I am thankful I still have my stepsister and stepbrother.  But I think about my original family.  I was the surprise third child.  When they brought me home from the hospital to that old frame house that my great-grandfather built, Kong and Sissie’s family of four became a family of five.  Now I am the only one left from that house.  I am surprised at how lonely it feels.  As a friend of mine said, “When you lose your last sibling, there is no one who remembers your childhood.”  I kick myself for not writing down the stories Clemie Jo and Steve told me about Daddy, for not recording the tales of our childhood.   

I will miss the phone buzzing, identifying a call from Steve.  He would call just to check in, or to tell me something that was going on at the ranch, or to give a friendly male insult about going bald.  You need a big brother to do those things. 

Twenty years ago, on a Sunday, Steve and his family came to look over the new church building.  Sundays are hectic days for me; three services, people needing prayer, trying to speak to first-time guests.  But to my dying day, I will remember Steve catching me in the lobby by the arm, making me stop.  He looked up to the stained glass light that hangs down and said, “Clay, Daddy would be so proud.”  He knew I hungered for those words all my life.  Daddy was not there to say them, but Steve was.   

Proverbs 18:24 says, “…there is a friend that sticks closer than a brother.”  In my life, my friend that stuck closer than a brother was my brother. He was a gift to me, a gift I did not always appreciate, but a treasure, nonetheless.   

My Aunt Jean is fond of saying, “Life goes on.”  It does.  I know I am not alone.  Jesus promises to walk with me.  My wife and children have been so wonderful and supportive.  But the road ahead will be different.  I miss my brother, and I always will.

From the Archives - We Are Different, We are the Same…

We are different. 

We have different skin tones, different facial features.  Northerners sound funny to Southerners; Southerners sound funny to Northerners.  Some have hair; others (like me) have beautiful scalps, free from follicle interference.   Some people like liver; others gag at the smell. 

Men and women are different.  Sure, there is basic biology: women have different parts than men.  But our differences are beyond our parts.  Our bodies produce different chemicals at different levels.  Pharmaceutical companies are just waking up to the idea that they need to test some medicines on men and women before prescribing treatments.  We are different at a very basic level. 

All women are not alike.  I know women who would much rather be in the garage fixing a car than in the kitchen fixing a casserole.  All men are not alike.  I know men who would rather arrange bouquets than hunt Bambi.  Before we say, “That’s not normal,” we must ask, “What is normal?  And who gets to define normal?  The US Department of Normal?” 

Brothers can be different.  My brother collects guns.  I collect books.  Sisters can be different. One of my sisters can cook up a storm; the other sister can calm a storm of preschoolers.   

We are different. 

Why?  Maybe God knew we needed variety.  Maybe God knew we would never learn to love unless we learned to accept each other’s differences.  Maybe God knew different people would need different gifts to make a difference. 

We are the same. 

I’ve never met a human being who didn’t long to connect to another person.  I’ve never met a human being who didn’t long to be noticed by someone.  I’ve never met a human being who wasn’t hungry to be understood. 

Every child, even a child who is profoundly disabled, is curious.  Put six children with different skin tones in a room, and they explore together.  They learn together.  They discover together. 

I’ve never known a human being who missed out on pain.  We hurt.  We grieve.  Even the man who is mute expresses his pain with a silent cry.  Pain is a universal language.   

Brothers and sisters can be the same.  My brother and I have the same upper sinuses that cause disgusting sounds when we wake up in the morning.  Since I’m the youngest, it’s frightening to see my future when I see my brother. 

We are the same. 

Why?  We are the same because we are all made in God’s image.  God said, “Let us make man in our own image, male and female.”  God crafted us all in the same basic design, with just enough difference to keep things interesting.  You bear the image of God; so do I.  So do people in China, North Korea, Iran, England, Costa Rica, Haiti, and California.  There is a sacred imprint on our souls that not even sin washes completely away. 

How do you love people different than you?  Find inside that person what is the same as you.  Find the sacred fingerprint of God. 

Maybe that’s what Jesus meant when he said, “I say to you, love your enemies, do good to those who persecute you.” 

Find the sacred.  Love and do good. 

God and Afghanistan …

The news coming out of Afghanistan is not good.  The pictures of people hanging on to American transport planes are heartbreaking.  The enemy the United States has fought for twenty years has taken over the country. 

The politicians, of course, are blaming each other for the collapse of the Afghanistan government.  Media outlets are flooded with “We told you so…” and “If you had only asked us, we could have told you a better way.”  Most of us are not sure what to think.  Being a preacher, however, I could not help but wonder what God thinks. 

