Daddy’s 104th Birthday…

January 2nd was my father’s 104th birthday. My father, of course, was not here to celebrate. He celebrated his 42nd birthday and died five months later.  

For years, my brother, sister, and I would call each other on Daddy’s birthday, just to remember. They had stories to share that I did not have; I was only eighteen months old when he died. I don’t remember when we started the tradition of having a steak on his birthday, but each of us, whether in Wauchula, Kissimmee, or South Carolina, would eat a steak in honor of Daddy. I suppose other people might hoist a beer in memory of their father, but steak is better. 

My brother and sister are gone now, and I am the only one left who remembers January 2nd is an important day. No one told me that a hard part of growing old is being the last one to remember. My stepfather, Lawrence (Who was my father’s nephew. We are a complicated, Southern family), was the last of his siblings to survive. He told me he felt like the last of the Mohicans. Now I know what he meant. Even though I have no memories of my own, I have memories of memories.   

Most everyone is gone now, the people who remember my father bulldogging a steer in Avon Park in 1.8 seconds. Google says the world record is 2.4 seconds. My Daddy did this in 1943. No one remembers him winning All-Round Cowboy at the Arcadia Rodeo. In those days, the cowboys used to race each other in the 40-yard dash and bet on who would win. My Daddy was sneaky fast. He was so big no one believed he was fast. But he would win the race every time. I think my cousins Marcus and Ross and me are the last ones who remember the stories of how fast Daddy was. 

I try to explain to my children why the ranch means so much to me. While Southerners, in general, are obsessed with owning land (from Gone with the Wind:  Gerald O'Hara: “Do you mean to tell me, Katie Scarlett O'Hara, that Tara, that land doesn't mean anything to you? Why, land is the only thing in the world worth workin' for, worth fightin' for, worth dyin' for, because it's the only thing that lasts.”), the ranch is a physical remembrance of my father. When I ride the pasture, I remember he rode that same land. The cow pens are where he wanted them to be because he thought his sister would sell him her land. He was the one who set out the groves in their rows. The land is the tie between my father and me.  

No one lives forever. While I am not planning on dying anytime soon, as the old-timers used to say, my time will come. I pray to live long enough to tell my grandson some stories about his great-grandfather. I don’t expect him to remember my father’s birthday, but I hope he will remember some of the stories. That is one reason I write some of these columns, in hopes that my grandchildren might read them one day. I hope memories of my father will not die. Maybe I feel that way because his life was cut so short; surely, his memories deserve to live on. 

I wonder if that is why we make headstones out of marble and bronze. Is it our way of crying out, “Don’t forget me?”  Isn’t that why rich people give millions away to have something named for themselves? Aren’t they saying, “Hey, I was here! I made a lot of money! Remember me!” 

When Jesus was dying on the cross, one of the men who was being crucified with him made a simple request: “Lord, remember me when you enter your Kingdom.”  He wasn’t asking to be saved from a horrible death. He wasn’t asking to go to heaven. He simply did not want to be forgotten. He wanted someone to remember that he lived, he breathed, he laughed. Maybe he even ran a race or two.   

Jesus told him, “Today, you will be with me in paradise.”   Jesus saw in the man’s request enough faith that he was saved. I think about how busy Jesus was that day. He was dying for all the sins that were ever committed, that were being committed, and that would be committed all at once. He was in pain. He knew after his death there would be work to do: descending into hell, getting ready to be resurrected. But in his last hours, he made a promise to a man that he would remember him and that remembrance would lead him to Paradise. 

I often visit New Hope Cemetery, where my people are buried. When I stand by my father’s grave (probably the only headstone in America with the name “Kong” on it), I think about Jesus and the thief on the cross. And I have hope. Even if everyone else forgets, God remembers.

The Faith of Christmas…

Most of the people involved in the Christmas story were puzzled when they heard what God was up to. 

Mary was minding her own business as a small-town girl, getting ready for her wedding, and her life as a carpenter’s wife, when the angel Gabriel appeared to her.  Gabriel tries to start the conversation gently: “Greetings, you who are highly graced!  The Lord is with you!” 

No matter how gently an angel begins a conversation with you, it is still a shock.  Angels do not appear every day.  Mary was agitated by Gabriel’s words and wondered what would come after a greeting like this.  Her agitation must have increased by what followed: “You will be with child and give birth to a son, and you are to call his name Jesus.”  If that wasn’t shocking enough, Gabriel filled in more of the story.  This baby Mary would have would be the son of the Most High God, the Messiah, and would establish a Kingdom that will never end.  Clear enough, Mary? 

Mary splutters, “How?  I’m still a virgin.”  Gabriel responds, “The Holy Spirit will come upon you, and the power of the Most High will overshadow you.  So the holy one to be born will be called the Son of God.”  Did Mary think, “Thanks.  That really clears things up.” 

After a few more words, Mary says, “I am the Lord’s servant.  May it be to me as you have said.”  To accept this mission, Mary had to have faith.  There were unanswered questions about how to break the news to Joseph and her parents.  Mary lived in Nazareth, and every good Jewish boy and girl knew the Messiah would be born in Bethlehem.  How would that work out?  Faith meant saying “Yes” without all the answers. 

Joseph was learning the ways of a carpenter, looking forward to his marriage with Mary.  They had known each other since childhood, the way everyone knows everyone in a small town.  Since the marriage arrangement had been finalized, there had been a few private moments:  quiet walks to the town well, glances at synagogue, and conversations at the front door of Mary’s home. 

Mary must have told Joseph about the pregnancy, about Gabriel appearing.  When he heard her account, did he wonder about her sanity?  Did he believe the worst about her?  He must have doubted her account because he resolved to break the engagement quietly.   

A dream changed his mind.  It was a dream with an angel telling him not to be afraid, that Mary’s pregnancy was God’s work.  Joseph was told the baby was a boy and he was to be named “Jesus” because he would save people from their sins.

When Joseph woke up from the dream, he must have wondered if an angel really spoke to him, or was it all in his head?  He believed the dream and married Mary.   

Joseph must have had questions.  How, exactly, do you parent the Savior?  Do you try to explain this to your friends?  What will everyone say?  If Joseph had any foresight, surely he must have realized for the rest of his life he would have to hear gossip that Jesus wasn’t really his boy, that he must be the dumbest man in Nazareth to go ahead and marry Mary.  Faith means people will not understand your actions; they will question your judgment, and you will feel some pressure about doing God’s will. 

It took faith for the shepherds to believe a baby born in a stable, laid in a manger, was the promised Messiah.  It took faith for the wise men to believe a poor couple, displaced by government decree, could be the parents of the King.  It took faith for Simeon and Anna to believe a baby, not that different than all the others at the Temple that day, could be the promised one of God. 

Faith is part of the mystery of God.  He allows us room to doubt and to believe our doubts.  Faith is the courage to have questions, to know a tough road lies ahead, and to take that next step anyway.   

This Christmas, is God asking you to take a next step of faith?  To move forward, even though you have questions?  To risk being misunderstood?  To believe God can do things that you think are impossible?  To make Christmas the most wonderful time of the year, take a step of faith.  Take that step and see what God will do.

In the Days Before Christmas…

In the days before Christmas, the man who owned the stable was coping with his overcrowded home.  Relatives had poured in from everywhere, answering Caesar’s demand that all of the Roman empire be taxed.  He wasn’t sure who was a cousin and who was pretending to be family.  He had taken pity on one poor relation, a young couple fresh from the upcountry.  She was pregnant, due to deliver any day.  He had no idea that in a few days, his nighttime slumber would be interrupted by shepherds bustling around his barn, eager to see a new baby.  They babbled on about angels and a Savior being born.  How could he know the hope of the world was lying in his feed trough, in his barn? 

In the days before Christmas, the shepherds were out in the fields, guiding their sheep to fresh grass, making sure they had fresh water, and keeping watch at night for predators and thieves.  Their job sounded more romantic than it was.  The nights were long and tedious; the days were repetitive.  They had no idea in a few days the tedium would change.  An angel would burst into view, scaring them to death.  There was good news, the angel said, for a Savior was born in Bethlehem.  Then the sky filled with angels, proclaiming, “Glory to God in the highest, and on earth, peace, good will toward men.”  They would leave their flocks and go to find their Savior, wrapped in swaddling clothes, lying in a manger.   

