Waiting For Christmas…

If you think about it, there were many people waiting for Christmas.

Mary was certainly waiting for Christmas.  Any woman who has ever been pregnant will tell you by week thirty-three you’re done.  You are ready for the baby to get out and into the world.  Mary knew she was carrying the Anointed One, the Messiah, the Son of God.  But the Son of God still pressed on her bladder and kicked her in the middle of the night.  Mary was ready for the Lamb of God to come into the world.

I have a feeling Joseph was ready, too.  Not to be crude, but God tasked Joseph with marrying Mary and with not being intimate with her until after the baby was born.  Remember, Joseph was probably sixteen at the time.  There was nothing wrong or sinful about Joseph’s desire to be with his wife.  He was waiting for a long-delayed honeymoon to arrive finally.  Joseph was more than ready for Christmas.

There were two old people in the Temple who were waiting for Christmas.  One was named Simeon.  God had promised him he would not see death until he saw the Messiah with his own eyes.  I wonder if Simeon looked at every baby brought to the Temple for dedication and prayed, “This one, Lord?”  Simeon was living in hope.  He knew he would not see God’s plan unfold but would see the beginning. 

Anna was a prophet, over eighty-four years old.  She never left the Temple but worshiped there day and night.  There is no mention of a promise to her, but I can’t help but wonder if you walk that closely with God, you might sense that God is about to do something big.

We don’t think about the Wise Men waiting for Christmas.  But every night, they looked to the stars, attempting to divine the ways of God.  They may not have even considered looking for a star signifying the birth of a Jewish King.  They looked to the heavens in expectation.  Somewhere in their souls, there must have been an expectation that there had to be more to life than Kingdoms jockeying for power.  It is possible to wait for Christmas, even if you do not know what Christmas is.

The Shepherds were not waiting for Christmas.  At the time of Jesus’ birth, shepherds were considered low-class men.  They were not rejected by their culture, but they were marginalized.  A shepherd could go into a town for supplies, and people would cross the street so they would not have to talk to him.  If you were a shepherd, you did not try to climb the rungs on a career ladder.  There were no rungs; there was no ladder.  This was your lot in life, and you were expected to accept it.  There might be good news out there for someone, but it would not be for you.  If there were a Savior to be born, they would be the last to know.

All the Jewish people living in Palestine were waiting for Christmas, but they did not think in those terms.  For almost 40 years, they had been under the cruel reign of Herod, a Roman puppet King.  They longed for Herod to die, for the Romans to leave, and for the corruption of their religious leaders to end.  They wanted a hero to come and set them free.  The Jews at the time of Jesus’ birth knew they needed a Savior; they didn’t know what kind of Savior they needed.

Zachariah and Elizabeth were ready for Christmas to come.  They had a sneak preview of their own miracle child.  They were told he would “…make ready the way of the Lord…”  They were unsure what that meant, but it seemed to relate to Mary’s (Elizabeth’s relative) pregnancy.  Though they were old, they had been chosen to be part of God’s great plan of redemption.  They could not wait to see how their part would fit in with the whole.

The Apostle Paul said, “…the whole world was groaning …”  Paul could sense that the world could not stand the disorder, the chaos that sin had brought any longer.  Have you ever heard the rafters of your house groan at night?  Paul picked up on that spiritual vibration.  The world was ready for Christmas to come.  The Christmas creation longed for would not be fulfilled by a fictitious man in a red suit riding on a sleigh pulled by reindeer.  The world was waiting for Christmas, hope, joy, peace, grace, and a Savior.

Maybe you are waiting for Christmas.  Or perhaps you are waiting for something more.  Maybe you are waiting for Jesus.  The words of the angel are for you: “Unto you is born this day, in the City of David, a Savior; ‘tis Christ the Lord.”  Your wait is over.

Beyond Ready for Christmas…

Is it just me, or have you noticed everyone seems eager for Christmas to come? I’m not talking about the retailer who began to display Christmas décor after Labor Day.   I’m talking about normal folks. The people I talked with before Thanksgiving were talking about Christmas. I saw houses decorated with outdoor lights the first week of November. 

It even happened at our house. We are normally not early decorators. We might get the stuff down from the attic the Monday before Thanksgiving, but we’ve never put up the decorations until the first week of December. One year life was so full we didn’t decorate until two weeks before Christmas.

