How Hot is it?

How Hot is it?

• The birds have to use potholders to pull worms out of the ground.

• Funeral processions are pulling through Sonic for ice cream.

• The Devil was in Wal-Mart buying an air-conditioner.

• The loaf of bread you bought at the store was toast by the time you got home.

• Siri asked you to put her in a glass of water.

• The white-collar workers have become rednecks.

• You pour McDonald's coffee into your lap just to cool off.

• The trees are whistling for the dogs.

• The best parking place is determined by shade instead of distance.

• Hot water is all you get out of the faucet.

• You can make sun tea instantly.

• You need a spatula just to undress.

• The bees are taking off their yellow jackets.

• You take a cold shower and get third-degree burns.

• You stick your coffee cup outside for five seconds to warm it up.

• Tabasco sauce and Texas Pete are being chugged to cool off.

• You learn that a seat belt buckle makes a pretty good branding iron.

• Both thin and heavy people step outside and say, “Lord have mercy…”

• You can cook frozen lasagna in your mailbox.

• The temperature drops below 95, and you feel a little chilly.

• You watch “The March of the Penguins” over and over just to cool down.

• You discover that in August, it only takes one finger to steer your car.

• The city of New York is working on getting the Statue of Liberty to lower her arm.

• You discover that you can get sunburned through your car window.

• People on street corners are holding signs that read, “Will work for shade.”

• You actually burn your hand opening the car door.

• The fish are frying as soon as you pull them out of the water.

• You break into a sweat the instant you step outside at 6:30 a.m.

• Your biggest bicycle wreck fear is, "What if I get knocked out and end up lying on the pavement and cook to death?"

• The lawn sprinklers are spraying steam.

• All the neighbors are in your pool when you come home.

• You realize that asphalt has a liquid state.

• Your freezer cries every time you open the door.

• Your ex’s heart is finally melting.

• Golfers are now hoping to shoot the temperature.

• You have to boil the water in the creek to cool it down.

• Humpty Dumpty was hard-boiled when he fell off the wall, so it was no problem putting him back together again.

• You pick cool clothes that aren’t hip but comfortable.

• The potatoes cook underground, so all you have to do is pull one out and add butter, salt, and pepper.

• Farmers are feeding their chickens crushed ice to keep them from laying boiled eggs.

• The cows are giving evaporated milk.

• You daily give God thanks for living in an era when there is air conditioning.

• Every church in town has a sign out front saying, “If you think it is hot now, try eternity without Jesus.”

In the midst of this heat wave, it’s a good time to think about heaven.  Revelation 22 tells us there is a life-giving stream that flows from the throne of God.  The Bible doesn’t say this, but my hunch is that stream is cool and clear, just the kind of stream you want to put your feet in to cool off.  Of all the things heaven is, it is a place where we experience the cool, refreshing, pure grace of God.  When you begin to live the with-God-life, you start experiencing that grace right now.

Dip your feet in His grace.  Cool off in His love.  Let His pure forgiveness refresh your soul.

Who Weeps with You?

It was one of those uncomfortable moments in the store.  A young mother with three small children was trying to get her shopping done.  The middle child by size (about two, I’d say) was not happy.  She was ready to go home.  I understand that feeling.  After about thirty minutes in a store, I’m ready to go home, too.

Two-year-olds have surprisingly big voices in little bodies.  This little girl started to tear up and scream, “I want to go home!  I want to go home!”  Everyone in the store heard her.  Everyone within a ten-mile radius heard her.  Everyone knew she wanted to go home.

 Her mother tried all the standard techniques: “Shhh!  Be quiet.  We will go home in a few minutes;” “If you stop crying, I will buy you some candy (that would work for me),” and then, as the mom felt the stares, “Will you stop crying!”

 None of the strategies worked.  The little girl upped her decibels.  Dogs began to howl outside the store.  I think I saw a jar of pickles start to vibrate.  People were coming around the corner in search of this awful sound.

 The young mom had reached her limit.  She pulled out the nuclear option phrase: “If you don’t stop crying this instant, I will give you something to cry about.” 

 The two-year-old looked at her mother with non-comprehending eyes.  You could read her thoughts on her furrowed forehead: “I already have something to cry about!  That’s why I’m crying.  What part of ‘I want to go home Momma’ do you not understand?” 

 My heart went out to the little girl and to her overwhelmed Mom.  How do you reason with a two-year-old whose emotions have torn her away from whatever reasoning ability she has?

 Jesus once encountered people who were weeping because their friend Lazarus had died.  Jesus, who could have healed him, had not come in time for a miracle.  Now Jesus was on the scene.  He could feel the accusing eyes and read their message: “He was your friend.  Where were you?  You could have done something.”  Jesus does not tell the crowd, “Don’t cry.”  He does not tell them he will give them something to cry about.  Instead, he joins their grief.  In the shortest verse in the Bible, we told one of its great truths: “Jesus wept.” 

 Jesus understands the moments in your life when you are overwhelmed with emotion.  Jesus, with infinite patience, stops to feel with you.  He shares your tears.  But he also will share your joys, your anger, your anxiety.  To your joy, he brings song; to your anger, perspective; to your anxiety, peace. 

 I give the young mom credit.  Realizing what she said and how it sounded, she stopped her shopping, picked up her two-year-old up out of the buggy, and held her while she cried.  She let her daughter cry out her frustration.  Then she tickled her and made her laugh.

 I think that is what Jesus does.  He holds us when we are flooded with emotion.  He cries when we cry.  Then, when we least expect it, he brings something good; he brings joy.  Jesus is the God of the morning when night turns to joy.  Whatever your tears, he will hold you.

Spitting Worms…

I was working late in my study this week.  My desk looks out a window onto a field behind the church building, where I often see our students doing games.  This evening, however, was different.  The student leaders brought in a big sound system, and I watched in amazement as our students showed up in jeans, cowboy hats, and boots.  It turns out they were having a “hoedown.”

 When I grew up, a hoedown was something like a square dance, with a record player and a caller, usually held at the rec center or the old Pavilion.  One thing was sure: hoedowns never, ever happened at church.  Though our little Baptist church at Rural Route 2 was not particularly down on dancing, it was kept quiet and certainly not done at church.  The old joke about Baptists was we were against dancing because we were afraid people would think we were fornicating.  When I went off to a Baptist college, no dancing was allowed on campus.  Off-campus dances were called “rhythms.”  Fraternities and sororities had “Oldies Rhythms,” and Campus Ministry sponsored a “Square Rhythm.”  Now, forty years later, our students are rhythming out on our back field!

 They did look like they were having a good time.  I could hear the songs; they weren’t dirty at all.  Then I got a text from the Student Pastor inviting me to come out and dance (or rhythm) with the students.  They were definitely having more fun than I was, so I put down my pen and went outside.

 I like being with students.  I think they look at me as a surrogate grandfather.  Whatever I do or say, they laugh.  I complimented several of them on their cowboy outfits, and then I was tapped on the shoulder.  “Pastor Clay, the worm spitting contest is about to begin!  You have to participate.”  Suddenly I realized the Student Pastor had not invited me out to dance; he had invited me out to spit worms.

 Worm spitting is the sport of putting a live worm in your mouth and then spitting it as far as possible.  The distance is measured, and a winner is declared.  This is the kind of thing Student Pastors do.  This is why I am not a Student Pastor. 

 I did go up to the table and look over the worms.  An old joke kept going through my mind:  Two men went ice fishing.  The first fisherman was catching fish after fish.  The other one didn’t get a bite.  The non-catcher asked the catcher, “Hey, how come you’re catching fish, and I’m not?”  The one catching the fish said, “Mpfhhhfh.”  The other fisherman said, “What?  I don’t understand you.”  The first fisherman again replied, “Mpfhhhfh.”  Again, the other fisherman said, “I can’t understand you.”  The first fisherman opened his mouth and took out a gob of worms, and said, “You’ve got to keep your bait warm.”

 The pressure started mounting on me to participate in this spitting contest.  “Come on, Pastor Clay; you can do it!”  “Yeah, Pastor Clay!  Spit the worm!” 

 A great advantage of being older and being the Lead Pastor is you do not have to do things just to make people happy.  I smiled and loudly declared, “No, thank you, but I will be the judge of the contest.”  I thought I was better suited to that role in the evening festivities.

 The spitting of the worms began.  I watched in disbelief as college-educated ministers and leaders put live worms in their mouths.  Seeing this sight, I gagged.  This was not a contest for the faint of stomach.  The first contestant spit an amazing 15 feet.  Then the second spit and made it 20 feet.  Then one of our Student Directors spit his worm 28 feet.  There was powerful propulsion behind that worm.  It brought a new meaning to the phrase, “I’ll huff, and I’ll puff…”   Our ministry director for girls participated, too.  She was reluctant to put the worm in her mouth, but she did.  She spit it a grand total of 3 feet.  I think she did good to get the worm in her mouth.