In the days before Christmas, the wise men were deep in their books, trying to divine the mysteries of the universe.  In the evening, they scanned the heavens, seeking to fathom both the past and the future.  They had no idea in a few days, a star would appear.  There was something remarkable about this star; it seemed to call them.  They had no idea they would be saddling up for a fifty-day journey, that nights would be filled with discussions about the new king and what he would mean for history, or that once they arrived in Judea, they would meet the evil King Herod, and a baby in a humble house, who would be the hope of the world. 

In the days before Christmas, Herod was secure on his throne.  Many had died to provide him that security, including his own son and one of his wives.  Herod had been in control of his corner of the Roman empire for a very long time, and in his old age, his paranoia grew.  But for the moment, he saw no threats on the horizon.  He had no idea that in a few weeks, the wise men from the east would show up, looking for the one born King of the Jews.  Their simple inquiry at the King’s court fueled his paranoia, and his insecurities raged.  He ordered the death of all the infant boys under two in Bethlehem, determined to eliminate any contenders to his throne. 

In the days before Christmas, Simeon showed up at the Temple, as he had done for years, wondering if today would be the day he would see the salvation of the Lord.  God had promised him he would not die until he saw the Messiah with his own eyes.  God made that promise but was not specific on the timing.  Every day Simeon scanned the line of parents and babies coming to offer sacrifices of redemption.   But God had not yet said, “This one.”  He had no idea that in a few days, scanning the line, the Spirit would say to him, “That couple.  That baby.  He is the salvation of Israel.”  In just a few days, God would keep his promise. 

In the days before Christmas, Mary knew.  So did Joseph.  So did Elizabeth and Zachariah.  They knew God was doing something extraordinary, that the one who would “Save his people from their sins” was growing inside the womb of Mary.  Mary and Zachariah had seen angels.  Joseph had a dream.  Elizabeth heard the news from Zachariah (once he could speak again) and then had it confirmed by her own baby leaping in her womb.  They knew an amazing child was going to be born and all four of them were part of what God was doing. 

Most of the people in the Christmas story had no idea that in just a few days, Jesus would be born, and their whole world would change.  An innkeeper would host a miracle.  Shepherds would hear words of hope.  Wise men would feel compelled to investigate what God was doing.  A despot King would feel threatened.  An old man would see the promise of God come true.   

Sometimes we wonder if God is listening to our prayers.  Sometimes we wonder if God is taking action to make right the wrongs of this world.  Sometimes we wonder if we wait in vain.  “Wait on the Lord,” Isaiah said.  “Your strengthen will be renewed.”  If you feel hopeless, exhausted, or just worn out, I have good news for you: Hold on, a Savior is about to be born.

Where Did That Go?

Every year when Christmas is over, I put the decorations in red or green tubs, label the tubs, then put them in their special places in the attic and in the boat barn.  After the last tub is stored, the mischief begins. 

People tell me this is not possible, but I know it happens.  Sometime over the next eleven months, the tubs open, and the contents gleefully change places.  Ornaments migrate to the light tub, garland that was neatly wound dances itself into a tangle, and light strands that worked perfectly when put away decide to die.  The tubs themselves get in the act.  They mingle with the kid’s memory tubs and hide behind the air handler unit.  Big red bags holding artificial Christmas trees bury themselves in the attic insulation, never to be seen again.   

The outdoor decorations are stored in the attic of the boat barn.  The boat barn attic is the perfect size for people under five feet tall.  I try to place the Christmas décor in a place where I do not have to stand up and walk.  Over their hibernation time, the big tubs will move to the furthest spot in the attic.  I do not know how they do this because I check on them throughout the year, and they seem to be right where I left them.  It is only when I go to get them that I discover their relocation.  I am forced to move like the hunchback of Notre Dame across the rafters and then drag the tubs to the pull-down stairs. 

Like many of you, after Thanksgiving, I began the great Christmas decoration hunt.  When I pull the tubs and boxes down, the mischief of the tubs is revealed.  The lights on the middle sections of the artificial trees don’t work.  We can’t find the box with the artificial garland.  The Christmas tree stand is missing two screws.   

I can’t find the box with the outside lights.  This means I have to go back up into the built-for-short-people-boat-barn-attic to look for that tub.  I find it cowering behind an old rocking chair.  When I open it, a jumble of extension cords that had been neatly coiled are tangled in a joyous riot.  Half the lights I used last year don’t work.  This necessitates trips to several stores to find lights that match the ones we already have (why can’t someone invent an LED light that matches the old-fashioned soft lights we have?).   

Half of our light-up wreaths don’t work.  Buy new wreaths?  They are over $60 a piece and don’t match the three that do work.  Solution?  Back to the store to buy more lights, wrap the non-functioning wreaths with these strands, and find out they still don’t match.  Go back to the store to buy more lights and wrap the perfectly good wreaths with new lights.   

Inside the house, a similar story unfolds.  We have a very special Hummel nativity set, given to me by my favorite aunt.  One year, we could not find it.  We looked everywhere.  Finally, we gave up.  I’m sure no one else noticed, but to me, it felt a little less like Christmas without that special nativity set.  I found it when we were putting the decorations away.  The tub was sitting in the middle of the attic walkway, plainly labeled “Christmas Hummels.”  Don’t tell me those tubs can’t move at will. 

One year my wife said, “Where is the box with the special ornaments?”  I told her I had gotten all the boxes down.  We looked in the attic, and not a Christmas box was to be found.  Christmas was approaching, so we went out and bought some more special ornaments and grieved the loss of some ornaments that held special memories.  The new ornaments were put on the tree, and the next day we found the special ornament tub.  It furtively made its way under a bed in the upstairs bedroom.  When we opened it, I thought I heard a faint giggle. 

Every year is like this.  Sometimes we throw decorations away or give them away.  When we open the tubs the next year, like “The Brave Little Toaster,” these decorations have made their way back, hoping to still be used for Christmas.  How do they find their way back? 

When I think about God, I marvel that he never misplaces anything.  He never forgets where any of his children are.  There are no mislabeled people for God; he knows every person, and he loves them all.  Even when people get tangled up or don’t work quite right, God patiently untangles the mess people make.  When we hide from him, he seeks us out.  Never, not once, has God ever said about you or me, “Where did I put him?”  Our Heavenly Father always remembers you.

Stuck. Help is on the Way...

Our tradition, after the big Thanksgiving lunch, is to take a quick nap and then go for a ride in the pasture to look at the cows. This year we got a late start but made our way out about thirty minutes before sundown. My niece, her husband, her mother-in-law, and her son, Smith, were with us, along with my son, daughter-in-law, and my grandson. We slogged through a muddy spot, but I made it through with no trouble.   

Smith is four; my grandson is two. To their eyes, the pasture is a wonderful, marvelous place. They saw lots of baby calves, a wild hog, and a bunch of broad-winged hawks. Darkness was coming, however, and there was fried turkey waiting for us back at the house. 

In the fading light, we turned around and came back to the muddy bog. I had come through once, so I knew I could make it through again. Life lesson: just because you succeed once does not mean you will succeed again.   

It was the time of dusk when it was hardest to see. The headlights do not really give definition, and the natural light has faded, so you can’t distinguish what is to the right or left. As I came back to the bog, the truck started slipping and sliding. The kids were thrilled. Why take them to Disney when a ride in the mud is more exciting? I knew there was a certain spot I needed to go through to make it to drier ground. I misjudged where the spot was, and my tires began to spin.   

People who drive in the woods know when the tires begin to spin, you do not push harder on the gas. This will simply dig you in deeper. Instead, you “rock” the truck back and forth. I put it in reverse and went backward until I began to spin; then, I put it in drive and accelerated, hoping to get over the boggy spot that blocked me. I was already in four-wheel-drive, so I knew “rocking” was my best hope. After five or six back-and-forth attempts, I could not go either direction. My tires were spinning, and the truck was resting on the frame. I was stuck – again. 

Fortunately, we were not too far from the barn. A ten-minute walk, and I could get the tractor and pull out the truck. My niece’s husband and my son argued with me about going, citing my bad knee as a reason to let them make the hike. I asked them which way the barn was. They pointed in opposing directions, neither of which was toward the barn. I asked if either of them knew how to run the tractor. After an awkward pause, my son spoke up and said, “You better go, Dad.” 

By this time, darkness had descended. Every one took refuge in the cab of the truck, and I started to walk out. I knew the way; I had been walking in these pastures and orange groves since I was a toddler. Still, the recent hurricane had washed new gullies in the pasture and had washed out middles in the orange groves. Going was slow. 