The church I serve is in a military town.  I know people who have gone to Afghanistan and pounded the ground, been under fire, and had to return fire in the heat of battle.  Friends have strafed Afghan positions and dropped bombs on the Taliban.  Just this week, I heard a story about someone who was in an area thought to be safe. A surprise missile attack one day crippled her friend for life. 

I think if I had served in Afghanistan, I would be asking, “What was it all about?  Why were we there?  What did we really accomplish?”  There really are no answers to those questions.   Sometimes you go and do your duty, but you never know the long-term results of what you did.  To everyone who served, I think God would say, “I know you do not understand the ‘why.’ I know right now it seems pointless.  But I am the God of the past, present, and future.  I know how this will turn out.  Tell me your pain.”  The biblical word for telling God your pain is ‘lament.’  Your pain and your questions do not have to make sense.  You simply need to tell God your pain.   Ask your questions.  He cares, even when you do not understand your own pain.  For all those who served in Afghanistan and feel the pain of events there, lament.  Tell God your pain. 

God, I think, must also sigh because what is happening in Afghanistan is one more example that all belief systems are not the same.  I imagine God gets tired of people generalizing about him.  The truth is all belief systems are not the same.  What the Taliban believe about God is not the same as what Jesus followers believe about God.  Just to cite a common example, in the West, women are valued.  Most Westerners do not stop and ask, “Where did that belief come from?”  It comes from Jesus followers, who boldly declared that in Christ, “there is neither Jew nor Greek, slave nor free, male nor female, for you are one in Christ Jesus.”  While the Taliban say they will not persecute women, their past performance indicates women will be relegated to second or third-class status.  This will be done in the name of God.  When Joshua challenged the people of God to choose who they would serve, he understood not all gods were the same.  We’ve forgotten that.  I think God wishes we would remember. 

In the same vein, God must be frustrated by the abandonment of absolute truth.  From what I understand, in Afghan culture, there is no shame in changing sides, lying, going back on agreements, saying one thing, and then doing another.  The scary thing in Western culture is these same ideas are taking hold.  This is not because people are influenced by Muslim theology but because people no longer believe in absolute truth.  Instead, truth is whatever you want it to be.  God must want to scream every time he hears someone say, “This is my truth.”  If Jesus is correct (and I believe he is), he is the truth.  Since he is the truth, he decides what is true and has the right to hold people (and nations!) accountable for the truth.  It is hard to have a nation if people do not hold to the idea of truth and honesty.  I think the Taliban will discover you cannot govern until people agree on the truth.

I know God is concerned about his people.  There are Jesus followers in Afghanistan, but not many.  I cannot imagine the courage it must take to follow Jesus in a place where your family will reject you and threaten to kill you.  Not every believer can get on an airplane and flee the country.  To be left in Afghanistan and still follow Jesus requires great faith and devotion to Jesus.  As an American, I am humbled by those who will suffer severe persecution because they believe and follow.  God will move to protect his work, but some will still suffer.  One of the overlooked meanings of eternal life is God will give special honor to those who were persecuted for their faith.   

I am certain of this: God has not panicked.  He is not surprised.  He knew this was coming.  And he is at work.  He loves all the people in Afghanistan, including the Taliban.  He wants good for them.  He is at work to bring all the good, all the love, all the grace they are willing to receive.  Just like us, the question is, “How much of God’s goodness, love, and grace do I – we – they - want?”   

My answer: “All He will send.”  What is your answer? 

Two Hours in the Dentist’s Chair…

It started Monday night.  The whole side of my head began to hurt.  I was not sure if it was a toothache or an ear infection.  By bedtime, it was raging full force.  I took two Tylenol, and that knocked back the pain enough to get some sleep.  By the next morning, the pain in my ear was gone but any pressure on my teeth brought stabbing pain.  Thankfully my dentist could see me that afternoon. 

Believe, I was on time for that appointment.  I was quickly ushered back and put in the chair.  The X-rays were taken, and I waited for my dentist to come in.  I like my dentist; I really do.  He has taken good care of me for over twenty-seven years.  But I have childhood trauma that makes me nervous around dentists in general.  There was a lapse in my dental care when I was eight, and when I returned to the dentist at age ten, nineteen cavities were discovered.  I spent four long sessions looking at the large, hairy nose of my dentist as he drilled and filled those cavities.   

My dentist looked over the X-rays and then said, “I want to tap on your teeth to see which tooth it is.”  I was pretty sure I knew which one it was, and when he tapped on it and I levitated four feet off the chair, he knew which tooth it was too.   

He told me news I hoped never to hear: “Clay, I think you need a root canal on that tooth.”  I knew the words “root canal” had the ability to make grown men cry.  One man put it to me this way, “A root canal is God’s way of testing you, to see if you cuss when you are in pain.”   