 The kids laughed, the music started, and I did line dances with the kids and showed how uncoordinated I am.  Then it was time for me to leave and go back to the boring world of being a Lead Pastor.

 But as I left, I thought, “Lord, thank you that your love for me does not depend on me spitting a worm.”  Grace is a wonderful gift.

Bad Decisions I Have Made…

I’ve made some bad decisions in my time.

 I decided to kiss the Methodist preacher’s daughter in high school.  I was so thrilled, on the way home I wrecked my parent’s car.  Later, she dumped me at the prom.  In hindsight, the kiss wasn’t worth wrecking the car.

 I decided the creek couldn’t be that deep.  Four-wheel drive would get me through, right?  Four-wheel drive is amazing, but it doesn’t help when the truck floats.   Do you know what happens when a truck engine sits in water overnight?  I don’t really know either, but it cost me a two-hour lecture when the bill came in.

 I decided to turn a paper in after a deadline in grad school, figuring it wouldn’t be a big deal.  Turns out, it was a big deal.  A very big deal.  A humiliating big deal.  Being on probation in grad school is not a good thing.

 I decided once to tell my finance’ (now my wife) I knew more than she did.  Turns out, I was wrong.  She knew all kinds of things I didn’t know, including some precise observations about my character and lack of good judgment.

 I decided once to tell off the deacons of the church I pastored.  I did it in a sermon.  I preached with power and passion.  It felt good to step down after that message.  It didn’t feel good a couple weeks later, looking for a new job.

 Bad as these decisions were, they aren’t even close to my worst decisions.

 Too many times I have decided I know more than God.  Ever sign, ever message from Him told me to run the other way.  I decided I could handle the temptation and went my own way.  I gave in, every single time.  Every single time.  Bad decision not to run.

 I’ve known God wanted me to love my enemies, but I was convinced God didn’t understand how much I had been hurt.  I held grudges, carried bitterness, and with great hypocrisy, pretended everything was all right.  Grudges, bitterness and pretense are heavy loads to carry.  I’ve worn myself out holding onto past hurts.  Bad decision not to forgive.

 I’ve judged people because of their poor choices.  I’ve smugly looked at their life wreckage and thought “I’m too smart to let that happen to me.”  I’ve wound up pretending like nothing is ever wrong in my own life.  I’ve put forth a face that says, “I’m a pastor and I have it all together.”  The truth is, I’ve got plenty of my own wreckage.  It’s exhausting to live like you have it all together all the time; no one does.  Bad decision not to be real.

 I’ve been quick to speak and slow to listen.  Sometimes, before people finish their sentences, I’ve already thought of a good reply.  I rush to speak because deep down, I hunger for people to say, “What a wise man he is.”  In my anxiety, I miss the person and their reality.  Bad decision to not be “slow to speak and quick to listen.”

 Looking at all my bad decisions (and there are plenty more), I can get discouraged.  Then I remember the best decision I ever made.

 Long ago, in a moment of humility, I admitted to God I was failure (sinner was the word we used).  I asked God to forgive me.  I told him I wanted Him to be in charge of my life. 

 That day, God adopted me as His child.  Whenever I make a bad decision, God forgives me.  He teaches me.  And, amazingly, He takes my bad decisions and brings good out of them.  He straightens out the wreckage of my life and gives me hope.

 That one decision takes care of every bad decision I ever made.

Things I Wish Were in the Bible…

I wish the Bible told us where Cain got his wife. Was it his sister (Eww)? I also wish the Bible explained why people back in the days of Genesis lived so long.  

When the midwives lie to Pharoah about why they are not killing the Hebrew babies, I wish the Bible would stop and explain if it is okay to not tell the truth sometimes. Further on in Exodus, there is a short, odd story about God meeting Moses with plans to kill him. Only after Zipporah, his wife, circumcises their two sons does God relent. What is that story all about? I wish there was an explanation.

When the elders of Israel share a meal on Mount Sinai and see the feet of God, I wish I knew what it looked like. And I wonder why we are given such exact specifications about the building of the Tabernacle. They can be tedious to read.

In Leviticus, why is so much attention given to mildew in the house? Or, for that matter, why all the instructions about skin diseases? I get that God is concerned about details, but why these details?

We are told in Joshua God commanded whole cities to be destroyed and everyone living in them. I wish God had spelled out in greater detail why the children had to die. That bothers me. In Ruth, when Ruth uncovers Boaz’s feet, does she stop at his ankles or uncover more? And what happened after he woke up (from the breeze?) and told her to spend the night under his blanket?

God, knowing everything, knew Saul would be a disaster of a king. Why did God let Saul become king instead of waiting for David? Why was David such a failure as a dad? And why did he put up with a blood-thirsty general like Joab? 

How could Solomon be so smart and be so dumb as to think he could handle 900 women? Why did the kings of Israel and Judah keep repeating the same mistakes over and over? 

Why didn’t God let Job know all his troubles were a result of a conversation between him and Satan? What did Job’s friends say when God told them they had not spoken rightly of him and Job must offer a sacrifice for their sins? Was Job’s wife (who told him to hurry up, curse God, and die) the mother of his second batch of children?

Exactly what kind of fish swallowed Jonah? And how did he breathe inside the fish? And did he ever decide God was right to be merciful to Nineveh?

How did Joseph deal with all the gossip through the years about Jesus’ real dad? What happened to the wise men’s gifts? Was Jesus easy to potty train? Did he ever have an ear infection? Did he have to learn to read Hebrew, or did it come naturally?

What kind of carpenter was Jesus? What did he build? Did he speak at Joseph’s funeral? How did he break it to Mary that he was going to leave home and become a traveling Rabbi? How many of his twelve disciples had he met before he began his ministry?

When Jesus bedded down at night, did he snore? What did it feel like for him to walk on water? Did he feel a thrill every time he healed someone? Did anyone ever fall asleep during one of his sermons?

How did Jesus feel in the garden when he sweated drops of blood? How did it feel when Judas betrayed him? How did he keep his cool when the chief priests and Pilate questioned him? When did the weight of the sins of the world begin to descend on his soul?

What exactly was he doing from the time of his death to the time of his resurrection? What did it mean for him to go into hell and preach there? 

What did the resurrection feel like? What was his tone of voice when he told Thomas, “Put your finger in my hand and your hand on my side?”  When he cooked breakfast for Peter and the others beside the Sea of Galilee, how did it taste?

What was it like to have the Holy Spirit descend like tongues of fire at Pentecost? How did speaking in foreign languages sound to the people speaking? How did they baptize 3,000 people in one day? Did someone get all the names?

How did Paul start conversations about Jesus when he went to a new town and worked in the marketplace? What was Paul’s “thorn in the flesh?”  When he wrote a letter to a church, did they know immediately that it was inspired, or did it take time? 

Is everything in Revelation literal, or is some of it figurative? How do you know the difference? When we stand before Jesus, and everything about our lives is revealed, will other people be able to hear and know what we did?

My belief is God tells us what he wants us to know in the Bible. There are some things that are a mystery, and apparently, God is okay with that. I do not know if all my questions will be answered in heaven, but if I go back to the book of Job when God appears, he asks Job a bunch of questions Job cannot answer. God is sending Job a message that what is most important is not knowing the answers but knowing him. 

If there is something in Bible you wish were clearer, or you wish God would answer, I understand. Not every question we have will be answered. Knowing the One who has the answers is what really matters. 

Show the Way…

When I was a boy, we always helped each other out when different family members worked cows.  I worked cows for my Aunt Iris and Uncle J.N., for Uncle Dow and Aunt Nell, and for Aunt Neta. 

I loved to work cows for Aunt Neta.  Back in those days, whichever family member’s cows were being worked fixed lunch for the cow crew.  Aunt Neta was the best cook among her sisters, but Aunt Nell ran a close second.  The only problem was going back out to work cows after a big lunch of chicken and dumplings.  You hoped you didn’t have to run your horse too much.

The other thing that made working cows at Aunt Neta’s so great was old number 97.  She was an old cow who had been to the pens many times.  When she saw men on horseback, she knew just what to do.  No matter where she was in the pasture, all the other cows, even the bulls, turned toward the pens and started to run with her.  Almost every time we would ride out in the pasture, old number 97 would see us and go to the pens.  Every cow would join her.  All we had to do was close the gates behind them.  Old number 97 showed them the way.

Finally, old number 97 died.  She produced more than a dozen calves and lived way up to almost twenty (that’s old for a cow). 

When we rode out the next time at Aunt Neta’s, I remember Uncle Earl saying, “We’re going to have trouble today.  Old number 97 is not here to show them the way.”  He was right.  We started to gather the cows, and they scattered everywhere.  One Limousin bull ran due south instead of north.  He came to a five-strand barbed wire fence and jumped it at full gallop.  I suggested we keep him to develop a new line of jumping cattle.  We finally got about half moving in the right direction when something startled the cows in the front, causing them to turn and run.  It should have taken an hour to pen the cows; we closed the last gate at about 11:30 in the morning.  Uncle Earl was a prophet about all the trouble we had that morning without old number 97 to show the way.