After a few stumbles, I got back to the barn and got in the big tractor. I cranked it and started looking for the lights. I had never driven this tractor in the dark, so I never needed the lights before this. This tractor was orange, not green, so it had been made overseas, and the lights were not where they were supposed to be.   

It is possible to drive a tractor in the dark through an orange grove, but you have to go slow. I did not want to practice Braille driving: hit a bump and turn. Searching for the lights, I accidentally hit a knob, and behold; there was light! I even found the work lights. Now able to see, I accelerated. 

I got down to the bog, backed up, and fished out a chain I keep in the bed of my truck (experience teaches you to be prepared). After a couple of false starts, we got the chain secured; I tightened up the chain and started to pull. The tractor popped the truck out of the bog like a cork out of a wine bottle. I kept pulling the truck until we got to the high ground. Inside the truck, there were cheers and laughter.   

We all got back to the house, and I had to take a shower from the sweat and the mud. Cleaned up, I asked my daughter-in-law if anyone was scared. “Not at all,” she replied. “The boys watched a video, and the adults were grateful to be away from the mosquitoes and in the air conditioning. Besides, we knew you were coming for us.” 

Advent, the days leading up to Christmas, is knowing the hope that Jesus is coming for us. He is coming to pull us out of the bog of sin. If you are bogged down, do not wait in vain. Wait in hope. His grace is more powerful than any tractor, and his love is stronger than any chain. 

Thanksgiving in the Woods …

The first Thanksgiving after my grandfather died, Granny Smith didn’t want to have Thanksgiving in the house. She wanted to have a picnic in the woods. The year was 1937. While the Great Depression might have eased for some folks, money was still tight. Calves were selling for pennies a pound, and oranges didn’t bring much either. To get cash money, Aunt Ouida would go down to the lot where a steer had been penned up, would shoot the steer, butcher it, lay the meat on the back seat of an old Ford, and take it to town to trade out for groceries. My aunts were tough women. 

Despite the grief, despite the hardships, the family gathered for Thanksgiving. They went down to a spot on the Buckhorn Creek, under some oaks. That became the Thanksgiving spot for years and years until the one year the creek was high, and they couldn’t get back there. 

Thanksgiving moved to a spot in the woods for a few years. I have a few vague memories as a child running around the campfire and crying because my cousins got to sleep out in a tent, and I had to go home and sleep in a bed. My, how age changes things. But unpredictable Florida weather flooded that campsite, and we moved up to a spot near Uncle Dow and Aunt Nell’s cowpens on the Kelly Roberts Road. A grove of scrub oaks provided shade, and we ate sitting on bales of hay.   

I remember, as a child playing with my cousins in the palmettos. While the grownups visited, we played war and hide and seek. The eating was always great: ham, turkey, swamp cabbage, and guava cobbler. One year, someone brought a skeet thrower, and we blasted away at skeet. I wasn’t a good shot, but it was a lot of fun.   

In my college years, we were all into hog hunting. We would go out in the dark with Jeeps and dogs and chase hogs through the swamps and woods. Those were the days when you could hunt hogs till two or three in the morning, sleep an hour or two, then get up and sit in a deer stand until mid-Thanksgiving morning.   

The cousins my age started to marry and have babies; I was the last one to marry. I had to miss one Thanksgiving in my life; my son was due on the day before Thanksgiving. He took his time, however, and didn’t arrive until the next week.   

Somewhere along the way, ribs replaced turkey at Thanksgiving. It was definitely an upgrade. Swamp cabbage and guava cobbler is still on the menu.   

We started taking generational pictures a decade or two ago. There were twenty-one cousins in my generation. My cousin Barney was the oldest; I’m the youngest. We have a thirty-eight-year gap in ages. Now, there is only six in our generation left. The age gap for the children’s generation is larger: Marcus is the oldest, and my daughter Sarah is the youngest. They have a fifty-two-year gap.  This Thanksgiving will be special to me. Not only will this be our 85th year of Thanksgiving in the woods, but it will also be my grandson’s first Thanksgiving in the woods. He is part of the fifth generation.   

We’ve upgraded to folding chairs and tables now, though I still prefer to sit on the hay. It feels more like the old days. It will be good to see the cousins and remember we are family. I will ask the blessing, since I’m the preacher in the family. That duty was turned over to me thirty years ago. I try to remember to thank God for family, for our country, and for the blessings we all have. Our family has come a long way from having to butcher steers to trade for groceries. People will drive up in $70,000 pickup trucks and Suburbans. There will even be a Jaguar and a Lincoln. Everyone in the family lives in a nice house, and judging by the food on the table, no one is missing any meals except to lose weight. 

But when I pray at Thanksgiving, I always try to remember to thank God for the people who went before us. They worked hard to give us a better life.   In 1937, they were tough enough to survive. They worked hard and held onto the ranch, believing better times were ahead. They had faith that God was there and he was looking out for them. 

This Thanksgiving, wherever you are, give thanks to God for the food and for our country. But also remember to give thanks to the people who went before you. Give thanks to your family, for people who survived tough days, wars, depressions, and recessions. Back in the past, someone had faith; someone fought to give you a better life. 

When I Was President …

I served a term as president.  Unlike Presidents Biden and Trump, I was elected without opposition, and there were no scandals during my administration.  Of course, my term was only one month. 

Mr. Rich, my fifth-grade teacher, was wise.  He decreed that each month, we would elect a new class president.  Out of a class of twenty-four or so, this meant that nine of us would be elected since Mr. Rich believed in term limits.  Once you eliminated the shy girls (none of the boys were shy), you had a pretty good chance of being elected. 

To be the class president meant you would preside over the class business meeting, which usually had one agenda item: the election of a new president.  It also meant you got to lead the line to the lunchroom, where you held the door for the rest of the class to go in.  This resulted in the class president eating last, an excellent lesson for all leaders. 

I admit I lusted after the nomination.  But according to the strict social code of fifth-grade elections, you could not campaign for the job.  You had to wait for the job to come to you.  You would sit during each class business session and hope that someone would notice you and you would be nominated.   

I wanted the job because I thought it would make me somebody.  Since I was not an athlete and really only excelled in reading and social studies, I wanted something to set me apart from the crowd.  Secretly, I hoped Lori Lynn, a cute girl in my class, would notice me and consent to let me hold her hand.  Political ambition has many strange roots. 

The school year began with one of the popular girls being elected president.  Then Tim Kiggins, an athlete, was elected.  The pattern went back and forth: popular girl would be elected, and then, athletic boy.  No one seemed to notice the novice trumpet player who was good at social studies and reading.   

Then came the March election.  The class president, the last of the popular girls, asked for nominations for class president.  There was a strange silence in the room.  Everyone was looking around, trying to see which athletic boy had not yet been elected.  All of them had served a term.  The collective unconscious of the fifth grade could not bring itself to break the pattern and elect two girls in a row.  We were open to gender equality but not gender domination.   The silence lengthened as forty-seven eyeballs swept the room (one boy had a glass eye, which he would take out at recess and show you if you gave him a nickel). 

Desperate, my childhood friend and class clown, Charles Brown, raised his hand.  Charles was an athlete and had served as president during the Great Milk Spill of 1969.  Charles spoke those words I longed to hear: “I nominate Clay Smith to serve as president.”  My stomach dropped.  I was in reach of my long-awaited goal: to be president of Mr. Rich’s fifth-grade class and to have Lori Lynn notice me.  Now came the agony of waiting to see who the opposition would be. 

Three seconds can be a long time while you wait on a dream.  Mr. Rich cleared his throat, and the girl who was president said, “If there are no other nominations, I declare the nominations closed.  All in favor of Clay Smith as president, please raise your hands.”  Etiquette demanded you put your head down on your desk if nominated, so you would not see who voted for you or against you.  My pal, Dale Tong, later reported to me the vote was unanimous, except for the one kid in the class who never voted for anything but stared out the window most of the time. 

I went forward, accepted the gavel, and declared the meeting closed.  Other than leading the class to lunch, that was my last official duty until one of the smart girls was elected at the next class business meeting. 

My primary goal in office, to attract the attention of Lori Lynn, was not achieved.  She continued to ignore me on the playground, at school skating parties, and during lunch.  After fifth grade, she moved, and I never saw her again.   What my fifth-grade political career taught me was being elected to office does not make you somebody, nor in my case, attract women. 