My dentist was very gracious.  He offered to refer me to someone else who only does root canals.  I asked him if he could do it, and he said he could.  Delay and see someone else or get started now; it was an easy choice.  I told him to go ahead. 

He started with three shots of Novocain.   I felt the numbing spread across the left side of my mouth and lips.  Pretty soon, it felt like my lower left lip was sliding down to my chest.  Then the drilling began.  It is always disconcerting to smell smoke coming from your mouth.  I wondered if he had tiny fire extinguishers in case things got out of control.  Then he began to insert tiny rods down into the opening to fish out the diseased nerves.   It felt like someone mining for diamonds in my mouth. 

Two hours in the dentist’s chair gives you time to think.  I wondered, “Who was the first person to figure out how to do a root canal?”  How did they know it would work?  I recently finished a biography of George Washington.  He had a terrible time with his teeth.  He retained almost none of his originals and relied on animal or human teeth fashioned to fit his mouth.  I gave God thanks I was born in the era of modern dentistry.  And I thanked God for the skill of my dentist. 

I could not feel a thing and I was grateful.  I could sense my dentist pushing the rods up and down and actually saw an X-ray of them sticking way down into the root of my tooth.  I thanked God for Novocain.  I do not know who invented Novocain, but God bless him.  I cannot imagine going through a root canal without being numbed.  I understand why dentists in the 1800’s gave their patients lots of whiskey before they started the procedure.   

I thought about the pain that had periodically radiated around the left side of my face.  My dentist explained the nerves under my teeth went down to my jaw, then up and around my ear.  The dead nerves in my tooth could hold infection and the pain would move up through the nerve system.  Funny how you can hurt in one place and the cause is somewhere else.  As my dentist kept working, I thought how sin is the same way.  You may have trouble in a relationship, but the real issue is a sin in your own life you are not dealing with.  Just as your body is fearfully and wonderfully made, so is your soul. 

Finally, my dentist put in a temporary filling and told me I would have to come back for further work next week.  He warned me that he done a lot of work and I feel pain for the next few days.  “Take some Tylenol,” he said.  I know people who do not like to follow medical advice about taking pain medicine. I am not one of those people.  God made someone smart enough to concoct medicine that will dull the pain and I do not want to disrespect their God-given purpose.   

Two hours in the dentist’s chair reminded me that God is working all around us.  There are things you never think about that you should give thanks for – like medical knowledge, Novocain, and even Tylenol.  Even when pain is real and intense, God is at work.  There are blessings for you.  Even in the dentist’s chair.

When Mama was Harassed…

My mother was widowed at thirty-six.  She was left with young orange groves that were not yet producing, cattle that needed to be worked, quarter-horses that needed to be trained, and an eighty-five-year-old house.  People meant well when they told my mother to sell the place and move to town.  But my mother was determined to hold onto the ranch, which had already been in my father’s family for a hundred years. 

In those days, the nearest house was half a mile away.  The directions to our house included the phrase, “Go to the end of the pavement and keep going till the road curves.”  Mama was in the middle of nowhere with three children.  My sister was twelve, my brother was nine, and I was eighteen months old.  It was a little scary when the sun went down.  

Along with the ranch, Mama inherited Gordon, Daddy’s cousin.  Gordon worked for Daddy for years to supplement his income from his stills in the swamp.  In the language of those days, Gordon would get “liquored up” most weekends, sometimes from his own ‘shine, sometimes from the package stores across the county line.  He would dry out usually on Monday, sometimes Tuesday, and show back up to work.  Mama had enough on her plate without managing Gordon. 

I was too young to remember this, but Mama would tell about one Friday night, late, when Gordon came up to the house.  He had imbibed heavily and started honking his horn and yelling for Mama to out. “Come out here, Sissie!  I want to propose marriage to you,” he slurred.  Mama turned the porch light on and hollered for Gordon to shut up and go home.  He threatened to stay there all night until Mama came out and accepted his proposal.   

Normally Mama would have turned the dog out, but because Gordon worked on the place, the dog knew Gordon.  As Mama told the story, she stepped into the house, got one of Daddy’s shotguns, rammed a shell into the chamber, opened the screen door on the porch, and fired over Gordon’s head.   

Funny how fast a drunk can run when birdshot passes over their head.  Gordon made a beeline back to his old truck and fishtailed it out of the yard.  Mama fired him the next day. 