In Romans 10, Paul asks a series of questions: “How can they call on the one they have not believed in?  And how can they believe in the one of whom they have not heard?  And how can they hear without someone preaching to them?  And can they preach unless they are sent?”  You can probably abbreviate this to: “Who is going to show them the way?”

Who is going to teach the fatherless boy how to be a man?  Who will walk alongside the pregnant teenager?  Who will guide the troubled college student?  Who will comfort the lonely woman in the nursing home?  Who will teach children right and wrong?  Who will help couples through a rough patch in their marriage?  Most of all, who will tell people there is a God in heaven that loves them and wants good for their lives.

I don’t think government can do these things.  We ask schools to do more and more of this, but they already struggle under the weight of unrealistic expectations.  Sure, some of these challenges fall on Mom and Dad, but Mom and Dad can’t do it all by themselves.  Who will show them the way?

This is what Jesus intended his church to do.  When he told us to make disciples, he was telling us to show people how to do these things: teach boys and girls right and wrong, teach them to how to be men and women.  Love and support the pregnant teenager.  Guide those who are troubled into truth.  Support and encourage those in the nursing home.  Listen and encourage couples who struggle.  And most of all, the church needs to tell people over and over that there is a God who loves them and wants good for their lives. 

These days it is easier to tweet at people, to shout at people on Facebook, than show people the way.  But what would happen if we did?  How many lives could be changed?  And what about the change that would happen in our own lives?  I’m not sure you show someone the way without discovering for yourself something about your own next step.

Not to compare you with a wise old cow, but a family is better when someone knows the way.  A church is better when someone knows the way.  A community is better when someone knows the way.  And a nation is better when someone knows the way.

If you find yourself wishing for someone to show the way, check and see if God is gently tapping on your shoulder.  He might be saying, “You.  You show them the way.” 

Roe v. Wade…

It is tempting to pass by the Supreme Court decision that reversed Roe v. Wade and instead tell you about something humorous about the cows or the ranch. The reason it is tempting is I know no matter what I write, someone will be mad. I feel compelled to speak, however. Abortion is one of the most heated and divisive issues of our day. God sometimes speaks to me in a whisper that will not go away, and this is one of those times.

If you have seen video of protesters who claim to follow Jesus yelling hate at one another, that is not the way of Jesus. I read a report of a man outside a Kansas abortion clinic who claimed to be a Christian yelling that all the people in the building were going to hell. That is not the way of Jesus. Likewise, people who are loudly proclaiming, “My body, my choice,” are missing the way of Jesus, who taught us to be surrendered servants in the Kingdom of God.

The terms “Pro-life” and “Pro-choice” are not Biblical words. They are political labels used to influence voters and increase political power. God does not see you as a label but as a person. As a wise pastor friend wrote, “Jesus valued people above politics.” This means everyone I meet is created in the image of God and is loved by God. Every person has a next step God wants them to take.

Based on Psalm 139 and Jeremiah 1, God is more aware of what goes on in a mother’s womb than the woman herself. He understands every pregnancy. A woman’s womb is a sacred space where God assembles the miracle of a human soul. But like everything else in this world, what God has intended for good is broken. There is the larger brokenness of the world that stops people who want to have children from having children. Then there is the brokenness that is up close when a pregnancy is caused by poor decisions or by rape. Pregnancy can come to a woman who is in no position to care for a child, who battles addiction, or is in an abusive relationship.

I have been with couples who desperately wanted a child and prayed with them to conceive. After I prayed for one couple who had been trying to conceive for five years, the wife finally was pregnant. After giving birth, she quickly got pregnant again. Accelerating the story, five kids later, the husband said to me, “Pastor, please stop praying.” But I have prayed for other couples, and no baby came. I felt their heartbreak and sadness. I asked Jesus to comfort their deep well of grief and shame.

But I remember other encounters. I met once with a college student and her dad. She was date raped and pregnant. I will never forget him holding his daughter as she wept, looking at me with overwhelming pain in his eyes, and asking me, “Pastor, what do we do? Will God take away our salvation if she has an abortion?” I prayed for wisdom about how to answer; what would Jesus say?

I remember another conversation with an older woman in the hospital who had four grown children. As we talked, she shared that when children were all under the age of six, she found herself pregnant again. She said, “I was overwhelmed and suicidal. I thought I would kill myself if I had another baby. So I had an abortion. I wasn’t sure if it was the right thing to do, Pastor, but I thought it was better for my children to have a live mother than a dead mother. Did I do the right thing, Pastor?”

I know of a woman who was in an abusive relationship. If you have not been in such a relationship, you do not know the blinding circle of hoping and wounding that occurs. The woman in this relationship became pregnant. She knew if she carried the baby to term, she would put the baby in harm’s way. She got an abortion. Did she make the right decision?

When I think about these real stories, I find myself asking, “What would Jesus do? What would Jesus say?” I am certain he would say, “I have not come into the world to condemn the world, but that the world through me might be saved.” Jesus can and will redeem every pregnancy, whether terminated or carried to term. Having an abortion does not keep a person from heaven. But keeping a child does not automatically mean a person has done the most righteous thing. In some situations, it feels like abortion is the lesser of two evils (yes, I am aware that phrase is also not in the Bible).

At the same time, I cannot imagine Jesus being casual about abortion or endorsing it as a license to go out and live however you want. Let us be honest: before an abortion occurs, there are many other decisions and choices that come before it. I think Jesus grieves when he sees people heading down a road that has a negative consequence at the end.

By now, I imagine some of you feel frustrated reading this because you want me to use your label and agree with your position. I can understand that. But I can’t do it. I believe people need to be loved, not judged. God is the judge, and I will leave that decision to him. But Jesus is clear when he says, “Love one another as I have loved you.” That means to listen, to understand, to want good for people on every side of this issue.

Before I cast any stones, I must remember I, too, am a sinner. If not for the grace and love of my forgiving Heavenly Father, I would stand condemned. This, to me, seems to be the position of humility. Humility means I need to love those who disagree with me and those who agree with me. Who has been humble in the week since the Supreme Court decision?

What does the reversal of Roe v. Wade mean? It means more love is required. I must love those who terminate pregnancies. I must love those who carry their babies to term. I must love those who face impossible situations and be as much like Jesus as I can be. I must pray for strength not to be captured by a political allegiance but to give my whole heart to Jesus. I must have the wisdom of Jesus in situations that do not have easy solutions.

The key issue in life is not Roe v. Wade, but Me v. Sin. I lose that case every time. But thanks be to God, Jesus came to save me, and all who will call on his name. He overturned the most important case of all.

Under Construction…

I am out at our Pocalla Campus building site for a meeting. Outside the job trailer, there is the noise of generators, lifts, and steel being cut. We’ve gone in a few short months from bare ground to a slab, to a steel frame, to framed up walls, and now to insulation siding. In a few months, we will have a building with heat, air conditioning, and running water. But not yet. We can imagine what will be but does not yet exist.

My life and your life are like buildings under construction. It all starts with the foundation. All of us start with a flawed foundation. The phrase “nobody’s perfect” reflects the deeper truth: “All have sinned and fallen short of the glory of God.”  Our flaws are different. Your parents may have been great, but you discovered how to lie all on your own. Or you might have been neglected or abused. These leave deep wounds on your soul. If you build on this foundation, whatever you put up will be unlevel, it will not be square. Parts of your soul that you need to function will not work right, if at all.

When Jesus offered us the chance to be born again, he offers a new foundation. He is not just asking to fix your flaws; he says to you and me, “Let’s start over. I will forgive your sins; I will heal your wounds.   We won’t build on your past; we will build on my purpose for you.”  This is part of what Paul meant when he said, “For no one can lay any foundation other than the one already laid, which is Jesus Christ.” 

Once you make the decision to make Jesus your foundation, the building starts. This requires listening to Jesus regularly. Do you really want to tell Jesus he is doing the plumbing wrong? I think this is where I and a lot of other believers mess up. We think we know better than Jesus how to do things. I have taken tools out of Jesus’ hands (metaphorically) and said, “Let me do it.” The results are predictable.

The walls of your life are what people see. Isn’t it funny how some people will point to a crooked wall in their life and say, “I did that on purpose. It makes a statement.”  Yes, it does. It makes a statement that you trusted your own ignorance over the wisdom of God.

I think the electrical and mechanical systems are what energize the building. Sacred time with God energizes your life. You need daily sacred time: time to think about your life and your relationship with God: time to ponder God’s great truths in the Bible; time to talk out your problems and lay out your needs; time to listen to God speak to you.

You also need weekly sacred time. Weekly sacred time means coming together to worship, to bring an offering to God, to be encouraged by God’s people, and to encourage others. Weekly sacred time is needed to put your life in perspective. In other words, your life is not all about you. A building without plumbing or electricity can still keep out the wind and rain, but it falls short of what it could be.