Have you noticed Jesus encountered lots of nobodies?  He called fisherman to follow him; he paused to find out the identity of the woman who touched the hem of his garment; he refused to run away from the Gadarene demoniac; he called out to the blind men in Jericho; he even invited himself to Zaccheus’ house.  Jesus refused to see people as “nobodies.”  Everyone he met was “somebody,” somebody he was willing to die for, somebody he wanted to forgive and bring into his Father’s Kingdom.  

Whenever you feel like a “nobody,” Jesus says you are “somebody.”  You don’t need to win an election for him to notice you.

Dog Park …

We took my daughter’s dog, Jackson, to a dog park in Atlanta. When I was growing up, we did not have dog parks. Our dogs were outside dogs, though I vaguely remember Mama letting one dog on the porch during a hurricane. Our dogs had all the room they needed to run and exercise, hundreds of acres of orange grove and pasture that either belonged to us or to one of our aunts. 

Each dog park is different. The one we went to smelled like a thousand dogs had done their business there, probably because a thousand dogs had done their business there. My daughter’s dog, Jackson, is a sweet, timid mix of whippet and hound. He enjoys the park, but he is not the most social dog. If you are not familiar with dog behavior, dogs greet other dogs by sniffing, shall we say, private parts. Jackson enjoys sniffing others but does not care to be sniffed. 

Other dogs at the park that day were not as shy. They would sniff, jump, run and play. At one point, there was a race through the dog park involving a black lab, a German shepherd, some kind of mixed breed, and a very short terrier. The lab and the German shepherd were neck and neck, but they would eventually collide, and the terrier would leap into the pile. There was no biting or fighting, just tussling. 

After Jackson, probably the shyest dog at the park was a pit bull. Yes, I know they are supposed to be aggressive dogs, but this one clung to his owner’s side like a kindergartener on his first day of school, clinging to his mother. It was clear he did not want to be there and was eager to leave. Most of the dogs, however, were relieved to be off the leash. Within the confines of the fence, they knew the sheer joy of being a dog. 

Watching all the dogs, I wondered if the reason God gives us commandments is so we can run free in our lives within safe boundaries? Jesus said all the laws of the Old Testament could be summed up like this: Love the Lord your God with all your heart, mind, soul, and strength, and love your neighbor as yourself. 

Just think about what would happen if we followed those two laws. If we loved God with all our hearts, minds, souls, and strength, wouldn’t we have a better set of priorities for life? Wouldn’t we live without anxiety, knowing God loves us and wants good for us? Wouldn’t our guilt evaporate because we would trust God has forgiven us? 

If we loved each other (meaning that we want good for other people), wouldn’t our world be a better place? Wouldn’t it change what gets posted on social media? Wouldn’t we stop and help people in need? Wouldn’t we love the least of these because we see Jesus in them? 

If we really love God and then really love people, maybe we could feel the freedom to run through life, not drag ourselves through every day. Maybe we could experience joy in relationships. Maybe we could even make friends faster and enjoy a tussle, not a fight. 

At the dog park, about every five minutes, an owner would call to his dog. Sometimes the dogs came quickly; sometimes, they continued to romp and play until the owner could catch them and re-attach them to their leashes. Some of the dogs put a little resistance to leaving, but most willingly followed their master back to the car, loaded up, and were eager for the next stop of the day. 

I wonder if this is what death is like for those who follow Jesus. One day, our master calls us. Because this is all we know, we might be reluctant to go right away. But he comes for us and leads us to a place better than this earth, better than any dog park. It is the place he has made for us, where there is a room with our name on it, a place where we love our God and feel his deep love for us. 

I read a quote not too long ago: “Most of a dog’s life is spent waiting for the one they love to come home.”  The quote made me think about my Father in heaven, waiting for the day I come home to him.

Flooded …

I finally made it down to the ranch to check out the damage from Hurricane Ian.  According to an electronic rain gauge at my cousin Ned’s grove, we had close to 27 inches of rain before the gauge quit working.  I think the rain gauge was flooded. 

Even though the ranch is 70 miles inland, the wind from the storm was between 75 and 100 mph.  We lost a lot of oranges off the trees; heartbreaking, because it was the best crop we had in years.  Small trees were blown over, but those were young enough that we could put them back in the ground. 

The biggest damage was in the pasture.  I’ve been asked over and over, “How did the cows do in the storm?”  Cows are pretty smart, actually.  They put their backs to the wind and head for high ground.  As long as they can stay out of the water and have some food, they do alright.   

Our damage was to the fences.  There are eleven places where the creeks cross our fences.  In most of those places, the fence is gone.  Posts and wires have disappeared, probably lost somewhere downstream.  When we rode through the pasture, I noticed a quarter of a mile on either side of the creeks, there was debris of branches and grass pushed up on the wire.  I have never seen that before.  According to the members of the family with the longest memories, Marcus and Aunt Jean, water was standing where there had never been water before. 

We have great oaks blown over, some on top of the fence.  There are sections of the pasture we can’t get to without a chainsaw and a front-end loader.  According to the government inspector, we have at least 15,000 linear feet of fence that will need to be rebuilt.   

It is amazing how much force water can have.  According to the U.S. Geological Survey, water one foot deep typically exerts 500 pounds of lateral force.  That much water can move a parked truck—no wonder the fence is gone. 

In South Carolina, where I live, we had 20 inches of rain in a 500-year flood event in 2015.  My house was on high ground, thankfully.  Other folks in our community were flooded out of their homes.  They lost all their furnishings and were displaced for months. 

People can be emotionally flooded.  Sometimes it accompanies literally flooding.  I saw the pictures from Sanibel Island and Fort Myers Beach.  The wrecked homes and boats represented retirement dreams for many.  One lady was standing on the foundation of what was once her home.  A reporter asked her, “What are you feeling?” she replied, “Shock.  I don’t know what to feel.”  Shock is what happens when you are so flooded the emotions are backed up and can’t get out.

Grief can flood you.  I’m still flooded from losing my brother and sister eight months apart.  I spoke once with a woman who had lost her husband, her father, and one of her children in the span of six months.  She told me she jumped whenever her phone rang, anticipating another call reporting sad news. 

Trauma can flood you.  There is wisdom in the old saying, “Once you’ve seen it, you can’t unsee it.”  I remember my Uncle LM telling me about working in a funeral home.  He was called out to a plane crash where the crew had died from the resulting fire.  He told me he did what he had to do: picking up the bodies, putting them in bags, and taking them to the funeral home.  But he said, “I knew that day the funeral business was not for me.  I dreamed about those burned bodies for years.”  Dreams are a release valve for flooded emotions. 

Anger can flood you.  I have seen people so angry that all reason leaves them.  They almost seem possessed by a force greater than themselves.  That anger either explodes physically, verbally or internally.  Either way, it is deadly. 

What do you do when you are flooded?  You can be paralyzed or consumed, or you can remember a great promise of God.  Through the prophet Isaiah, God said, “When you pass through the waters, I will be with you; and when you pass through the rivers, they will not sweep over you…”   

God does not promise a life with no floods; he does promise when we are flooded, we are not alone.  I am trying to learn to pray, “Heavenly Father, I feel flooded.  Help me know what I feel.  Whatever I am feeling, I trust in you.”  This is God’s great ongoing promise: if you let him, he will walk with you through every flood.

 PS: If you would like a job building fence, I have a terrific opportunity for you.

The 1972 Miami Dolphins …

I watched the Miami Dolphins game this past Sunday night.  They honored the 1972 Miami Dolphins Team, the only NFL Team in history to have a perfect season of no losses and no ties. 

I remember that team.  In those days, the Miami Dolphins were the only professional sports team in Florida.  We all cheered for the Dolphins.  In the early years of the franchise, they had a live dolphin in a tank in the end zone who jumped and splashed after every touchdown.  There was not much dolphin action in the early years. 

When Don Shula arrived as the coach, things began to change.  He proved that everything rises and falls on leadership.  He brought a winning record, football acumen, and talented staff with him.  Thousands of Florida kids put aside their Steve Spurrier jerseys and bought Bob Griese jerseys (Irony: Spurrier beat out Griese for the 1966 Heisman trophy).   

The Dolphins made it to the Super Bowl in 1971, only to lose to the Dallas Cowboys.  Shula made his team watch the game twice before the 1972 season to keep the sour feeling of defeat in their stomachs.  In those ancient days, TV coverage of the Dolphins was blacked out in Miami.  The Orange Bowl sold out every game, so Dolphin fans would travel to Orlando, rent hotel rooms, and watch the game.  Dedication to the game was different back then. 