There were a couple of other times men would come up to the house, trying to catch Mama alone.  I barely remember one of those times.  As I remember it, Mama knew the man and knew he had a shady reputation.  The older kids were at school, and apparently, the man thought Mama would be alone.  He did not know about me or that I would be home with Mama. I was about three or four, and I remember the man wanted to come into the house, and Mama would not let him in.  He started to threaten her.   

We had a German Shepherd, my best friend, whose name was Mo.  Mo was on the porch with Mama and me, emitting a low growl.  Apparently, the man was hard of hearing, and from his vantage point, he could not see Mo.  When Mama had enough of the man’s threats, she opened the screen door.  The man thought Mama was giving in and started toward the steps.  Then Mama said to Mo, “Sic ‘em.”  Mo needed no further invitation.  He charged through the door.  I still remember the man turning on his heel and running for his truck.  He slammed the door, and Mo leaped to the open window, snarling and snapping.   The man cranked the engine, jammed it into reverse, and spun the tires to get away.  Mo chased him for a quarter of a mile. 

Word got around that Mama had a shotgun and a German Shepherd, and she was not afraid to use either one.  No more strange men stopped by the house.

 Another politician has stepped down, accused of multiple instances of sexual harassment.  It happens too often.  Men think they can exert power over women because of their position or just because they are males.  Crude remarks are not just “playful banter” or “locker room” talk.  Such remarks are an effort to intimidate or control women.  Every person has a right to protect their own body from unwanted touch.  Yet, women fear for their jobs or fear retaliation if they object or set a boundary.  It is hard to speak truth to power.  It takes courage to say a person in power is acting inappropriately. 

I know the church is not immune from this type of harassment.  I want to say clearly, such harassment has no place in the Kingdom of God.  I cannot imagine Jesus ever sexually harassing a woman or a man.  His followers should not either. 

I find myself wishing Mama was still living.  She had a lot of courage.  She might have even found a German Shepherd, got Daddy’s shotgun, and drove to New York, just to help one politician get the message.

Cuban Sandwich…

If you have never had a real Cuban sandwich, you have missed one of the great pleasures of life.  I am not talking about a Cuban sandwich from a sandwich shop that offers four-dozen different kinds of sandwiches.  I am talking about a genuine Cuban sandwich made with Cuban bread, pulled pork, ham, Swiss cheese, mustard, pickles, sometimes salami, and if you are in a really good sandwich place, mayonnaise.  

For those of you not sophisticated enough to know the background, the Cuban sandwich originated in Tampa.  Miami claims the Cuban sandwich originated there, but this is a lie.  There were Cubans in Tampa in the late 1800s, before Miami even existed.  They came to make cigars.  Tampa was “Cigar City.”  There were large brick factories where workers rolled out cigars and little shops where expensive cigars were rolled.  The Cuban sandwich was the perfect lunch for a busy factory worker. 

Cuban bread may look like French or Italian loaf, but it is deliciously different.  The dough has a generous helping of lard (yes, there is still such a thing as lard) and is stretched out.  A moist palm frond is laid on top, creating a shallow trough.  The crust is crispy, the inside moist and flakey.  Most fake Cuban sandwiches are made with French bread, which is like trying to paint the Sistine Chapel with a water-color set from Dollar General. 

A real Cuban sandwich is pressed, like a panini.  This causes the cheese to melt, the meat to heat, and the bread to bond.  The sandwich is best eaten warm. 

The best Cuban sandwich I ever had was in Ybor City, Tampa.  Ybor City is the Cuban/Italian section of Tampa.  There was a hole-in-the-wall café on Seventh Street that my step-father knew about called “The Sliver Ring.”  The men who worked there spoke little English but knew how to ask, “Half or Whole?” Whole.  Always whole.  We stopped there whenever we were in Tampa and get a sandwich, chips, and a six-ounce bottle of ice-cold Coke.   

The second-best Cuban sandwich I ever had was from La Segunda Bakery in Tampa.  Operated by the same family for four generations, they bake Cuban bread for many of the restaurants in Tampa and serve great Cuban sandwiches.   

On a recent visit to Florida, we took my son, daughter-in-law, and the most amazing grandson in the world to the Tampa Airport for their trip back to North Carolina.  Then it was time for us to head home.  Normally I ask my wife where she would like to eat, but this time I did not give her the choice.  “Let’s get a Cuban sandwich from La Segunda.”  She loves me and humors my eccentricities.  La Segunda is not a fancy place; there is a door, a line, and a counter.  The lady running the register did not have English as her first language, and we had a little trouble communicating my order: “A large hot Cuban, a small hot Cuban, chips, and two drinks.”  I wanted to order a guava circle (which will turn you into a diabetic), but I held back.  One Cuban sandwich would be more than enough to fill me up. 