God told his people to take off three weeks every year to worship, celebrate and think about their relationship with him. In a world that had no concept of vacation, imagine God saying, “You need annual sacred time.”  To be properly energized, you too need annual sacred time to be present with God.

The finishes on a building – the paint, carpet, furnishings, etc. – are what people notice. Most of us put our time and energy here. We want other people to think well of us, so we dress ourselves up to look our best. A contractor once told me, “Paint can hide a lot of flaws.”  I think we try to hide our flaws behind lifestyles, performance, knowledge, and social media. Hiding our flaws works for a period of time. But the flaws show up eventually. 

After one building project, we were satisfied that everything was as it should be. Until the first heavy rain. Our brand-new roof leaked. We had meeting after meeting with the contractor and the architect to determine “why?”  Finally, we discovered the roofing sub-contractor had used the wrong nails. The brand-new roof had to be torn off and replaced. It turned out the site superintendent didn’t want to go up on the high roof to inspect the work, and neither did the architect. The reason Psalm 139 invites us to ask God, “To search my heart and see if there is any wicked way in me,” is because God will go places in our soul we do not want to go. You need a soul supervisor to our lives.

Paul also wrote that one day our lives will pass through a fire of judgment. Everything not built according to Jesus’ plan will burn up. It doesn’t pass the test. It fails. One more reason to build according to Jesus’ plan.

Ruth Graham, Billy Graham’s wife, once saw a sign on a highway under construction. The sign read, “End of Construction. Thank you for your patience.”  She said she wanted that inscribed on her tombstone (after her death, her wishes were carried out). I like that thought. Life is about being constructed by Jesus. One day he finishes. Until then, let’s be patient with one another and stick to his plans. After all, he was a carpenter, you know.

Desperate Prayer…

There was a very troubled time in my life when all I had was desperate prayer. Desperate prayer is the prayer you pray when there is no one else to turn to. If God does not come through for you, you are going to be up a creek without a paddle, a canoe, or a life vest.

The details of that painful time in my life are not important. The truth was I made a series of bad decisions, each of which had a compounding effect. I thought I was managing everything until my illusion of control came crashing down. It was then my prayers moved from perfunctory to desperate.

I think it works this way for most of us. We think we have life under control. We pray mostly for God to keep our little illusions of control intact. I think God lets our tower of self-deception fall because the kindest form of love is the truth.

There was no simple solution to my circumstances, no magical sitcom solution. God would need to change people and change me. I felt guilty asking for his help because I knew I had created my own problems. Still, there was no alternative.

I realize I am leaving out a great deal, but over the course of several weeks, God changed people. God changed me. Circumstances changed. Things fell into place. I did not dodge a bullet; I was rescued from a shell with my name on it. As the situation resolved, I remember praying over and over, “Thank you, God, thank you.”

Not until recently did I understand God had done a miracle for me. There were no flashing lights, no voices from heaven. But something supernatural occurred. God showed up in ways I did not think possible. The ancient words of Isaiah had come true: “When you pass through the waters, I will be with you…” The miracle of the presence of God might be the quietest miracle of all, but it is no less of a miracle for its restraint.

Miracles are not just healing events. Every child that is born is a miracle. Marriages that last are miracles. Self-supporting children are miracles.

Moses parted the waters, but God still opens up a path for you through obstacles. Jesus helped Peter get the catch of a lifetime, but Jesus still opens doors of opportunity for you.

Some of my brothers and sisters in Christ are more comfortable asking for miracles. The crowd I run with seems so afraid God won’t send a miracle they are afraid to ask for one. Billy Graham once said he thought heaven would be filled with miracles no one asked for. That comment reminds me to ask God to send all the miracles I can handle my way.

Maybe a good first step for you is to pray for God to open your eyes to the miracles around you. Ask God to show you what he has already done for you. An old hymn still rings in my memory: “Count your blessings, name them one by one; Count your blessings, see what God has done…” A blessing is a miracle by another name.

Never confuse miracles with orders. We ask for miracles; we do not give God orders. We trust what God will do. Why does God sometimes give the miracle and sometimes not? We do not know. We only know that God wants what is best for every person. Working around billions of people and their free will to do what is right requires a mind greater than my own. I trust God knows what is best for every person involved, even if it does not seem the best in my eyes.

We live in a world in need of miracles. We need a miracle to bring our country together. We need miracles to protect our children from all manner of threats. We need a miracle to stop a war that is unsettling the whole world.

I need, you need, we need personal miracles. We need the miracle of joy to bring hope each day. We need the miracle of peace to not lose faith in the face of turmoil. We need the miracle of love to help us love those who persecute us or even those who annoy us deeply.

Desperate prayers are about miracles we need. Believe God can do the impossible. Pray for his will to be done. Pray for miracles, great and small, to be done. Desperate times call for great miracles.

Come to Me…

I was on vacation last week at the beach. I am not really a beach person, but I love to walk on the beach, and I love to feel the afternoon sea breeze. We did not watch the news, or a read a newspaper. Instead, we played putt-putt golf, saw “Top Gun: Maverick” twice (Does Tom Cruise have a deal with the devil to stay looking so young?), and ate seafood. I took a couple of two-hour naps. It was wonderful.

As we packed up to leave, I said to my wife, “Can we just stay on vacation?” Our bank account is not sized to be on a permanent break. Work waited and the grass in the yard was almost tall enough to bale for hay. I came back to an extensive list of chores and projects that needed to be knocked out.

I also came back to the news. In the county next to ours, one woman was killed, and seven others shot (including several children) while attending a graduation party. The authorities say it was gang-related, a drive-by shooting. I heard excruciating testimony from those present during the Uvalde School shooting. An armed man was stalking a Supreme Court Justice. It looks like former President Trump will be forced to testify about the January 6th attack on the Capitol. The survivors of sexual abuse perpetrated by Dr. Larry Nasser have filed a $1 Billion lawsuit against the FBI. I think I hear the beach calling my name.

Even in my own little world, my ministerial colleagues are hurling invective toward each other about theological issues no one cares about. Twitter has become the dueling ground of the 21st century. I was having breakfast with a friend, and he shared how discouraged he is about our country. “I feel like our country is on the edge of a Civil War,” he said. “Not like before, North against South, but almost a guerilla warfare that has no end.” I told him I had read the writing on Twitter with my own eyes.

Some people’s solution to this is to not watch the news, not engage on Social Media, to hope the world will get better on its own. I don’t see that happening. Very few things get better on their own. Still, the emotional overload of the news can pull you down.

I think about the world Jesus inhabited. Sure, the news traveled slower back then, but the threats were larger. Hunger was real. Every family had to measure their grain against the days until the next harvest. Would they have enough?

Taxes were ruinous. It is hard to pin down the exact percentage of income people paid in taxes, but most scholars agree the tax collection rate was regressive, falling heaviest on those who had the least. People paid a poll tax, a temple tax, an overage to the tax collectors, a customs tax, and just about any other tax the government could think up. Some scholars estimate the total tax burden was over fifty percent. No deductions allowed.

During Jesus’ lifetime, the local government was capricious. Citizens were at the mercy of the either a regional King (who was a vassal of Rome) or a Roman Governor, who was more interested in keeping Rome happy, than keeping peace. Capital punishment was common and swift; no appeals court existed unless you were a Roman citizen. A Jew could be compelled to carry a Roman soldier’s backpack up to a mile out of town. If he refused, he could be jailed, or killed on the spot.

Banditry was common, travel was hazardous. You might remember Jesus’ story about the Good Samaritan. The story connected to the audience because it was based in truth; everyone knew the dangers of traveling alone.

There were also bands of guerillas, with quixotic notions of overthrowing Rome. They operated in the shadows, using tools of sabotage and intimidation to pursue their goals. They were always looking for fellow insurrectionists but feared infiltration. Oddly, Jesus invited one of these, Simon the Zealot, into his circle of twelve.

In the midst of all this chaos, Jesus dared to proclaim, “Come to me, all you who are weary and heavy laden, and I will give you rest.” The invitation of Jesus to everyone who finds themselves living in chaos is still the same. Come to him. No matter what is going on in the world, no matter how bad the news is, the same Savior who offered rest to troubled souls in his time, offers rest to you.

What does the rest of Jesus look like? It is a trust that Jesus is aware of the troubles of this world. He knows the burdens we carry. He gently reminds us that those troubles and burdens actually belong to him. If we trust him, if we surrender to him, we will not receive a trouble-free life, but we will have a deep abiding peace that God is at work. He may not be in the headlines, but God is at work. He will bring justice. He will bring peace. He will use us and other unlikely people as instruments of his will.

Somehow, putting my troubles and burden at Jesus’ feet makes me feel a peace that not even a week at the beach can bring.

From the Archives - Why God Makes You Wait…

Have you ever wondered why God makes you wait? God does not deliver in two days like Amazon Prime. Why?