But this year, we caught the early decorating bug. We got all three trees up before Thanksgiving. We decorated two during the Florida- Florida State game (and yes, though I am a Gator fan, FSU was robbed). We even ordered the decorations we needed the weekend before Thanksgiving. That was a real change from our normal panicked runs to the store to sort through the leftovers. 

Our shopping is not done, but we are ahead of our normal pace (The normal pace is: “Yes, we will pay extra for next-day shipping on Christmas Eve.”). We spoke with the children and agreed not to go over the top with gift-giving this year. I was surprised when everyone agreed.

There is a different feeling in the stores. My wife was in a store, and she said everyone seemed to be in a good mood. The children were laughing; no one was crying. Older women were greeting each other with “Merry Christmas!” as their electric carts passed each other. 

Why does it seem like everyone is eager for Christmas?

Maybe it has something to do with the situation in the world. The war between Ukraine and Russia goes on and on. It reminds me of the trench warfare of World War I.   Then, there is the war between Hamas and Israel. Their struggle goes back millennia. Israel believes God promised them Palestine. Palestinians believe the land is theirs. In a scenario like this, someone will win, and someone will lose. The conflict makes us weary. Even though Evangelicals support Israel, can anyone be comfortable with the civilian casualties of this conflict? There are no simple answers to this conflict.

I was at a meeting this week when someone seated near me said, “I dread 2024.”  When I asked, “Why?” they responded with, “The election. For the next eleven months, I will be bombarded with negative messages about candidates. Sometimes, I want to tell all those politicians to act like grown-ups and stop snipping at each other like kids on the playground.”  I muttered “Amen” under my breath. Someone else told me, “I didn’t like either of these choices in 2020. I like them less in 2024. Can’t we do better?” 

I find myself bracing for political discussions I don’t want to get involved in. I know there will be people who will want me to declare for the candidate they support. I’ve never endorsed a candidate, and I am not starting now. But I can sense people dividing into “Us” and “Them.”

Maybe these are a few reasons why people are beyond ready for Christmas. I’m not sure everyone is looking for a Norman Rockwell scene with a cozy fire, a perfect tree, and a put-together family. Maybe there is a deeper longing for peace strong enough for us to stay calm even if the world is going crazy.

The world was pretty crazy when Jesus was born. King Herod probably had a borderline/narcissistic personality disorder. Roman armies were at war with Celtic tribes in England. Taxes were heavy, in some places up to 70% of a person’s income. Poor people felt oppressed. Justice was bought and sold. 

Maybe the people in Jesus’ time were ready for Christmas, too, but they didn’t know what to call it. Some hoped for a Messiah; others hoped for a more benevolent ruler. But they felt the hole in their hearts and the longing in their souls for something different. They did not know the birth of a baby in a forgotten village would bring the hope they needed, the transformation they longed for.

Inside every one of us, there is a longing for the one who will guide us, who will bring peace, and who does not change, no matter who wins the election. That longing of your soul is the longing for Jesus, the longing for our Savior.

Sometime in the Eighth or Ninth century AD, Christian monks looked at their world and saw war after war. Political intrigue was the rule of the day, even in the offices of the church. They, too, had a longing in their souls. At Christmas time, they began to sing:
            “O Come, O come Emmanuel.  And ransom captive Israel.

            That mourns in lonely exile here, until the Son of God appear.

            Rejoice, rejoice! Emmanuel

            Shall come to thee, O Israel.”

The world is beyond ready for a Savior. The good news is he is here.

The Expectant Father…

My son was coming home. He was studying overseas, but now he was coming home. I was to pick him up at the Charleston Airport at midnight. It would be my first opportunity to see him in three months.

I arrived at the airport forty-five minutes early just in case his flight was early. Hoping a flight is early is a useless fantasy. But the status board showed me that the flight was on time. I found a waiting area near where arriving passengers passed from the secured area to the exit.

The way the Charleston Airport is designed, arriving passengers must walk through a glass door into a glass airlock. The door behind the passenger closes, and then the door in front of the passenger opens. There is a glass window beside this exit, three stories tall, where you can see people moving, walking back and forth in the secured area.

The airport was dead at 11:45 pm. My son’s flight was the last one for the night. The status board shifted his flight from “On-time” to “Landed” to “At the Gate.”  I got up and stood by the towering glass window, hoping to catch a first glance. 