I got my bag, and we got on the road.  Somehow, there was a mix-up.  They gave us not two but three Cuban sandwiches.  An extra Cuban sandwich was a blessing from God, a sign of grace.   

We were in a line of cars about to get on the interstate.  On my side, there was a man, kind of rough looking, walking down the line of cars.  He held a cardboard sign that read: “Homeless, Hungry.” 

I never know quite what to do when I see folks like this.  I know some are genuinely needy.  I know some are trying to scam you.  I never know if the money I give goes for food or for booze.  My confusion troubles me because Jesus said whenever I see someone hungry and I feed them, I am feeding him.  I pray about this for God’s guidance about what to do. 

I shared my discomfort with my wife.  She was thoughtful, then as the man passed my window, she said, “Give him the extra Cuban sandwich.”   

Give him my special blessing?  Give him the Cuban sandwich, made with genuine Cuban bread, that I planned to take back to South Carolina and savor?  Really? 

I would like to tell you I rolled down my window and called the man back to give him the Cuban sandwich.  But in my seconds of indecision, the light turned green, traffic began to move, and I had to move with it.  My opportunity to give was gone.  Now the Cuban sandwich sits in my refrigerator, slowly drying up.  I feel like it is not mine to eat; it is a reminder of my greed.  I who already had a Cuban sandwich wanted to hoard a Cuban sandwich I did not pay for, which I did not need, and which could have met a need. 

The lesson of this story is simple: Say “yes” to giving before the opportunity comes.  Who knows, you might end up feeding Jesus a good Cuban sandwich.

Dive In…

At the pool, the diving board beckons.   

On the board: “What’s the water temperature?  How deep is it?” 

First step: “Do I really feel like getting all wet?  Would I rather be lounging in the sun?  It’s not too late to back out.” 

Second step: “Everyone is looking at me.  Will they laugh at my dive?  Do I look okay in my bathing suit?  Will I lose my bathing suit when I hit the water?” 

Third step: “Am I sure I want to do this?  Will people call me chicken if I stop right now and go back?  Will some bully try to push me in if I back up?” 

Edge of the board: “It’s the point of no return.  In two seconds, my questions about temperature and depth will be answered.  I fling myself forward without knowing the answers but committing to finding out.” 

In the air: “It’s the awkward moment of commitment.  I’ve left the diving board.  I don’t know if I will look graceful or not.  I don’t know if my bathing suit will stay on.  I may come up to laughter or applause.  But I have taken the risk.  I made the jump.  I’m in the air.” 

Splash: “I did it!  You can’t get in the pool on the diving board!  My dive may not have been pretty, and there might be no applause, but I’m in, and I’m wet.  I made the dive.” 

When Jesus said to Peter, Andrew, James, and John, “Follow me,” He was inviting them to dive into a journey where they would see what they had never seen before, to do what they never dreamed possible, and to join a Kingdom work that redefined everything.  When He told Matthew to leave his toll booth, He was inviting him to dive into a purpose beyond money, to throw a party, and to organize and write a gospel.  When He invited Peter to get out of the boat, He was inviting him to dive in, literally, and do what no one else would ever do. When He told the woman caught in adultery to go and sin no more, he invited her to life where she was valued not as an object but as a soul.  When He told Paul he was sending him as light to the Gentiles, He was inviting him to leave behind prestige and heritage and join a revolution. 

Do you think He’s done issuing invitations? 

Jesus is still inviting people to summon their courage, get on the board, take their steps, and dive in. 

Is He inviting you to dive in and volunteer?  Is He inviting you to pick up the phone and dial that number and say, “I’m sorry?”  Is He inviting you to be generous, truly generous, and give money away so you can attack the selfishness of your soul?  Is He inviting you to be courageous and speak about Jesus to a neighbor?  Is He inviting you to believe in miracles and pray for them?  Is He inviting you to finally admit you have a problem and you need help? 

I don’t know what the specific invitation will be, but I am pretty sure he has an invitation for you.  But you will only know the true invitation if you dive in. 

Dive in; the adventure is worth it.

Jesus Does Not Fit in a Box…

I first remember meeting Jesus in preschool Sunday School, where my Aunt Faye showed us a picture of a kind man with beautiful hair and brown eyes.  She told us the most amazing stories: how he walked on water, healed a blind man, and rose from the dead.  Aunt Faye made sure we knew that Jesus loved us.  This was the Jesus I gave my heart to when I was eight years old. 