Sometimes God makes us wait because we are not trusting. When we do not trust, we feel tension. Our requests are really pleas to relieve our inner tension. We falsely think that God is supposed to make us comfortable. Tension isn’t relaxing, but it is an opportunity for faith. In the midst of the tension, have faith.

Sometimes God makes us wait because we are not ready to receive. God wants to bless us, but there is a major spiritual issue we haven’t dealt with, or there is a priority we’ve let slip, or we need to grow some character to be able to handle what God wants to give us. When this is the case, God will make clear the growth step that is required if we listen. When the growth step is clear, do it!

Sometimes God makes us wait because His timing is better than ours. God sees how the whole picture will unfold. If He sends the blessing now, other pieces of the puzzle will not fit. This is often His concession to us, His way of understanding our limited ability to see the whole picture. Ask God to help you see more of His picture.

Sometimes we think God is making us wait when God is actually telling us “no.” You may be praying for someone to fall in love with you and think God is telling you to wait, but He is actually saying, “No, she/he is not the person for you.” Ask God to help you accept His will and His “no.”

Sometimes God makes us wait because He wants to make it clear that He is the one who makes the promise come true. If God gave us the fulfillment of His promise as soon as we asked, we would be tempted to think we controlled Him. Or we would think it was our actions that made things happen. Ask God to remind you of the ways He is in control.

Sometimes God makes us wait because someone else isn’t ready. This is hard. We’re ready; God’s ready. But someone else is involved. This is hard, especially if we can identify the other person and know what they need to do to be ready. Even if they never take that step of readiness, God will find a way to work His plan. When this happens, pray for the other person.

Sometimes God makes us wait for reasons unknown. Isaiah cries out, “His understanding is beyond searching.” God’s ways and timing can be a mystery. Our minds are not all-knowing, and we are not all-powerful. When you can’t find any other reason why God asks you to wait, stand before His great power and knowledge and honor Him as the God who is infinite and, therefore, beyond understanding.

While you wait, remember these other words of Isaiah: “They that wait upon the LORD shall renew their strength; they shall mount up with wings like Eagles, they shall run and not grow weary, they shall walk and not faint.”

He Deserves to Be Remembered…

I do not remember all this story, but I think I have most of it right.  Before my mother was my mother, she was the Belle of Central Florida.  Boys fought (literally) for the privilege of taking her out.  In a time when the population was much smaller, it was only natural that some of the boys were kin.   

My mother somehow met Halcott Smith, cousin of my father, King Kong Smith.  Halcott was home on leave during World War II from the 101st Airborne and apparently squired my mother around a time or two.  When it was time in 1943 for Halcott to ship out overseas, he gifted my mother a watch, with two small diamonds, as a sign of his affection.  My father, who also had begun to show an interest in my mother, decided to up the ante and bought my mother another watch: this one had four small diamonds.  

I do not believe my mother and Halcott were ever serious.  In any case, absence did not make my mother’s heart grow fonder.  After a stormy courtship, Mama and Daddy married on September 11, 1945, after the war was over.  I remember Mama wearing the watch Daddy gave her through most of my childhood. 

Halcott Smith, my father’s cousin, never made it home from World War II.  He was part of the 502nd Parachute Infantry Regiment.  That regiment was dropped behind enemy lines at Utah Beach on June 6, 1944, D-Day.  Halcott’s Company “D” was one of the lucky ones.  Parts of “A” Company were dropped into the English Channel and drowned.  His company joined with other elements and secured a safe landing for the 4th Infantry Division. 

The 502nd was later tapped for one of the most daring missions of the European Theater: Operation Market Garden.  A British plan, it called for the paratroopers to jump into the Netherlands, seize control of key roads, bridges, and communication cities, and split the country in half.  This would enable the British army to move through the country to the German border.  This daring drop would be done in daylight.  Halcott Smith was one of the thousands of brave men who hurled themselves from airplanes onto the Dutch soil. 

Much debate surrounds Operation Market Garden.  While it failed to seize key objectives, it succeeded in pushing the Germans back, ultimately leading to their retreat.  The battle was largely wrapped up by early October, but troops were still engaged with the withdrawing German army. 

Sometime on October 27, 1944, a German bullet found Halcott.  He died on foreign soil, fighting under an American flag, battling against the evil of Nazism.  I really do not know any more than that, although I am sure that someone in my family remembers the specifics.  Like thousands of Americans who died in World War II, Halcott was buried a long way from Hardee County, Florida, at the Netherlands American Cemetery.  His grave is marked by a plain white cross, noting his name, state of origin, unit, and date of death.   

As Memorial Day approaches, it is tempting to forget men like Halcott, dead now over 75 years.  Fresh stories of other battles, other casualties, and other deaths make us mourn.  There is, however, a powerful injunction from Job, a cry of lament as he mourns his own condition.  It is the lament of every soldier killed far from home: “Earth, do not cover my blood; may my cry never be laid to rest!” Job’s lament is a cry to be remembered.   Soldiers, sailors, and airmen, know the risks when they swear an oath to protect and defend the constitution of the United States.  If called upon to make the supreme sacrifice, they want to know their death is not in vain; they want to know they will be remembered. 

Not too long ago, my sister-in-law Jo, my wife Gina, and I were going through the contents of the family safety deposit box.  There were bags of old coins, paid-off mortgages, and some of my mother’s jewelry that had not been divided among the grandchildren.  There was one old lumpy envelope bearing my mother’s handwriting: “Watch.”  I opened it, and out slid an old watch – with two small diamonds on either side.  For all these years, Mama had kept Halcott’s watch.  Maybe it was her small way of saying, “I will not forget.  I will remember you.” 

I put the watch back in the envelope, back in the safety deposit box.  Though Halcott died before my parents married, before I was ever born, I decided we needed to keep the watch.  He, along with thousands of others, deserves to be remembered. 

Failing Our Children…

We are failing our children.

The latest reminder of our failure happened in Uvalde, Texas. A troubled young man, Salvador Ramos, took two semi-automatic rifles he had purchased into Robb Elementary School. He proceeded to kill nineteen children, most of them nine to ten years old, and two teachers described as the “cornerstones of the school.” Prior to this act of violence, he shot his grandmother in the face and posted on Facebook his intentions.

People all over the world are offering “thoughts and prayers.” This is important. We should pray. But James, Jesus’ brother said, “Faith without works is dead.”

According to one news report, Salvador Ramos’ favorite video games were “Call of Duty” and “Fortnight.” While science has not proved a causal link between violent “shooter” games and gun violence, is this really what you want male adolescents to learn? It is one thing to take a child into the woods with a gun and hunt. Such lessons are valuable; a child learns about life and death. Blood is real. Death means no return. I learned those lessons as a child. It was hammered into me a gun is an effective but dangerous tool. But a video game creates a fuzzy reality, where death only lasts until the next game. If you have a point-of-view shooter game in the house and your children are under the age of eighteen, take a hammer and smash those games. Endure the whining and the fits that will follow. Your child’s mind is too precious to damage.

Salvador Ramos was known as a troubled soul. He was bullied in High School. His mother was a drug user. Though politicians claim there is mental health treatment available for kids like Salvador, those who have tried to access public mental health treatment know the long waits for appointments, the overloaded caseworkers, and the lack of follow-up care. No one wants higher taxes, but if we do not fund public mental health adequately, we can expect another kid like Salvador to fall through the cracks and kill people.

News stories have made no mention of Salvador Ramos’ father. So far, no youth group leader, no pastor has stepped forward to say, “Salvador attended our church.” I am not trying to blame the churches and pastors of Uvalde, or even his dad. But where, exactly, do we expect our children to learn to make moral decisions? In school? We flood our screens with violence in the name of entertainment and then expect children to know right and wrong. If you are a parent, and even if you are not sure there is a God, can I beg you to please take your children to church? We cannot undo the eight hours a day your kids spend in front of a screen, but we can teach them about moral decisions, about right and wrong. If you won’t take your kids to church, then figure out a moral framework you can teach them yourself. One thing the Uvalde shootings proved again: if right and wrong is not taught by someone, right and wrong will not be lived out by the one who needs to be taught.

There are now simple devices that can prevent entry into a classroom by an active shooter. Every classroom in America should have one. Every school in America should have a school resource officer for every 200 students. Will it cost more? Yes. Is the cost worth the lives of children? Yes. You cannot claim to be pro-life and stop protecting children as soon as they leave the safety of the womb.

Our teachers deserve to be protected. My daughter-in-law teaches school. She does not receive hazardous duty pay. No matter your opinion on public or private schools, can we agree that every child and every teacher in America deserves a safe school to attend. We cannot cut funding for education, place teachers in harmful environments, and then wonder why teachers are abandoning their profession in droves. Our children deserve teachers who can teach without fear of attack.