The first people off are the first-class passengers. They are focused, on the move, and eager to take up their next mission. It was the next group of passengers that fascinated me. An older couple came by, holding hands like they were in middle school. Then, the businesswoman who is rolling her luggage, checking her phone, and missing the exit. Embarrassed, she wheels around, hoping no one noticed. Two college-age girls come through in sweats, headphones on, looking half awake. Other travelers come by, some charging for the luggage carousel, some sauntering toward the parking garage.

By now, fifteen minutes have passed. It takes a long time to completely unload a plane. I am peering through the window, still hoping for that first glimpse. I think he must have sat at the back of the plane. 

More people come by: two elderly women being pushed in wheelchairs, a family with three children, one fast asleep on Daddy’s shoulder. A pilot comes through, eager to get to bed so he can fly out the next day. I am almost on my tiptoes, craning my neck to see my son.

I’m not anxious; I’m anticipating. A thought comes into my mind: Jesus told a story like this. There was a Son who was a long way away from his Father. Unlike my son, he had told his father to go ahead and divide up the property between his brother and himself. He cashed out, went, and had a good time. But he ran out of cash and ran into hard times. After a while, he realized home wasn’t so bad after all. He worked out a speech, hoping his Dad would take him back as a servant.

Jesus gave the story this deliberate detail: “While he (the son) was far off, his father saw him, and ran to him…”  I wonder how many days the Dad looked at the road passing by the house expectantly. Thousands of people must have passed by during that long time his son was gone. The Dad would see a far-off figure, and his heart would lift; could this be his Son? It would turn out to be a businessman traveling from village to village or someone’s aunt coming for an extended visit. I wonder how many times the Father’s heart fell. I wonder how painful it was for him.

Jesus does not state the point, but it is clear. The Father in the story is our Heavenly Father. He is looking with eager expectation for his children who have wandered away. 

I know people who have left the Father’s house. They have decided to do life on their own terms. It goes well for a while. They get cocky. Then, the unexpected happens. Their dreams are in ruins. Friendships turn out to be nothing more than arrangements. They lost everything they had.

The sad part is shame keeps these folks from turning back to their Heavenly Father. They are embarrassed to admit they were wrong. They start a self-narrative that says, “God wouldn’t want anything to do with someone like me.”  They believe they have committed an unforgivable sin. Some people think if they come to God, he will make their life miserable.

If you ever feel this way, remember the story Jesus told. The Father runs to the Son. It’s the opposite of what we expect. We expect the Son to run to the Father.  Jesus is telling us that God loves you so much that he is not only looking for you but also runs to you when he sees you.

Finally, I caught a glimpse of my son through the glass. I waved and strode the six steps to the security exit. When he came through the doors, I did not run; he was only two steps away. But opened my arms and pulled him in. My son was home.

Your Heavenly Father is looking for you. His arms are open. It’s time to come home.

Mrs. Carter…

I have always admired Rosalynn Carter.  Maybe it was because I grew up surrounded by women like her.  She married the love of her life, Jimmy Carter, followed him through his Naval career, and then, protesting, she returned to Plains, GA.  He made calls on the customers; she kept the books at the peanut warehouse.  She could tell him what was making money and what wasn’t.   My aunts and my mother were just like her.  They raised children, kept the house, cooked amazing meals, and kept the books for the family farm or business. 

I suppose I also admired Rosalynn Carter because people said my mother looked like her.  If not for Mama’s larger nose (inherited from her father), they could pass for twins. 

I admired the Carters because they were like us.  They farmed peanuts while we raised oranges.  They were from the small-town South, and so were we.  They were Baptists; so were we.  As the famed humorist Lewis Grizzard once said, “I voted for Carter not because I agreed with him but because he talked like I did.” 

When the Carters left the White House, it would have been easy for them to make speeches for big bucks and live out their days in comfort.  Instead, they returned to Plains, to the only house they ever owned, and found a way to have a second chapter of life.  At least one week a year, the Carters worked on a Habitat for Humanity home.  Rosalynn would be swinging her hammer alongside Jimmy, providing a home for a family that otherwise would be without one.  As she had done when she was First Lady, she advocated for the mentally ill, that they be treated with dignity.  The Carter Center set out to eliminate guinea worm, and she traveled tirelessly with her husband to work against this parasite.