After going undefeated in the regular season, the Dolphins defeated the Washington Redskins in Super Bowl VII.  The whole state of Florida cheered.  We finally had a championship. 

I vaguely remember Super Bowl VII.  I remember watching only part of the game because we had Sunday night church.  Every year the preacher would remind us that sinners and heathens stayed home to watch the Super Bowl, but the righteous would be in church on Sunday night.  I don’t think that is actually in the Bible. 

I clearly remember my encounter with the Dolphins the next year, 1973.  Our high school band was selected to play the halftime show at a Miami Dolphins game.  My position for the halftime show was to put me right behind the Dolphin’s bench.  Here were my heroes up close: Jim Kiick, Larry Csonka, Mercury Morris, Bob Griese, and Paul Warfiled were the stars.  But I was overawed by the offensive linemen: Norm Evans and Larry Little.  Back then, I was 5’10” and weighed 145 pounds.  Evans and Little towered over me.  They were the biggest men I had ever seen up close.  I felt very small.  That’s when I realized TV did not give you the proper perspective of NFL players. 

In the fifty years since that magical season, no NFL team has made it through the season undefeated.  The 2007 Patriots came close but were beaten by the New York Giants in Super Bowl XLII.  There is a legend that whenever the last unbeaten team in the NFL is defeated, the surviving members of the 1972 Dolphins break out champagne and toast to their singular achievement.  Who can blame them? 

The untold reality, however, is the 1972 Dolphins did not have a perfect season.  They still fumbled the ball.  There were interceptions and blown tackles.  They actually did lose three preseason games, which do not count as “real games.”  Interesting how human beings can redefine “perfect” to an achievable standard. 

More than once, someone has told me, “I’ve met the perfect man (or woman).”  My advice to them: “Don’t get serious with them until you find out what’s wrong with them and decide if you live with it.”  Most of the time, this advice goes unheeded.  No one is perfect, though we spend lots of physical and emotional energy trying to convince others and ourselves that we are.   

Only Jesus was perfect.  Had he played on the 1972 Dolphins, he would have completed every pass, caught every throw, never fumbled the ball, and never missed a tackle.  Then again, I’m not sure Jesus would have played football.  After all, he said, “The meek will inherit the earth.”  I’ve not met any meek NFL players (although, seeing some of them play, they should be meek). 

Why is it such a big deal that Jesus was perfect?  There is power in perfection.  His perfection alone had the power to defeat all the sins in the world that ever was, ever is, or ever will be.  His perfection even defeats your sin. 

You and I are human, and we make mistakes.  So give grace to others and accept God’s grace for yourself.  Nobody’s perfect, as they say, not even the 1972 Dolphins.

It Happened in the Baptistery…

I baptize people. For those of you who are not familiar with Baptist practices, we love to put people not just in the water but under the water. The word “baptism” comes from a Greek word, “baptizo,” which means “to sink or drown.”  It’s in my job description to make people sink just to the point of drowning. Just call me the Dunker-in-Chief. 

My non-dunking pastoral brothers and sisters have it much easier. Their baptisteries are small bowls of water, not overgrown hot tubs like ours. They fling a few drops of water on those professing their faith while I put on a pair of waders covered by a white robe. This might solve for you the mystery of how Baptist pastors are able to change so quickly after being in the baptistery. I actually knew one pastor, a scuba enthusiast, who put his wet suit over his pants, shirt, and tie and then emerged after baptism like James Bond, a little rumpled but ready for gospel action. 

Funny things happen in the baptistery. I’ve stood in the water and looked into the faces of people I have prayed for over the years. My brain then goes AWOL, and I can’t remember their names to save my life. It is beyond embarrassing. The Deacons begin to wonder if they need to call a special meeting to see if I still have the mental capacity to serve as pastor. 

People have different reactions to being baptized. One little boy, upon being baptized, turned, acknowledged the cheers of the congregation, and then swam out to the steps. I love the folks who get baptized and come out of the water and then raise their arms high like a victorious prize fighter. For some people, it’s a surprising moment, even for themselves. 

Then there are the people who are scared of water. I reassure them I have never dropped anyone. They look at me skeptically. After I pronounce they are baptized in the name of the Father, the Son, and the Holy Spirit, they often inhale just as they are going under. They come up coughing, usually giving me a dirty look.  

Some people lose their footing in the baptistery. When I lean them back, their feet fly up. This presents a challenge since, as a Baptist pastor, I believe in total immersion. That means I have to push down on the head with one hand and push down on the feet with another. Pulling them back up is lifting dead weight. When they finally get their feet back under them, these are the ones who are most likely to hug me. 

A couple of times in my career, we have scheduled a baptism, and the hot water heater has gone out. Ironically, each time it happened was in the month of February. We went ahead and baptized people in the cold water anyway. My teeth would chatter as I said, “I-I-I b-b-baptize you-you-you in t-t-t-the n-n-name of….”   

My first baptism was of a young man who was 6’ 7”. The baptistery was only 6’ 5” long. It went like this: “I baptize you in the name of the Father, the Son, and the Holy Spirit.”  Clunk. I hit his head on the wall. He told me later he felt really different after being baptized. His eyes were a little crossed when he said it. 

I’ll never forget the night I baptized the man who was 6’ 6” and 350 pounds – along with his wife, who was 6’ and pregnant with twins. She came into the baptistery first, and the water level rose to within six inches of the top of the glass. Then he came in, and the water crested over the top. When I baptized him, the water did not splash out of the baptistery; it tsunamied. The front row experienced a second immersion from above.   

What I see most in the baptistery are tears. The tears are from people set free from their guilt and their past. People are experiencing the great grace of Jesus, who loves and forgives. Sometimes the tears are expressions of joy. People cannot believe how much God loves them. 

Not to discredit any other mode of baptism, but I think this is why Jesus wanted us to be immersed. God’s love is not just sprinkled on you; you sink into a vast pool of infinite love and grace. Every part of you is touched by his forgiveness. Every part of you now belongs to Jesus.   

How different would this day be if you could just sink beneath into deep love, grace, and forgiveness? Jesus is waiting for you there.

A Sower Went Out to Sow…

When you farm a little on the side, you wind up doing things later than you should because you have a full-time job that pays for your farming addiction. 

I knew I should have planted oat seed back in August, but I had stuff to deal with at work that took all my time. Then in September, I got sick and was out for a couple of weeks. Things were dry, and I was waiting for a good rain. 

Finally, we got some rain. I got up early to drive the forty-five miles to the seed place and get my oat and clover seed. Nine hundred pounds of seed later, I was on my way back home, just in time to make my 9:30 meeting. My plan was to get out to my pasture right after work and get that seed in the ground.

I don’t have a tractor for my little operation. That means I have to improvise. I have a small broadcast seeder that attaches to my receiver hitch on my truck. I’ve used it before with no problem. It is not as good as drilling the seed, but it works well enough.

It is getting darker faster these days. I got out to the pasture and the sun was already heading down. I got the seeder hooked up, then poured the seed in. Trouble then began.

The oat seed would not pour through the opening in the bottom of the hopper. I pushed and pushed on the lever that controlled the opening, but it wouldn’t budge. Exasperated, I did what any good farmer would do: I took my hammer and beat on it. It still wouldn’t move. 

With the hopper full of seed, I couldn’t really get a good look at how to solve the problem. I really couldn’t afford to dump fifty pounds of seed, so I reached into the hopper, scooped up as much as I could hold in my hands and scattered it. I did this about five more times, throwing each handful in a different direction. Then I got in the truck, pulled up about ten yards, and repeated the process.

It takes a long time to scatter fifty pounds of seed by hand. Throw out six handfuls in different directions, pull up ten yards, and repeat. Progress was slow. I wasn’t sure how good a job I was doing; I was slinging seed in every direction, hoping some of it stuck.

As I was throwing seed, Jesus’ parable came back to my mind. Remember how he told it? “A sower went out to sow. Some seed fell on the path, and the birds came and ate it. Some seed fell among the rocks. It came up, but when the sun came out, it burned the little seedlings to a crisp because they had no roots. Some seed fell among the thorns. They came up but were choked out by the weeds. Some seed fell on good ground and produced sixty, eighty, up to a hundredfold.”