A few days after his eighteenth birthday, Salvador Ramos legally bought an AR-15 style semi-automatic weapon and 375 rounds of ammunition. I do not wish to argue second amendment rights, but can we agree an eighteen-year-old has no business owning a gun like that? Science tells us the male brain does not fully mature to the point of understanding long-term consequences until age twenty-five. The right to bear arms is matched with the responsibility to bear arms. If you are gun owner, like I am, make sure your guns are locked up and inaccessible to those who should not have them. If you buy and sell guns, foreswear a sale to someone who has no business owning a gun.

Some of you reading this may think a simple Baptist preacher has no business writing about such things. “Stick to the Bible,” you say. Okay, I will. Jesus said, “If anyone causes one of these little ones—those who believe in me—to stumble, it would be better for them to have a large millstone hung around their neck and to be drowned in the depths of the sea.” To theological nitpickers, I am aware that Jesus is talking about those who believe in him. But as the context of Matthew 18 makes clear, he is also talking about children. Killing a child, being complicit in helping someone kill a child, causes them to stumble, don’t you think? The thought of a millstone being hung around my neck and being cast in the sea is enough to make me stop and think about my actions, my words. I do not want to fail the children anymore.

There is much division in our country. I cannot pretend to fathom how to heal all the fault lines. But for God’s sake, let us stop failing the children. Whatever it costs, whatever we must do, let us stop failing the children. I know that is what Jesus wants us to do.

Head in the Sand or Prayer List?

I heard it again this week: “I don’t watch the news. It’s too depressing.”  I admit it can be downright depressing sometimes. In these overstressed times, the news sometimes brings another story of woe. These stories can be happening on the other side of the world or in the next county over. We feel powerless to stop a war, comfort victims, mourn with families outside our zip codes or stop political shenanigans in our own town. 

A variation of this is getting our news only from people we agree with. This leads to what is called “confirmation bias.”  We only read or watch viewpoints until they seem to be the only valid ones. We wind up in an information hall of mirrors, magnifying our opinions and tailoring the news to fit our preconceived ideas. 

When we tune out the news, or only tune into the news that supports our viewpoints, we are accused of putting our heads in the sand. This phrase comes from Roman times. The Romans observed ostriches in Africa and thought they put their heads in the sand when they were frightened or threatened.  

The Romans, however, had bad eyesight. Ostriches do not put their heads in the sand. When they feel threatened, they will check their eggs, which are buried in the sand. Or they will put their head on top of the sand to lower their profiles. Ostriches are smart enough to know you cannot hide from reality. 

I am sad to say some of my tribe of Christians still believe we can hide from reality by avoiding the news or pretending reality doesn’t exist by offering a false account of events (Whatever happened to “Thou shalt not bear false witness?”). Jesus, however, never ducked reality. He never created a false narrative. His followers believe he came to deal with the ultimate reality of humanity: the brokenness of human lives and the sinful cultures we build. Remember his clear words: “You shall know the truth, and the truth will set you free.” 

Karl Barth said, “Take your Bible and take your newspaper, and read both. But interpret newspapers from your Bible.”  I’ve thought a lot about this since I heard about another weekend of gun violence. A white supremacist takes guns into a grocery story and kills ten people. Another gunman opens fire in a California church, wounding five and killing a doctor, who heroically charged the gunman as he opened fire, enabling others to subdue him. This gunman, ironically born in Taiwan, hated Taiwanese people. When I hear about racially motivated shootings, I remember what the Bible says: “Yea, though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death, I will fear no evil, for thou are with me. Thy rod and thy staff, they comfort me.”  I pray for God to walk with people through tragedy, for God to comfort them. I pray for God to drive out the hate that inhabits troubled souls.

I read about the ongoing war between Russia and Ukraine. I remember to pray for peace: “Turn from evil and do good; seek peace and pursue it.”  Though it is hard, I pray to the enemies of my country that they might see the hopelessness of their path and turn toward the grace and forgiveness of Jesus.

A stock market alert comes across my phone. Bears and Bulls are wrestling on Wall Street. I know this means the next time I check my retirement fund, I will feel anxiety and wonder, “Do I have enough?”  Then I remember to pray: “What time I am afraid, I will trust in you.”  The words of Jesus come back to me: “Do not store up for yourselves treasures on earth…; rather, store up treasure in heaven.”  Every dip in the stock market is an invitation to trust my Heavenly Father, who knows my needs better than I do.

A leaked Supreme Court draft striking down Roe vs. Wade causes some people to rejoice and others to proclaim the end of a woman’s freedom. I hear Jesus’ words in my head, “This is my command, that you love one another. Love one another as I have loved you.”  I must confess to God my heart must grow before I can love all the people in the abortion debate. I am to love the unborn baby who carries the image of God. I am to love the mom who is considering abortion, because her pregnancy is not good news. I am to love the single mom who decides to keep her baby and depends on my tax dollars to buy her baby formula. I am to love people who spew judgment and hate on all sides of the issue. I pray harder for God to help me love everyone involved.

To have a prayer list of people who are sick or have lost loved ones is good. Pray too, for missionaries, for caregivers. Pray for pastors and churches and the lost. But lengthen your prayer list. Follow the news. Let the Bible guide your prayers. Then pray. Watch what God can do.

Somebody Thinks You Matter...

My wife and I went to a minor league baseball game a few weeks ago. Baseball is not my favorite sport, but it was a beautiful night, we had great seats, and the price was reasonable. 

We’ve had several players from our community get drafted and then play in the minors. They tell me it is not quite like Bull Durham, but it is not glamorous. You play before small crowds, against better players than you have ever faced, and there is pressure to perform. The minors, especially at the single “A” level, are up or out. 

It was the third inning when the catcher from the opposing team came up to bat. Though Columbia, SC stadium holds just a few thousand, they have a million-dollar scoreboard displaying all the players' stats. I don’t understand all the baseball stats, but I know batting average and on-base average. This guy had a batting average of .077 and an on-base average of .078. Even I know that’s not good. If you are below .100, it means you just joined the team and haven’t had many at-bats, or the organization values you for your position skills, or you will be soon riding the bus home. 

A couple of rows behind me was a man who was on his fifth or sixth beer. When the catcher’s stats flashed up on the scoreboard, he hollered, “Swing at everything, buddy! You’re due.” I don’t think he was encouraging him. The catcher swung at the first pitch. Strike one. He looked the second pitch straight in. Strike two. He swung on the third pitch. Strike three. 

He trotted back to the dugout and quickly began to put his catcher gear back on. Other guys just have to get their gloves to go back on the field. The catcher has to put on a whole suit of protective gear. 

The catcher did make some great throws when someone tried to steal second base, and he tagged a guy out at home. But a couple of innings later, he was back up to bat. They flashed his statistics back up on the board, and the computer had already updated his batting average. He was down to .074. 

The guy two rows behind me was now on his eighth beer. I made a mental note to get out of the parking lot before him. I can’t write what he said next, because this is a family newspaper. He cast doubt on the catcher’s parents, compared his hitting to chicken litter, and shared with everyone he was a loser. We were close enough to home plate - I am sure the catcher heard every word. 

The count went to 3-1, then the catcher connected to the fifth pitch. Though he was playing for the away team, by this time, I was on his side. I cheered as the ball soared toward the outfield. Maybe, maybe, it would clear the fence. No such luck. The ball began to fall right on top of the centerfielder, who caught it easily. No hits for the catcher on this night. 

I could not help wondering what this would mean for the catcher. Would his baseball dreams be ending soon? Would they give him more time? Would he sleep tonight or berate himself over his dismal performance at the plate? 

The Columbia team rallied back to within one run before finally losing. The visiting team celebrated their win with high fives. Then I saw the kids. 

About a dozen kids with baseballs lined up by the dugout, hoping for an autograph. Most of the kids were too young to know about minor leagues versus major leagues. They wanted an autographed baseball from a real pro player. 

A few of the players scribbled an autograph, then headed for the clubhouse. Then I saw the catcher. Kids were thrusting baseballs at him left and right. He was signing them as fast as he could go. Finally, all the players had left, but the catcher was still there, signing for every kid who presented a ball. When all the kids were gone, only then did the catcher head in. 

I thought about those baseballs. In a few years, those kids may wonder who the player was that signed it. Some might remember a night of baseball with their families, but I thought most about the catcher. He made some great plays but had an awful night batting. Still, he stayed and signed autograph after autograph. I wondered if he enjoyed knowing someone thought he mattered no matter how bad he did at the plate. The kids might forget one day who he was, but I have a feeling he would always remember for one night that somebody thought he mattered.

When you fail, when the hecklers make fun of you, when you wonder if your luck will ever change, remember you matter to someone – your Heavenly Father. Instead of wanting your autograph, he puts his arm around you and says, “I want you to be my child.” Don’t listen to the heckler or that inner voice of doubt. Listen to your Heavenly Father’s voice that tells you, “You matter to me.” 

Gift for Mom...

My nephew was cleaning out a closet at the Ranch House and he found a coffee mug I made for my mother in third grade.  When I say “coffee mug,” what I am trying to describe is my intention, not the actual resemblance of the object to anything that actually holds coffee.