Two things stand out most to me about Mrs. Carter.  In her autobiography, First Lady from Plains, she talks about her early life, how she strived to take care of her family after her father’s death, how she strived to be the perfect Navy wife, and how she strived to meet everyone’s expectations when her husband was elected governor. 

She had grown up in church and served actively.  Yet, something seemed to be missing.  She went to a conference put on by Bill Gothard.  She heard Gothard teach that a woman must do what her husband said to do, even if her husband told her to do something that was wrong.  In her heart, she knew this was not correct.  She had the courage to gather her things and walk out.

Shortly after that, she was part of a Bible Study at the governor’s mansion.  The Bible Study was for the women state prisoners who were part of the mansion’s staff.  The teacher of the Bible study said, “When you feel overwhelmed, release that God.  Just let it go.”  The Holy Spirit spoke to Mrs. Carter, and it was a spiritual turning point.  She learned to let go and trust God.

The second thing that stands out about Mrs. Carter was my one meeting with her.  My wife and I had just begun dating.  Mrs. Carter came to Louisville to speak at a women’s event hosted by the seminary.  My mother-in-law and some of her friends came up, and I was able to join them (though I was out of place!).  Mrs. Carter spoke in a soft voice about her faith, about how she sought to serve God in everything she did.  What came through was not the power of her personality but the calm conviction behind her words.  She was a woman in whom there was no guile. 

Mrs. Carter passed away in her hometown of Plains on November 19, 2023.  At the time of her death, she had been married to President Carter for seventy-seven years.  She served as a deacon in their church, caring for the congregation, especially those who needed love from the body of Christ.  She lived an amazing life.

Her life, and the life of President Carter, reminds us that serving others before we serve ourselves is a better way to live.  I often wonder if President and Mrs. Carter had more impact on the world while in the White House or if they had a greater impact on the world when they moved back to Plains and lived among their neighbors. 

In these days before the 2024 election, it is good to remember there are good people in the world who live out their faith in the glare of the media.  Mrs. Carter was one of those good people who embodied that old song we sang as children: “This little light of mine, I’m going to let it shine, let it shine, let it shine, let it shine…”

Thank you, Mrs. Carter, for letting your light shine.

Before the Holidays, Pause…

The Holiday race is about to begin. Thanksgiving will be the warmup. We must lay in food, like people preparing for a famine. We will haul out cookbooks to prepare what we only cook once or twice a year. There will be kitchen disasters: cakes will fall, roasts will burn, and casseroles will not turn out like the pictures in Southern Living. Our uncles, who will have a few too many beers, will attempt to fry a turkey, forgetting it first must be thawed. We will all overeat, fall asleep in front of football games, and then rise in stupor to demolish leftovers since we “only get to eat this once a year.”

Lists must be made. We will wake up early for Black Friday and then click like mad on Cyber Monday. The UPS man will break his back toting boxes to our door. We will agonize over what to buy people who already have everything they need and most of what they want. Our children will request the one toy that everyone is out of, except some obscure online retailer that doesn’t accept PayPal.

We will haul down the decorations from the attic and discover that we have fifteen strands of lights, of which only three work. Our favorite ornament, the one our daughter made when she was in kindergarten, has been smashed into tiny slivers. The tree, which looked perfect at the tree lot, now has a hole in the side. A hurricane of tree needles appears every time we look at the tree. We compare our sorry outdoor wreathes to the neighbors, who apparently have a connection with Martha Stewart, for theirs are perfect.

Travel plans must be finalized. We have to figure out how to get to the family reunion five hundred miles away and back in time for the three dozen Christmas plays, parties, and pageants involving our kids. Parents ladle on the guilt if we are unable to deliver their grandchildren to them for their viewing pleasure. Christmas itself can be a nightmare. We have to go to MeeMaw’s, Granny’s, Nanna’s, Meme’s, and Baba’s house. We are expected to eat at each one, have the children open presents at each one, and give a present to the woman who says, “Oh, you shouldn’t have” while silently comparing our gift to those from her other grandchildren.

We must go to the parties. People keep score. We have to go to the Sunday School party, the School party, the Office party, the neighborhood party, the best customer’s party, the friends that drink wine party, the friends that don’t drink wine party, and the party given by the “cool” people (who invited you by mistake).