When I was in Middle School, I met Jesus again.  One of the periodic “He’s coming soon” panics was sweeping our corner of the world.  I was told Jesus would come like a thief in the night.  This was hard to integrate; thieves, in my world, were not nice people.  But I remember what Aunt Faye said: “Jesus loves you, Clay.”  I was not sure how to wrap all this into one picture.  Was Jesus the kind man who loved me, or the coming King who would judge the world and wipe out the wicked?  I began to be afraid of Jesus. Just to be on the safe side, every night I would ask Jesus to save me, just in case I was not saved and just in case he came back during the night, broke in like a thief, took my Momma, and left me (I was pretty sure my brother Steve would be left with me). 

In college, I was introduced to Jesus, the radical.  Someone put a copy of the Cotton Patch Gospel in my hand, and for the first time, I realized Jesus cared about things like racial division and injustice.  This was new to me.  I grew up in the South with a mild strain of prejudice but thought I was okay because, after all, Jesus was white.  At least he was in the picture in Aunt Faye’s classroom.   Somehow, my brain made the connection that Jesus was a Jew, probably with olive skin, and often mistreated because of his racial background.  I never knew that.  I discovered Jesus really did want me to love my neighbor, regardless of his or her skin color. 

In seminary, I was exposed to all kinds of thinking about Jesus.  Some scholars said he was not really God’s son, just a really good teacher.  Other scholars said we could not know much about Jesus because he lived so long ago.  There were other voices, each with an opinion about Jesus.  The scholarly debates felt odd; they were like talking about a person who was standing right beside you, instead of talking to the person.  The greatest temptation I faced in seminary was to talk about Jesus instead of talk to Jesus.   

It was about this time, in a counselor’s office, that I was introduced to the deep grace of Jesus.  While I was surrounded by theories about Jesus, I began to experience at a soul level the grace of Jesus, pouring over the wounds of my soul, healing the cuts, and transforming the pain of my own mistakes and sins.  It was coming full circle; I was back to Jesus as I first knew Him.  But He was beyond Aunt Faye’s simple picture.  He was the gracious, living Savior who knew me by name and the King with the power to restore what was broken. 

I had begun to serve Jesus as a pastor and a teacher by this time.  People would come to me, telling me what Jesus would do, or telling me what Jesus would say, or remonstrating me because Jesus would make a different choice that would not make anyone mad.  By this time, I knew Jesus well enough to know Jesus could not be fit into a box.  Whenever we try to bend Jesus to be who we want Him to be, we end up with a picture that tells only part of the story. 

In the years I have served and followed Jesus, what I have come to know is this: Jesus is a real person.  You cannot caricature Him with a sentence or a few paragraphs.  He is more than can be captured by words.  He is even more than that picture Aunt Faye showed me when I was three.   You only really get to know Jesus when you do life with Him, when you follow Him.   

Make sure the Jesus you know is not just a picture; make sure He is the one you are following.  If your Jesus can fit in a box, you are not following the real Jesus. 

I Wore a Tutu…

Pastors are challenged to do crazy things at times.  Sometimes, they bring it on themselves.  I knew a pastor who promised to preach from the roof of his church when it reached a certain number in attendance.  Now preaching from the roof might not seem too crazy, but he weighed almost four hundred pounds, so preaching on the roof took faith.  The church reached the goal, and he preached from the roof the next Sunday.  Another big crowd showed up to see if the roof would hold him.  It did. 

One pastor ate a live goldfish when he taught the story of Jesus feeding the five thousand with five loaves and two fish (I wonder why he did not eat two goldfish?).  A friend of mine promised the kids of his church he would eat a bug for every $1,000 they brought in a mission offering.  It may have been the first time a pastor prayed for a low offering.  After three bugs, he said he felt a little funny.  Not as funny as he looked. 

I try to avoid eating bugs and live goldfish – too much sodium.  I have been dunked in a dunking booth on a chilly Halloween night.  I danced on stage once to a silly song trying to shake ping-pong balls out of a box of tissue tied around my waist (Do you know why Baptists do not dance?  Have you ever seen Baptists dance?).  I have dressed in old robes for church plays and worn big angel wings.  I have done my share of silly things. 

This past week, our church had Vacation Bible School (better known as VBS).  Our great team did an amazing job sharing the story of Jesus with the kids.  My favorite group of leaders, however, was our Rec/Spirit team.  Let me explain: Every VBS has a block of time where the kids burn off energy.  We do this so the kids will have fun and go home tired.  Our Rec/Spirit Team dresses as crazy as possible.  One of the leaders, a normally sensible woman, wore mismatched socks, sneakers, shorts, a shirt, a crown, a blow-up floatie featuring a unicorn, and a multi-colored tutu.  This was the sort of outfit that demanded teasing.   