It began as a third-grade art project.  We were to make our mothers a gift for Mother’s Day.  I knew my mother drank a cup of coffee in the morning, so I thought she might like to have a custom-made cup.  I took the wet clay and tried to shape it to look like a store-bought mug.  It wound up looking more like a miniature volcano: wide at the base and narrow at the top.  I crafted a handle and attached it.  It fell off.  The teacher had to help me roll out another piece of clay and graft it into the cup. 

The bell rang, and our art teacher told us she would take this to be fired.  This process had not been adequately explained to me because I wondered what my cup had done to deserve termination.  It turned out the clay had to be put through the fire to harden, after which we would paint our creations.

The next week our clay creations were returned to us, ready for painting.  We had to share paint and brushes, which is difficult for third graders.  Other kids had painted their creations bright blue and fiery red.  When it came my turn to get the brush, the only color left was brown.  With no other choice, I slapped the brown paint onto the clay.  You can never describe the color brown as “colorful” or “brilliant.”

The next week, the teacher gave us back our creations.  She handed the cup back to me and I barely recognized it.  It was still the same volcanic shape, but someone had painted a sickly yellow color over the brown coat.  The end result looked like a bathroom disaster.  The teacher said, “See me after class.”

Had I done something wrong?  Had I used the wrong color paint and the heat of the second baking changed the colors?  Had my cup damaged the oven?  A third-grader’s imagination can go to dark places. 

After the bell rang, the teacher pulled aside and said, “I am sorry Clay.  When your cup came out of the furnace the brown paint had partially melted.  I tried to cover it up with this yellow paint, but it did not cover the surface well.  I know you wanted to give your Mom something pretty, but I hope she will like this anyway.”  This was not exactly an endorsement of my artistic skills. 

By this time, it was too late to think about any other project to give my mother for Mother’s Day.  It was the ugly cup or nothing.  I wrapped it in newspaper (because Mama knew better than to give us good wrapping paper), using almost a whole roll of tape. 

My brothers and sisters had done far better than me on their gifts – after all, they had jobs and money.  Mine was the last gift to be opened.  I remember the shock on Mama’s face when she saw the cup; ugliness can leave you speechless.  Then she looked at me and exclaimed, “I love it!  How beautiful!  Thank you, Clay.”  I beamed with eight-year-old pride as Mama showed off the cup to the older kids with a look in her eye that said, “Don’t you dare laugh, or you will incur my wrath.”  It must have worked because no one laughed, and I received several other compliments from my siblings. 

I never saw Mama drink coffee from that mug.  I can’t blame her.  In that cup the coffee would be hard to identify.  Instead, she put it on her nightstand, where collected change, straight pins, and other paraphernalia that accumulates over time.  By the time I went off to college, it had graduated to her dresser.  As an adult, I found it one day in her closet on a shelf, still holding little odds and ends. 

When the mug came back into my hands fifty years later, I wondered why Mama had not thrown it away.  It was not beautiful.  Its function of holding odds and ends could have been fulfilled by something more attractive.  But Mama held onto it all those years.  I guess what mattered to her was not the gift itself, but who gave her the gift. 

I did not have money to buy Mama a Mother’s Day gift, but what I had, I gave.  Paul wrote to the ancient church in Corinth these words: “12 For if the willingness is there, the gift is acceptable according to what one has, not according to what one does not have.”  What matters is your heart, your willingness. 

Stop and think about everything your Mama did for you.  I’m sure she wasn’t perfect.  But honor her.  Give her gifts of forgiveness, love, and grace.  If you get a chance, get her a coffee cup.  She might even drink coffee from it.

Weeping…

I am sure no one ever said to me, “Quit crying, boy, or I will give you something to cry about.”  Yet growing up in the rural South, somewhere I absorbed the message: “Men do not cry.”  Crying was seen as a sign of weakness.  I thought that men had to be tough.  The opposite of tough is weak; therefore, do not cry. 

I never saw my stepfather cry.  Not once.  He had lost one wife to cancer and experienced the painfully slow loss of my mother to Alzheimer’s.  No tears.  He was part of the greatest generation ever who got on with life and no emotion got in the way. 

The odd thing for me was though I absorbed these lessons and could be very stoic, tears would flow at the strangest of times.  A passage in a book describing a tragic death of a young adult would cause me to cry.  A wistful country song would cause my eyes to brim with tears.  A tear-jerk commercial would jerk tears from my reservoir of held-back sadness.  My children always made fun of me for crying at the end of “You’ve Got Mail,” when Meg Ryan finally realizes Tom Hanks is the true love of her life. 

When my brother died last year, I was by his bed.  A tear or two fell onto the floor, but that was all.  There was so much to do, so many things to organize.  My lack of emotion surprised the people who knew me best.  “We thought you would be distraught,” they said.   

My lack of tears surprised me.  My brother was my best friend, my loyal partner.  My lack of tears was not because I did not love my brother.  There was simply so much happening, so many details to chase, the ranch to keep running, my daughter’s wedding in four weeks, and major church decisions that had to be made in the next month.  A wise friend told me, “Make time to grieve.”  I knew I needed to, but the tyranny of the urgent led me to ignore my grief.  I ignored the wisdom of scripture: “There is a time to grieve…” 

Grief cannot be ignored.  It can be warehoused.  Like a blockage in an artery, it can block the flow of other emotions.  Emotions seem to operate on a master “On/Off” switch.  You turn them all off, or you can turn them all on.  Try to turn off grief, and you dim all the emotions of your soul. 

Last week I had a helpful conversation with a friend.  As the saying goes, I “got in touch” with some fear I held back.  Fear is another of those emotions I try to suppress because men are not supposed to be afraid either. 

When I got in touch with the fear, however, I noticed what felt like a breeze blowing through my soul.  There was movement, a thawing if you will.  The lights were coming on. 

Then on Saturday, I was putting out pine straw in my yard.  I had my airbuds in, listening to old country songs from the ‘90’s.  A song by Patty Loveless came on: “How Can I Help You Say Goodbye.”  The chorus goes like this: “Mama whispered softly, time will ease your pain; Life's about changing; nothing ever stays the same; And she said, how can I help you to say goodbye; it's okay to hurt, and it's okay to cry;
Come let me hold you, and I will try.  How can I help you to say goodbye?” 

I had heard the song before, being a devotee of great music.  But this time, through the first chorus, the dam of my grief cracked, then busted open.  I cried.  I sobbed for my brother.  I cried for my sister, also gone too soon.  For my mother robbed of delighting in her grandchildren.  For my Dad, who died far too young, when I was in diapers.  But most of all, for my brother.  My tears finally came.  The flood of grief would not be held back. 

For a moment, I was afraid the neighbors would hear me and think I had lost my mind.  Then I did not care.  My soul needed to weep, and I did, for the entire three minutes of the song.  When it ended, my nose was running, and tear tracks were etched onto my dirty face.  My soul could still feel the grief, but it was out of the warehouse now.  The grief no longer blocked the flow of feelings that needed to be felt. 

The wisest man who ever lived, Solomon, wrote these inspired words, “There is a time to laugh and a time to cry.”  It was finally my time to cry.  And my weeping was a gift from God. 

It might be a gift for you, too.

Grown Up Faith…

In college, one of my religion professors shared his faith story with us.  I have never forgotten it.  He said, “When I was five, God was five.  He was beside me when I buried my puppy that was run over by a truck in the backyard.  He understood my grief and sorrow.  When I was thirteen and awkward, God was thirteen.  He assured me I was loved even when I was rejected by the in-crowd.  When I was twenty and a newlywed, God was twenty, guiding me in the ways of love, serving, and giving.” 

He continued this vein up to his present age.  I will never forget his closing lines: “God is always ready to meet me wherever I am in life.  And when I am old and can no longer walk or stand, God will be there as well.” 

His testimony has stuck with me for a long time.  For any relationship to be healthy, it must grow in understanding and change to adapt to new life circumstances.  The same is true with our relationship with God.  Now, I believe the character of God does not change, but our understanding of him does.  When I grew up, Jesus was a white male with a beard and flowing hair.  I was in college before I realized Jesus’ skin was probably brown and his hair, whatever its color, was not flowing in the wind.   

I talk to people who have given up on church.  If we talk long enough, I hear the God of their childhood did not grow up.  Sometimes I think we do not want God to grow up.  It is safe to think of Jesus as the kind man with children sitting on his lap.  If Jesus is instead a risen King, that means he has authority over us.  Most of us, especially if you are an American, do not like to be told what to do.   

But eventually, a grown-up crisis presents itself, and we need a grown-up faith.  Grown up faith is honest.  We tell God our anger, our fears, our hopes.  We do so knowing he hears us.  Grown up faith accepts there are answers we do not know, and perhaps we will never know.  Grown up faith comes to our Heavenly Father with humility.  We understand that our experience with God is real, but we honor other people and their experience with God.  We will not all like the same music or the same preachers, and that is okay.  We recognize there is no point in arguing about things that really do not matter, like which Bible translation is best. 