Because it’s the holidays, we feel like we must go to see the lights at the park, at the zoo, at the guy’s house who numbers his lights in the millions, and the lights in the small town that turns itself into a tourist attraction every Christmas, putting a strain on the local nuclear power plant. We must go to see “The Nutcracker” and every “Singing Christmas Tree” in town. Our friends from other churches tell us we can’t miss their living nativity scene; they’ll come to our musical if we go to their outdoor representation of Bethlehem.

There are TV shows we can’t miss. We must see “The Christmas Story” for the twentieth time to see if Ralphie will put out his eye this time. We must watch “A Charlie Brown Christmas” again to see if Snoopy still wins first prize. We must make sure that no Hallmark channel movie is missed.

Three days before Christmas, the cards start to pour in. Our college roommate apparently has made a deal with the devil because he has all his hair, his wife looks like a million dollars, his children have all finished their second doctorate, and his grandchildren are wait-listed for Harvard, even though they have just finished potty training. In a panic, we find the only picture we have of the whole family together – the one taken at the beach, where everyone looks great except yourself because your eyes are closed, and you are so sunburned you look like a lobster emerging from a boil. We try to think up our accomplishments, but saying Junior got off probation doesn’t seem like it should make the list. 

Before we begin the race, maybe we need to pause. Breathe. Think. What’s this all about? Isn’t Thanksgiving about grace? Isn’t Thanksgiving about a gracious God who gives you more than you deserve? Isn’t Thanksgiving about thanking people in your life for their love?

Isn’t Christmas about God’s love? Isn’t Christmas about God wanting to give you a deeper peace, something that can’t be bought? Isn’t Christmas about joy a deep sense of well-being?

Before the race begins, pause. Breathe. Think. Thank. Rejoice. God gives to you. God is with you. Thanks be to God.

Pastors, Politicians, and Grace…

You may not have seen this news story:  F.L. "Bubba" Copeland, mayor of Smith's Station, AL, and Pastor of the First Baptist Church of Phenix City, AL, committed suicide recently. 

A few days earlier, a conservative news site posted a picture of the Mayor/Pastor in a woman's dress and a wig. Copeland also apparently had posted pictures of people he did not know on his Reddit page. He is also alleged to have written violent fan fiction. 

The local sheriff was concerned about Copeland and sent two deputies to do a welfare check. They saw Copeland driving his car slowly. He would not stop for the officers for about thirty minutes. Then he stopped, stepped out of the car, pulled out a handgun, and shot himself. 

People who knew him called him "a good and decent man." He served in two high-pressure positions: pastor and politician. 

It might surprise you to know that according to one study, 1 in 10 pastors have thought about suicide. Another study revealed 40% of pastors have thought about quitting the ministry in the last year. Why? 

As a pastor, I think I can shed some light. Pastors are expected to live to a higher standard than other people. We are expected to have marriages that are perfect, kids that are perfect, manage our money well (even if the church underpays us), remember everyone's name, and preach sermons that are terrific. Inevitably, when we can't meet our own expectations, let alone the expectations of others, the pressure leaks out somewhere: an addiction, a dysfunction, an obsession. These things pastors must hide. These days, nothing stays hidden for long. 

I'm not a politician, but some of the same expectations apply. Politicians are forced to make promises that can't be kept to be elected. If elected, a politician begins to feel the weight of those impossible promises. Before long, it gnaws at their soul. Distracted by a hundred compromises, it is harder to keep your eye on the goal. The choice is awful: either deaden your soul or wake up every day to do battle to keep your soul. 

Having been with families after a loved one commits suicide, I can tell you suicide always leaves a wreck. The family asks, "why?" Someone will wonder if it was his or her fault. Friends feel betrayed. Suicide is a permanent fix to a temporary problem. 

Mayor/Pastor Copeland told his congregation that the pictures of him in drag were part of a humorous exchange between him and his wife. I do not know if he apologized for the Reddit posts or for writing violent fan fiction. What would have happened if he hadn't ended his life?   

One thing I have learned is embarrassment and public shame never last as long as you think. Having stuck my foot in my mouth several times, I've eaten my share of humble pie. I would imagine few people think about that now, except me. When those memories come up, the shame can return, refreshed and powerful. That's when I need to remember that as a child of God, I am forgiven. I am loved. My sins, even the manner of my death, does not change my relationship with God. What God thinks of me is more important than what anyone else thinks. 