Jesus paused and explained this story to his followers. The seed, he explained, was the good news. Satan snatches it away from some people, just like birds snatch seed off the path. Some people accept the good news, but it never puts down a deep enough root. Trouble comes, and they stop believing. Some people accept the good news, but soon the cares of the world choke out the work God wants to do in their lives. But, Jesus explained, some people accept the good news, and it returns a crop. The multiplier may be different for different people, but the return on investment is still amazing. 

You would think Jesus would be more careful with seed. Why sling the seed on the path, or among the rocks, or among the thorns? Seed in his time was hard to come by and expensive. Jesus is trying to tell us about the extravagant grace of God. God spreads his good news in places not likely to justify his investment, but he sows it anyway. He wants the hard people, the rocky people, and the thorny people to have a chance to hear the good news, even if it is unlikely to stick. 

If this is how Jesus farms, what does this say about how we do church? Shouldn’t we be extravagant with the good news? Shouldn’t we tell everyone about how God wants them to experience grace and live in his Kingdom? Isn’t our job to spread the good news lavishly and not get selective?

I don’t know where most of my seed landed. I don’t know if it landed on hard soil or if it will be so choked by Vassey grass it will never come up. I don’t know if it hit some good dirt and will take off. What I do know is an old farmer’s saying: “Seed in a bag doesn’t do anyone any good.”

Tell people what Jesus means to you. Good news seed bagged up in your heart doesn’t do anyone any good.

After the Storm…

Hurricane Ian paid a visit to my hometown in Florida, then looped around and came straight to my home in South Carolina. At my house, there were a few limbs down, and we got some much-needed rain, but that was about it. My lights flickered only once. 

The story in Florida is much different. All my family and friends are safe, and the ranch house was not damaged. In a twelve-hour period, however, we received about 24 inches of rain. The road down from the house was washed out, and two big culverts are lying crossways in the gully. Most of the oranges have blown off the trees. The protective nets we use to cover resets have blown off; some have blown away.

Our foreman, John, tells me that water has pushed the fence down at every creek. The cows are scattered in our cousin’s pasture and our neighbor’s grove. The power was out for several days. Everything is a mess. 

In my home county, bridges collapsed, water covered the roads, and 99% of the county was without power. Barns were blown down as well as the big, majestic oaks. 

Fences can be rebuilt. We have crop insurance on the oranges (not enough, but every little bit helps). The cows lived through the storm if we can find them. We have generators to run the freezers and the refrigerators. Compared to folks at the coast, our damage was light. 

Headlines tell us the death toll is over 100 people. The phrase “death toll” sounds too impersonal. One hundred people dead means fathers who will not dance at their daughters’ weddings; mothers who will not offer advice to adult children; sons who will not be there to take care of their parents as they age; and daughters who will not be there to bury their parents. Every one of those 100 lives lost means a funeral and people who are asking “Why?” 

There is no simple phrase that answers the question, “why?”  Some people died because they failed to evacuate. God is not to blame for poor judgment. Some people died because the houses they occupied were not built to withstand a storm. Jesus told a story about this, about wise people building their houses on the rock, while foolish people build their houses on the sand. People who survived the storm at Sanibel Island can tell you sand shifts in a storm. Remember, Jesus knows a thing or two about construction.

Other people died, and we can’t point to poor judgment or shoddy construction. Part of the brokenness of this world is innocent people die for reasons we do not understand. There is a man in the Bible, Job, who suffers immensely, and he never really knows why. All he knows is in the agony of his suffering; he wants a meeting with God. He has questions he wants God to answer. God does show up, coming in a whirlwind. God never answers Job’s questions, but he offers Job his presence. In the end, Job declares in God’s presence he understands the most important thing: God is in charge, and Job is not. 

After the storm, your trust in God is tested. You must decide if you trust God to work good in all things. You must decide if you can trust God to comfort you when you are not getting the answers you want. You must decide if you can trust God to walk with you through the valley of the shadow of death. You must decide if you can really trust God, who is in charge, no matter what you think of him.

These decisions are stressful. They mean you must go against the feeling of the moment, whether despair, grief, or simply being overwhelmed. What I have found is this: trust comes before peace. The peace of God will be given, but only when I open my heart and trust in him.

I think about storms around the world. In Pakistan, over 1,600 people are dead in monsoon flooding. Fourteen thousand are dead in the Ukraine. The stock market seems to be sailing through stormy waters. 

A marriage ends. A child is sick. A promotion doesn’t come. Depression won’t lift. Teens rebel.   Small storms seem that way to outsiders but loom large to those in the midst of trouble.

Whether the storm is literal or symbolic, your soul can get seasick. That is why the Psalms over and over sing to us, “God is our refuge and strength.”  Whatever storm you face, the safest place to be is in the arms of our great, loving Heavenly Father. He holds you in the storm and even after the storm is over.

No Shortcuts…

I have made visits to our local hospital for over twenty-eight years.  In that time, I have learned the shortcuts to get to every part of the facility.  Not to brag, but I know which doors are always locked, which are guarded, which you can exit from, but can’t enter, and which parking spot is closest to which door.  In the years I have made pastoral visits, I think I have prayed in every room in the hospital.

It is dangerous to think you know everything.  Recently, my doctor instructed me to take a sample to the Lab at the hospital.  Drawing on my experience, I knew the closest entrance to the Lab was on the backside of the building.  I also knew I would have to convince the security guard to open a locked door for me, but I thought I could persuade him.

I found a parking spot near the closest door, went in, successfully talked the security guard into letting me through the locked door, walked down the hall to the Lab, and opened the door.  No one was there to take my sample.  I thought this was odd. 

I have learned if you make enough noise in the hospital, someone will come and investigate.  I started rapping on the window, and a kind gentleman came around the corner.  He asked how he could help, and I told him I was there to drop off the sample requested by my doctor.  This was when things began to go wrong.

He politely informed me he could not take the sample; instead, I would need to go to Registration.  I tried to explain the doctor’s order was right there in the bag.  He nodded kindly and told me it was hospital policy and it had to be done this way.  He offered to walk me to Registration, but I told him I knew the way.  He did take my sample and dropped it off at the proper office, telling me to bring my paperwork back to the Outpatient Lab once it was completed.  My vision of a quick in-and-out drop-off began to fade.

Registration is located about as far from the Lab as possible.  After walking down a long corridor, I arrived at Registration.  I handed over my paperwork, was given a number, and was shown a seat.  I had planned on this taking about fifteen minutes.  I should have remembered nothing in the hospital goes fast.

I then realized I had left my phone in my truck.  Ordinarily, this would not be a great cause for alarm; I can survive for a few moments without being connected to the outside world.  But on this particular day, I wanted to keep my phone close in case a family member called.  I went to the desk to explain I had to go get my phone.

I went back down the long corridor, past the Lab, out the “closest door,” onto my choice parking spot, which was now a great distance from where I needed to be.  I thought, “As long as I’m here, I might as well move my truck to a better spot.”

I’m not proud of this, but I first checked out the clergy parking spaces.  This was a bit unethical since I was not on a pastoral visit.  All the clergy spaces were filled, so I headed to the Parking Garage.  There are certain spaces in that garage that will not hold a full-sized pickup truck, and I knew to avoid those.  Others were too far from the elevators.  I wound up on the top floor of the garage, farther from Registration than I was before.

After another long walk, I connected with a helpful Registration clerk, who took my information as quickly as possible and then walked my paperwork over to the right place.  What I thought would take fifteen minutes had taken a full hour.  My efforts to find a shortcut cost about thirty minutes more than if I had simply followed my original instructions.

We search for shortcuts in life.  Trusting our cleverness, we think the rules are for other people, not us.  We assume we are the exceptions.  How often do our shortcuts cost us more time and more money?

People think they can find shortcuts with God.  When you think about it, this might be the most arrogant attitude of all.  We assume we know ways to God better than he does.  In my own journey, I have learned there are no shortcuts to walking with God.  You follow his lead, you listen to his instructions, and you respect his boundaries.  Every shortcut you try to take takes you farther away from him.

No wonder Jesus said the way to live is narrow.  I think he was telling us, “No shortcuts.”

Who Jesus Hangs Out With…

The Gospels are clear about the company Jesus kept. 

We know he was criticized for hanging out with tax collectors and sinners. Religious people in his day would never spend time with folks like this. Tax collectors were seen as collaborators with the enemy. Sinners were people who didn’t keep the religious laws. Today, he would probably hang out with people who try to recruit for extremists. You might even find him in a bar somewhere, hanging out with people who never go to church.