If you are a person of grown-up faith, you take the Bible seriously.  You do not twist its meaning to fit your agenda or to fit your politics.  A friend once told me, “The error of the liberal is to take what is black and white in the Bible and make it gray.  The error of the fundamentalist is to take what is gray in the Bible and make it black and white.”   

I think about my own faith journey.  There are sermons from thirty years ago that I wish I could take back.  I was young and pompous and had not lived enough life to coat my words with love and grace.  I would like to think I have matured, but the truth is I still struggle to divide my agenda from God’s agenda.  One of the marks of grown-up faith is humility and willingness to be open to what God is doing next. 

I also wish I had not presumed to understand people before hearing their story.  I remember the story of the woman caught in adultery.  When the religious leaders brought her before Jesus, they thought they knew her story.  Jesus’ classic response – after giving them a chance to present their case – was to tell them, “Let he who is among you without sin cast the first stone.”  Those who wanted to kill her, faded away and Jesus told the woman to go and sin no more.  The story reminds me that my own sin clouds how I see people.  I project onto people all kinds of garbage that originates within me.  Grown up faith does not do that.  Instead, grown up faith tries to see my own log in my eye before I try to remove the speck in someone else’s eye. 

I have followed Jesus since childhood, very imperfectly.  In so many ways, I am still a child in my faith.  But Jesus still beckons me to follow him and to grow a little more. 

The Tree that Became the Cross…

It began as a seed, falling out of a cone, carried by the wind.  When the wind died down, the seed fell to the forest floor and touched the soil.  A passing deer stepped on it, driving it deeper into the ground.  In that seed a tiny root seeks out moisture.  Another tendril begins to push up toward the warmth and the light, until it pushes through the crevices and finds sunlight.  In the space of a few weeks, the unseen roots multiply, and leaves sprout.  The miracle of photosynthesis begins to fuel a chemical factory that converts Co2 into oxygen, moisture into growth, and soil minerals into energy.  A complex plumbing system of phloem and xylem transports everything where it needs to go, with no brain or nervous system to direct it. 

The seedling becomes a small tree.  It survives drought, fire, being trampled by animals, and birds bending its still pliable branches.  In five years, it is as tall as an adult; in ten years, its trunk has thickened, and its limbs have strengthened.  Woodpeckers visit and poke holes, looking for bugs.  Rings are added each year as the tree lives and thrives.   

After forty years, the tree has spread its limbs and seeds.  It is the tall tree of the forest, towering majestically.  Then comes the day when a group of men enters the forest.  One yells, “This is a good one.”  Crude axes swing.  In less than half-an-hour, the mighty tree has fallen.  It is limbed, with the branches placed into a small cart.  They will become firewood.  The tree is tied off to a team of oxen, who drag it out of the forest, into a clearing.  Axes swing again.  The thickest part of the tree is cut off, to be split into rough lumber.  It will be sold to carpenters and used for furniture and doors and enclosures for windows.  The next section is about twenty feet long.  The bottom fifteen is cut, and then a notch is placed about two feet from the top.  The fifteen-foot section and the five-foot section are placed on a cart with some other lumber, a delivery to Jerusalem. 

The two pieces of the tree are sold to a Roman centurion after some intense haggling.  The vertical piece, the heavy piece, will be dropped off at Skull Place, where crucifixions are held.  The cross beam, about two hundred pounds, is delivered to Fortress Antonia.  It will be shuttled back and forth from the Fortress to Skull Place on the backs of condemned men.  There it is joined again with its brother, fitted into the notch chopped out in the forest, and lashed together.  A condemned man is placed on it, with nails driven into his palms, and one nail is driven into his overlapping feet.  Then the cross is lifted up by straining soldiers and dropped into the pre-dug hole.  Wedges of wood are driven between the vertical pole and the hardened side of the hole to keep the cross from swaying. 

No one keeps count of how many crucifixions these old pieces of a tree witness.  Sometimes the victims stay on the crosses for hours, sometimes days.  Death comes slow.  Rome intends to send a message: “Cross us, and we will cross you.”   

One day the cross beam is brought out from its storage place.  The wood is no longer yellow; it is stained brown by all the blood it has absorbed through the years.  There are multiple holes where nails have been driven.  It is time for another crucifixion.   

The cross beam, all two hundred pounds of it, is laid on a bloody back of a beaten man.  Ironically, he was a carpenter before he became a rabbi.  He once carried weight like this easily, but after a few hundred yards, he stumbles.  A passer-by is compelled to carry the cross beam to Skull Place. 

The familiar ritual begins again: the lashing of the cross beam to the vertical beam; the stretching out of the victim, the cries of pain as the nails pierce the skin and split the cartilage.  Then the victim and wood, joined together, are dropped into the hole.   

If wood could speak, it would say this crucifixion is like none before.  There is darkness, an earthquake, words of forgiveness, and words of abandonment.  More quickly than the norm, the man on the cross dies.  The wedges are removed, the cross is lifted, and once more laid on the ground.  The nails are driven out, and the body is rolled off, with fresh blood pooling on the wood.  Knots are undone, and the cross beam is thrown onto a cart to be taken back to the Fortress to be used again. 

The blood that is absorbed by the wood from this crucifixion is no ordinary blood.  It is the blood of the perfect one, the blood of the Son of God, who has come to take away the sin of the world.   

The dead wood, which used to be a living tree, is the first to make contact with the life-giving blood of Jesus.  Have you?

What is Worth Saving?

Every so often, I take a Sunday and do “Ministry by Wandering Around” while someone else brings the message.  On Sundays like this, I get to walk slowly through the halls, popping into different LIFE Groups, coloring pictures with the preschoolers (I can stay between the lines better than any of them), and thanking volunteers. 

On a recent Ministry by Wandering Around Sunday, I made my way over to the Student Ministry building to check things out.  I popped into one class of eighth-graders and plopped down on an empty spot on the couch.  The young lady to my right leaned as far as possible away from me.  I asked her if my being there made her uncomfortable.  She said, “No, it’s just that I have never been this close to you before.”  I assured her I was a real person just like her.  I told her, “I even have BO.”  She replied, “I know.”  

In another middle school group, I came in just as the lesson started.  The group leader asked a great question: “If your house was on fire, and all the people and the animals were already outside, and you could only get one object out of the house, what would you get?” 

It was a heavy question for middle schoolers and for adults.  I was thinking about my answer when the group leader shared his.  “I would grab the long rifle that belonged to my grandfather,” he said.  “He gave it to me, and I want my son to have it.” 

A girl spoke up and said she would rescue her posterboard.  An odd choice, but I guess it would depend on the pictures you had on it.  A boy shared he would get his glass-encased CD of Star Wars: A New Hope.  A classic collectible, to be sure.  One girl shared at length that she saw a show about being prepared for emergencies and she had an emergency backpack already prepared.  She would grab that.  I was impressed by her preparation. 

Another adult talked about grabbing all her pictures.  A couple of boys said they would get their gaming systems.  One girl shared she would take her bead-making supplies. 

Finally, it was my turn.  I told them I would grab my iPhone.  I would want to be able to call my family and friends and tell them I was okay. 

The best answer came from a young man with a beanie pulled down low.  He said, “I would grab my shoes.” Smart.  Have you run out of the house without your shoes?  There are rocks and sand spurs out in the yard. 

I had to excuse myself at this point to make my way around to other groups.  I thought about some adults I know and how they would answer that question.  I am sure some women would talk about grabbing their purse.  From what I have seen, some women could live out of their purses for a week if need be.  My cousins in Florida would surely say they would grab their pocketknives; “A good man can survive with his wits and his pocketknife.”  Other friends would pull their bass boat out of the garage or their perfectly restored ’65 Mustang convertible. 

I know the question posed to the middle schoolers was different; it assumed the people we loved were already safe.  But that question was theoretical.  God faces a real situation.  The world is on fire.  Not literally, perhaps, but there is a spiritual fire that threatens every human soul.  The name for that fire is “sin.”  Its destructive power reaches out and consumes people.  Sin fire destroys families, communities, and nations.  It has been here a long time. 

The only thing powerful enough to vanquish that fire is the pure love of Jesus, poured out on the cross, and roaring out of the tomb on Resurrection Day.  His love envelopes sin like a water curtain and puts it out.  That is what Jesus followers mean when they talk about the Good News. 

In this world on fire, there is not one possession God wants, not one physical thing.  He would want every person to be saved, even if they were the ones that started the fire.  Isn’t that why Paul wrote, “While we were yet sinners, Christ died for us.”  We lit the fire of sin.  We keep it stoked.  Yet Jesus offers us his forgiveness, his peace, his love.  He delivers us from our own smokey mess.  

Remember, all the stuff on earth is just temporary.  It’s nice to have, but the stuff in your life is not the most important thing.  The most important thing is your relationship with God.  Thank God he deemed you important enough to save.  That’s why Jesus went to the cross: to put out your fire and save you.