As VBS was winding down the first night, I felt like I needed to appreciate this leader (call her “JoBeth”) and tease her in front of several other volunteers.  This is not a recommended leadership tactic, but I thought it might help her feel noticed.  I called out, “JoBeth, if you wear that tutu on Sunday, I will give $100 to Finest Hour (Finest Hour is a church-wide effort to make 2021 our finest hour of generosity in the history of our church).”  JoBeth laughed, and I got a few chuckles. 

Then a voice called out, “I will give $100 to Finest Hour if you wear a tutu tomorrow night, Pastor Clay.”  The tables had turned.   

Before I knew it, the snowball was rolling down the hill.  Someone called out, “I’ll give a $100!”  Then, “My husband and I will each give a $100.”  In under thirty seconds over $600 was pledged to Finest Hour if I would wear JoBeth’s tutu the next night.  The spotlight was on me.  They say every man has his price and mine was $600 to Finest Hour.   

The next evening, I showed up and found the tutu waiting for me.  I was not sure how to wear it since I have never worn a tutu before.  Thankfully, this one had elastic.  Someone threw a green lei around my neck.  Suddenly phones were lifted out of pockets, and flashes were going off.   

The deal was I had to wear the tutu and the lei until I began to preach during our Monday night service.  So I went to the platform, shared what we were doing, prayed for VBS, said “Amen,” and then tried to slip out of the tutu.  I had never done this before.  I was unsure whether I should untie it, pull it over my head, or shimmy out of it.  I selected the shimmy option and noted the looks of horror on the faces of the congregation as they saw my gyrating body attempting to shed the tutu. 

Given the number of photos taken, it is no surprise that a picture of me in a multi-colored tutu has been posted on Social Media.  I am sure that I will soon get an email quoting Deuteronomy 22:5.  My response will be that I was not wearing a woman’s cloak; I was wearing a tutu. 

I am tempted to say, “The things I do for Jesus.”  I know better.  Considering what he has done for me and what he is doing for me, wearing a tutu is pretty minor.  If wearing a tutu helps one more person toward Jesus, it is worth it. 

At least it was not swallowing bugs.

A Good, Sharp Knife…

When I grew up, a man was judged by his pocket knife.  Every man I knew carried one.  I heard old-timers say, “I’m not dressed until my knife is in my pocket.”  Heaven forbid that you had a dull knife.  I remember men shaving hair off their arms to show the sharpness of the blade.  If you allowed your knife to rust, you might as well pack your bags and move to the city. 

We used our knives more in those days.  There were always hay bales to cut, feedbags to open, splinters to dig out, and oranges to peel.  It was a point of pride to be able to peel an orange in one continuous spiral.  All the boys carried pocket knives to school.  You never knew when you might need to carve your initials into a desk or pair your initials with a cute girl on a tree.   

Times changed.  Schools started outlawing pocket knives as weapons of mass destruction.  I knew if I ever used my knife to cut someone at school, my teacher would whip me, my principal would whip me, and then when I got home, my Mama would whip what was left.  

Carrying a knife on a plane was outlawed.  I wondered about that.  If a terrorist had a knife and a country-boy had a knife, my money is on the country-boy.   

I started spending more time behind a desk and less time on the ranch.  I carried my knife on the weekends when I was doing chores in the yard, but I was running out of room in my pockets.  I was carrying more keys, my wallet carried credit cards and business cards, and my cell phone took up a lot of space.  I never was into skinny jeans, but it is hard to slide a pocket knife into pockets that gap a quarter-inch.   

I made a trip to the ranch to work cows not too long ago and knew I would need my pocket knife in the pens.  I made sure I sharpened it.  I did not want my cowboy credentials to be called into question.  We were castrating calves and earmarking them.  Let me explain: when you turn a bull into a steer, you cut a small piece of the calf’s ear.  You do this to distinguish steers and heifers out in the pasture.   

When the first calf came through, I was standing at the front of the chute.  Somebody hollered, “Who is earmarking?”  I have done a lot in the pens, but there was always someone else to do the earmarking.  But I was there, my knife was sharp, and it was my time.  I stepped up and said, “I’ll do it.” 

I used my weight to pin back the head of the calf, grabbed his ear, and started to make my cut.  Either my knife was not as sharp as I thought, or this calf had extra tough ears.  Instead of slicing, I had to start sawing.  I got the earmarked.  It was not pretty.  I braced myself.  I knew the criticism was coming. 

My brother Steve was the first to holler, “I thought you said you had a sharp knife.”  Hollering something like that at the pens is like calling in a pack of dogs on a wild hog.  Several insults were hurled in my direction. Samantha, a sweet young woman of sixteen, said, “Mr. Clay, I would grade that cut a D-.”  That hurt.  My cousin Sid said, “Step aside, Uncle Clay, let me show you how it is done.” 