We know he enjoyed the company of working men, fisherman like Peter, Andrew, James, and John. These men didn’t fish for pleasure; they fished for a living. Fishing for a living is hard, back-breaking work. Today he would hang out with truck drivers, people on the assembly line, farmers, electricians, plumbers, and carpenters. He might even swap stories with them about working on construction sites, maybe even show them the blisters on his own hands.

We know a group of rich women were part of his circle: Joanna and Susanna wrote the checks that kept his ministry going. It was common in his day for wealthy women to support rabbis. What was uncommon was support of a rabbi who had not studied with another famous rabbi. Today Jesus would be at the country club, seated at a table by the window, talking to women about God’s plan for their lives. He would focus on their souls and not have one lustful thought about their bodies.

We know Mary Magdalene, having been delivered from seven demons, was in the inner circle. We don’t know exactly what impact the demons had on her, but I bet everyone who knew her thought she was seriously disturbed. Have you ever been around a seriously disturbed person? It takes a special sense of calm. Today, Jesus would be completely at home with people who are disturbed, maybe even diagnosed. I wonder if he would visit the hospital where the most disturbed are held. He could bring them peace, just like he brought peace to Mary Magdalene.

We know Jesus talked a lot with religious leaders and scholars. Religious scholars and leaders can be pretty proud of their understanding of God. They would ask questions, and he would blow up their systems of theology by talking about a relationship with God. Today, Jesus would be at home in the pastor’s study, helping the pastor re-write his sermon. I would love to see Jesus in a seminary classroom, gently correcting the professor’s carefully constructed theology with a smile.

We know Jesus spent time with sick people: the lepers, the deformed, the blind, the lame, and the epileptics. Did he ever turn anyone away who came to him to be healed? No, he did not. He healed them. Today, Jesus would be up at the hospitals and nursing homes, offering the comfort of His power, healing the sick, and emptying the beds.

We know Jesus spent time with His disciples, the people who answered his call to follow Him. They wanted to learn from him and who wanted to be like Him.  Today, Jesus loves to hang out with people who want to follow him, learn from Him, and be like Him. He relishes their prayers, and as they listen, he speaks. 

Here’s the truth to recognize:  Jesus never excluded people. He was comfortable with all kinds of people who had all kinds of issues. Which means, of course, that Jesus is comfortable with you. No matter what you do, what perspective you bring, and no matter what system of belief you have, Jesus is comfortable with you. 

We are left with this question:  If Jesus is comfortable hanging out with all kinds of people, shouldn’t His church be filled with all kinds of people too? If it’s not, what are we doing wrong?

Why Ya Gotta Be So Mean?

Due to a recent illness (I’ll spare you the details), I’ve had time on my hands, the kind of time where you don’t feel good enough to be productive, but you are conscious.  There are only so many highlight reels you can watch before they start to repeat.  After you have seen the same catch a dozen times, you begin to think, “I bet I could have caught that ball myself.”  That is a sign delusion is setting in. 

In hope of some mental stimulation, I turned to Twitter.  May I give you some advice?  If you are sick and want to feel better, do not look at Twitter.  People can be so mean. 

My period of illness was concurrent with Queen Elizabeth’s death and the ascension of her son, Charles, to the British throne.  I read several mean swipes at the Queen.  I thought, “Have you no respect for the dead?  Why take a shot now?  For the matter, why take a shot at all?  I’m sure the Queen was not perfect, but all in all, she seemed to me to do well in an impossible job.  Why would you want to tweet criticism of her now that she is dead?” 

Someone posted ten reasons people dislike King Charles.  Maybe those are true, but I mean, the man’s mother just died, and he just became King.  Can you not cut him a little slack?  There was also a Twitter thread about Camilla, the new Queen Consort.  People were condemning her for not being attractive, like Princess Dianna.  Really?  How exactly is that relevant? 

I did not have to scroll far before I ran into posts by various pastors and Christian celebrities.   Pastors were posting arguments about the role of women, the proper mode of baptism, and the danger of “woke theology.”  I was not troubled that pastors disagree with one another.  Being a pastor myself, I find myself disagreeing with myself often.  What troubled me was how mean the pastors were to one another.  The tone of their arguments was: “If you do not agree with me, then we can’t be friends.”  That reaction seems over the top.  I thought one of the fruits of the Spirit was kindness.  Is anyone asking: “If you are not kind on Social Media, does that mean the Spirit is not working in your life?” 

One of Taylor Swift’s early hits asked the question, “Why ya gotta be so mean?”  Jesus’ brother James actually answered that question.  He says we have desires that battle within us.  I think Social Media wars show our desire to be significant, for people to take our side.  They reflect our pride, which in turn masks our deep fear that we do not matter.   

I wonder if we would benefit from asking God, “Am I mean?”  Can I guess the answer for you?  You are meaner than you think.  At least, that was the answer I got when I asked God the question.  Most of us have a blind spot about how mean we can be.  Maybe we don’t ask God how mean we can be because we don’t want to know the answer. 

During my recent illness, some people were incredibly kind to me.  A neighbor and friend took care of cutting my grass.  Doctors and nurses went the extra mile to keep an eye on me.  My kids texted and called with support.  My wife, as always, was right there.  Co-workers covered for me at work.  I am sure Jesus appreciated all those acts of kindness, more than one hundred Tweets about theology.   

People have been criticized for emphasizing grace more than truth.  I don’t think you can separate the two.  If truth has a claim on you, it will change the way you live, the way you talk, the way you Tweet.  If grace is coming to surface, it means you have met a truth bigger than you that changes your life. 

Jesus said, I am the way, the truth, and the life.  Truth is not an abstract ideal; it is a person named Jesus.  When he changes your life, kindness should flow.   

If kindness isn’t flowing, ponder Taylor Swift’s question: “Why ya gotta be so mean?” 

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. What if God is making you wait so you can increase your faith. Maybe increasing your faith is to get you ready for a big challenge that is coming. You don’t see it, but God does. 

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, take the next step! I wonder how many blessings of God we miss because we will not do what is needed to receive his blessings? 

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. God understands our limited ability to see the whole picture. Ask God to help you see more of His picture. When you cannot see, let your waiting grow understanding of his ways, which are higher and greater than ours. 

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.”  A wise old friend once told me, “You are better off wanting someone you don’t have than having someone you don’t want.” 

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. Human beings do not thrive when they believe they are in control. It is not our actions that make things happen, but his. 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. It is tempting to lean on the other person and berate them into being ready. This never works. Even if the person never takes that step of readiness, God will find a way to work His plan. When you are waiting for someone to get ready for God to move, pray for him or her. Pray for patience for yourself. Remember how patient God has been with you. 

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. Remember, he has a peace that passes all understanding, and that peace will guard your heart. 

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.” 

The time comes when waiting ends. Strength is renewed. You soar. You run your race. You continue your journey. You are not alone. Weariness and weakness fall away. God is with you. 

Safe Place…

Every week I meet three local pastors for breakfast.  We come from different traditions and different backgrounds.  I am the only Baptist in the group, so I try to convince the others of their theological errors (just kidding).

This group means a lot to me.  It is a safe place to share the frustrations and joys of serving a local church.  Like a great many things in life, you can’t really appreciate a person’s struggles unless you have been there.  When I talk over eggs and bacon about a sermon that feels flat, I get nods of understanding.  These guys have been in the trenches; they understand.

We talk about how frustrating it is when people try to get us to advance their cause instead of preaching the good news.  There are so many compelling causes out there, but Jesus gave his church a mission.  It is hard to say “no” to the good so we can “yes” to Jesus’ way.

We try to figure out the best way to make good things happen in the name of Jesus.  Sermons do not write themselves.  It takes study and prayer.  Helping leaders in our church see what we see can be draining.  Sometimes we think we have communicated so clearly, only to find out we have been misunderstood. 

We share concerns about our souls.  As a pastor, you get to see the best in people.  You see people show up early to rock the babies, sing the songs, and teach the scripture.  Most do it with a heart dedicated to Jesus.  You get to baptize people, a marker of life change.  You get to see marriages that were tittering on the brink of divorce be healed.  This is the soul-filling side of ministry.

But there is another side to being a pastor.  You might not understand this, but ministry takes a toll on your soul.  Most pastors I know at some point have heard people say ugly things about their spouses or their children.  That’s hard to take.  There is a toll when you walk beside a family at the graveside.  There is a toll working with families to keep them intact.  There is a toll when the late-night phone call comes, and a person says they do not know if they want to live or die.

For me, I am grateful that once a week, I get to meet with friends who understand what it is like to stand in the fire.  I imagine every leader who experiences pressure wants to be with a group of people who understand what it is like to do their job.

Being guys, we have to give each other a hard time.  In a spirit of love, they keep me humble.  More than once, they have challenged my self-righteous anger.  They look at me while I am making some obscure theological point and then say, “Does that matter, really?”  These guys pray for me, and I pray for them. 

Our meetings grow my worldview.  They have seen things, read things, and experienced things I haven’t.  I realize my Baptist world can be pretty narrow.  Though I have been a pastor longer than anyone else in the group, these guys have experienced church from angles I never thought about. 

Everyone needs this kind of safe place, a space to be real, to be with people who understand, who listen, and who encourage.  When church is at its best, it is this kind of place of grace.  These weekly breakfast meetings feel like church to me.  We may not agree on everything, but we love Jesus, and we love each other.

I wonder what would happen if church was really like this.  Wouldn’t you want to be part of a church that was a safe place, where you were not judged, where people listened before they judged, where you could be real, where you could be challenged?  Isn’t that what Jesus wants his church to be?

At this week’s breakfast, my friends decided they would begin giving me a word each week that I had to put in this column.  I told them I loved them, but not quite that much.  Nevertheless, they laid down the gauntlet.  “Use the word,” my friends said.

Because I love them, because they give me a safe place, because they understand, I’ve decided to use the word in this week’s column. 

Asparagus.  Satisfied, guys?

It has been a Year…

This week marks a year since my brother, my best friend, passed away. I was with him in his final moments when his breathing stopped. He left this earth to go and be with Jesus. I know he believed. He told me more than once he would be glad to be a street sweeper in heaven, just as long as he made it in.

I miss him. I miss him calling to check on me. I miss him telling stories about the days I can’t remember, the days when my father was still living. I even miss the hard times he gave me about everything from being bald to selling a truck to the ranch that needed some work done on it (in fairness, I didn’t know things were broken). I miss having my older brother commiserate with me about our gene pool. We both had small bladders from our mother, nasal drainage from our father, and a tendency to lose our tempers which probably came from both families. 

I miss him telling me he loved me, and I miss telling him I loved him. I miss laughing together at the funny things that happened in our childhood and on the ranch. I miss his acceptance that I was a little brother first and preacher second.

I wish we could sit at our great-grandmother’s table at the ranch house and tell stories back and forth one more time. I wish I had a chance to ask him questions about the old days, about Daddy, and about which gun was best. I wish one more time we could ride out through the pasture and feel that feeling that is beyond words, the feeling of heritage, of tending the land like our father, our grandfather, and our great-grandfather before us. 

My brother shows up in my dreams sometimes. I dream he looks at the things I have done at the ranch and asks me, “Have you lost your mind?”  I dream we are children, sleeping again on the bunk beds in the old house, waiting for Mama to come in for the third time to tell us to get out of bed or we are going to miss the bus. And I dream he and Mama are sending me messages from heaven. If you know how to interpret dreams, do not bother to contact me. I already know what each of these dreams means.

My sister passed nine months before my brother. I am the last of three children of my parents.   No one else now remembers watching the lightning go down the lightning conductors and sparking to the ground in the Old House. No one else remembers staying warm by the gas oven in that Old House with no heat. No one else remembers taking a bath in the old bathroom off the porch and then running to your bedroom. No one else remembers the afternoon horseback rides the three of us would take in Aunt Iris’ pasture behind the house. No one remembers but me.

Some days I want to call him and tell him about my troubles. I knew he was always for me. If I was ever under attack, I knew all I had to do was make a phone call, and he would be at my house in a few hours (after several stops – remember the small bladders), armed to the teeth, ready for battle. Other days when I have to make a big decision involving the ranch, I want to call him and ask him if I am on the right track. My brother was always more cautious by nature; I am more urgent. That is why we made a good team. I would push him; he would rein me in.

It would have been so wonderful if my brother had lived to see my grandson grow up. He was the grandfather figure for our cousin’s grandchildren; I wish he could see them growing up, the rambunctious rascals that they are. It would be wonderful for him to finally add on to his house, enjoy more days of retirement, and go to many more gun shows.

It has been a year now, and my grief is nowhere close to being done. I’ve learned to live with missing my brother, but that doesn’t mean the pain is gone. Our wise old country preacher cousin once said, “It is a lie that time heals all wounds; time helps you adjust to load in the saddle.”  He was right. 

During this year, Jesus has been gracious to me. I’ve had moments to weep and moments to smile. Jesus has walked beside me and never left me alone. This is what he means when he says, I will walk with you through the valley of the shadow of death. It feels like Jesus’ arm is around my shoulder, and he is saying, “I know you miss him. But I am with you, and Steve is with me. Do not let your heart be troubled.”

I miss you, brother. Even after a year.

Back to School…

The kids are headed back to school. Social media is flooded with pictures of adorable kindergarteners and sulking sophomores. New backpacks, notebooks, and clothes are required to send everyone off in style.

When I was in school, my mother did not take pictures of my first day. I’m not sure why. Maybe film was more precious back then. Or maybe, because I was the last child, she decided she had all the first day of school pictures she needed. I do have vague memories of getting a new pair of dungarees, high-top tennis shoes, and a new notebook, but that was it. Oh, for first grade, I got a new mat to use when we took a nap. Letting a first grader take a nap was considered important in those days; maybe it should be brought back.

I do not recall my first-grade teacher, Mrs. Sellers, having a special treat for us. Instead, we went to work pretty quickly, learning our alphabet and numbers. School was the equivalent of our parents going to work. No one made a fuss about them going to work, so why should a special fuss be made over us?

All twelve years of basic education proceeded in that fashion. There was the inevitable dread of not knowing who your teachers would be. I remember the terror of finding out old lady Hendon would be my fourth-grade teacher. Hers was a name that struck terror into the hearts of nine-year-olds. I lived in fear that year. But for the first time, I was so fascinated by history, I read ahead to see what happened next.

The mystery of “Which teacher?” is something home-school children miss. It accelerated in high school. If you had a football coach for math, you would learn how to add six plus the extra point, but your algebra skills would be lacking. Mrs. Wolfe taught composition and made you write your first real term paper. If you had Mrs. East for speech, you had to work very hard not to have a crush on her.

When I went off to college, I drove myself, and my parents followed a day later. There were quick goodbyes after we moved my stuff into the dorm, and that was the last “first day of school” we shared. I think they were toasting each other as they pulled out of the parking lot.

When my own children came along, times had changed, and we took all the first day of school pictures, which are now buried in a box in the attic. There was a steady progression from cuteness to awkward adolescence to handsome and beautiful. My twelve years of education dragged by; theirs flew by.

Now, of course, there are no children at my house to send off to school. The first back-to-school day of our empty nest, I posted a picture of our empty porch where we took the pictures. It remains one of the saddest pictures I ever took. Our grandson is not yet old enough for school, but his time is coming. His mother, a teacher, has for weeks been prepping her room and getting ready for the frantic pace.

Where is Jesus in this? I like to think Jesus is in every page and in every lesson. He is the author of all knowledge. Think about it. It is God who gives us the gift of language, which means we can communicate and understand each other. It is God who grants the logic of math. He designed the universe so 2+2 will always equal 4. It is God who designed and called into being every living thing, including what you will dissect in Biology 101. It is God who made the elements, who arranged them into chemical compounds. It is God who made musical tones, colors, rocks, stars, the ocean, and human anatomy. There is nothing taught in school that God does not already know. You, however, still need to learn it.

If your children are still in school, it is helpful to remind them everything they are learning comes from God. Prayer may not be allowed in schools, but God is present in every class.

But this time of year may also be an invitation to you. Adults, we are told, learn on a need-to-know basis. Unfortunately, it means most of us, when we leave school, stop learning unless we need it for our job. We think we are “too cool for school.”  But you aren’t.

When Jesus invited us to consider the lilies of the field, how they are here today and gone tomorrow, wasn’t he inviting us to pay attention to our world? Wasn’t Jesus inviting us to consider his great creation and ponder what God might be trying to tell us?

Back to school might be God’s invitation to you to pause and ask, “Heavenly Father, what do I need to learn today?”