Sid had a special tool, a V-shaped piece of metal with a razor blade on each side.  He marked the next calf perfectly, then handed me the tool with a wink and said, “Try this.”   

My marking improved considerably.  Sweet Samantha rated my next ear a C+.  After five calves, I worked my way up to an A-.  Not a bad learning curve.  Like so many things in life, it is a matter of having the right tools.

The next day, my brother took me to the feed store, saying, “We are going to get you a good knife.”  We avoided the $300 collector’s knives.  Instead, we got a good working knife, one that fits more comfortably in my pocket, and a stone to keep it sharp.  I think my brother was looking out for me, or maybe he did not want to be embarrassed by his little brother and his dull knife again.

 A verse in the Book of Hebrews says, “For the word of God is alive and active. Sharper than any double-edged sword, it penetrates even to dividing soul and spirit, joints and marrow; it judges the thoughts and attitudes of the heart.”  A sword is just a bigger knife.  God has a sharp knife of truth, and he uses it to peel back the layers of your soul.  It is so easy to fool ourselves and place lie upon lie.  But our Heavenly Father knows the truth will set you free.  That is why he wants you to face the truth about your motives, your thinking, and your emotions.  Make a regular, brave request: “Heavenly Father, show me the truth about myself.” 

A sharp knife makes a cleaner, less painful cut.  You will be glad your Heavenly Father has a good, sharp knife.

What I Love About America…

Right now, it is easy to list what is wrong with America.  You might even be tempted to think, “If those people would just see things my way, we could straighten this country out.”  This thinking is called “confirmation bias.”  If you only talk to people who see the world the way you do, if you only go to websites that agree with you, and if you only watch one news network that tells you the news the way you want to hear it, you create a circle of belief where what you believe is re-enforced, even if what you believe is wrong.  But step outside of your comfort zone and think about what is right with America. 

We are a country that is blessed.  Our country has been given wealth, power, and status that we have not earned.  Most Americans still know that when a crisis occurs, we still need God’s blessing.  Do you remember the night of September 11, 2001?  Congressmen, Democrats, and Republicans stood on the steps of the Capitol and sang “God Bless America.”  If I were to offer you ten million dollars on the condition that you move permanently to Somalia, most of you would refuse the deal.  Better to be middle class in America than rich in Somalia. 

I love that in America, we still have people of courage.   Martin Luther King, Jr. stood on the steps of the Lincoln Memorial and spoke of a dream: “I have a dream that one day my three children will not be judged on the color of their skin but on the content of their character.”  Ronald Reagan stood in front of the Berlin Wall and said, “Mr. Gorbachev, tear down this wall.”  Soldiers take up arms and fight for our country.  First responders run to the danger.  There are still politicians who will stand for what is right and not worry about re-election. 

In America, we still think in terms of right and wrong.  My son told me a story of traveling overseas and watching an airline official accept a bribe.  Bribes happen in America, but at least we know it is wrong.  There are places in the world where young girls are forced into marriage.  Slavery still exists in areas of India and Africa.  Much of the world still honors “might makes right.”  In America, we know right is right. 

Freedom is not something to take for granted.  In the most populous country in the world, China, your access to the internet is tightly controlled.  All people over age fourteen are required to have an internal passport in Russia.  This is so the government can track your movements and control where you can and can not go.  I can drive across the country, and if I obey the speed limit and traffic laws, no one will stop me and demand to see some identification.

We have a sense of justice.  The Biblical injunction, “an eye for an eye and a tooth for tooth,” is meant to make sure justice is proportional.  In Singapore, you can be beaten with a cane for chewing gum.  In some Muslim societies, you can lose your hand for stealing.  I know we do not always get this right in America, but I would rather take my chances in an American courtroom than in any other courtroom in the world. 

I love that I can call my congressman and senators and tell them I think they are wrong.  No one will come to arrest me.  I love that when I vote, no one knows who I voted for.  No one is peering over my shoulder to make sure I mark my ballot correctly.   

On Sunday, I can stand and preach what I think is a message from God.  No policeman is there to arrest me for preaching.  I have no “official” script issued from a government office. No worship service will be interrupted by the secret police.  I actually love that people I disagree with theologically can gather down the street and worship in their own way too.  Freedom for me requires there to be freedom for them as well.

 There is a lot wrong with America, but there is a lot to love.  If you love America, you should ask, “Why has this country been given so much?”  I believe God made America for a reason.  The reason, I am sure, has less to do with us enjoying the “good life” and more to do with being the “good people.”  Let us be the people, the nation God made us to be.