If I had been in the car with Mayor/Pastor Copeland, I would have asked him, "Bubba, if this happened to someone in your church, what would you say to him or her?" I think I know what the answer would be. Mayor/Pastor Copeland would reply, "Why, I would tell them God loves them no matter what. That ending your life doesn't solve anything; it just creates pain for those you leave behind. I would tell them to put themselves in the care of God." Then I would tell the Mayor/Pastor, "Exactly.  Listen to your own message and apply it to yourself." 

I know it is easy to preach the Good News to others and not embrace it for yourself. I think about all the times I've proclaimed the grace of God and then beat myself up for my failures and sins. 

I can't speak for politicians, but I know pastors appreciate words of grace. By words of grace, I mean words beyond "Good message today." When the pastor messes up, forgets to call your mother before her hang-nail surgery, and comes to apologize, give him words of grace, like: "It's okay, Pastor. I understand. I don't hold it against you." 

I've noticed that churches that give grace usually have pastors that give grace. And yes, you can turn that around: churches that do not give grace usually have pastors that do not give grace. 

I think about the grace of Jesus, confronted with that woman caught in the very act of adultery. Remember what he said to her? "I do not condemn you. Go and sin no more." 

 Remember that pastors and, yes, even politicians need grace too.   

*If you are thinking about suicide or have other end-of-life thoughts, please call the National Suicide Hotline at 988. 

My Bible…

I received my first Bible when I was in third grade.  I’m not sure, but I think it came from one of those ceremonies where all the kids of a certain age got a Bible.  I still have it; it is a King James, tiny-print version.  I faithfully toted that Bible to church for several years.   

When I was about nine years old, a translation of the New Testament called “Good News for Modern Man” came into my possession.  Much later, I learned this translation vocabulary was at a newspaper level, written in modern English.  I would also learn the translation method was called “dynamic equivalency,” meaning the translator aimed not for a literal translation but for the meaning of the Hebrew and the Greek. 

I devoured this translation.  I read it night after night, long after I was supposed to be asleep.  For the first time, the scripture came alive to me.  By the time I finished elementary school, I had read the New Testament through five or six times. 

In middle school, I was introduced to “The Living Bible.”  It was a paraphrase.  The translator, Ken Taylor, took English translations and put them into his own words.  It was very readable.  I began to read it every night, reading through the whole Bible a couple of times. 

When I preached my first sermon, I preached from the King James version because that’s what my pastor did.  I thought (incorrectly) that I could read the Bible from any translation I wanted, but I would have to preach from the King James. 

At college, I entered a different world of Bible translations.  I was required to buy the Revised Standard Version, a more literal translation that tried to preserve some of the grandeur of the King James while eliminating the “thees and thous.”  I remember being upset by this translation and hurling my copy of the RSV across my dorm room one night, convinced it was of the devil.  I discovered years later the RSV was correct and my youthful arrogance was wrong. 

Some of my fellow Religion Majors were gifted linguists.  Two or three of them would take their Greek New Testaments and translate them at sight when they went out to preach in rural Alabama churches.  I never reached this level of proficiency.  However, I was caught up in the intellectual snobbery of thinking the King James Version was of poor quality.  I made fun of all the preachers and rural Alabama Baptists who stuck to the King James version. 

In seminary, my language skills improved.  I became proficient in Hebrew and could read Greek with a little help from a Lexicon.  No one in seminary used the King James; everyone used the Revised Standard Version, or when it came out, the New Revised Standard Version.  I began to preach from the Revised Standard at the churches I pastored.  There was no fuss.  People seemed to appreciate the clearer reading.

When I came to the church, I now pastor thirty years ago, The New International Version was the translation placed in the pew rack.  Since my major Professor, Dr. Marvin Tate, had been on the translation committee, I knew it was valued for readability, accuracy, and clarity.  I switched translations and have preached from the NIV ever since. 

When I read the Bible devotionally, I usually read the NIV or the RSV.  I trust them and am familiar with them.  Since I am a pastor, several companies have sent me copies of translations: the ESV, the CSV, and the HIJKLOMNPV (I just made the last one up).  Like all translations, each has its own strengths and its own weaknesses.  There are no perfect translations of the Bible.  However, almost all translations get the main point across. 

When I was in college, Eugene Nida, the head of the American Bible Society, came to speak on our campus.  I was only eighteen years old, but I knew Dr. Nida could answer a question that bugged me at the time.  During a Q and A session, I asked Dr. Nida, “What is the best translation?”  Of course, I didn’t realize it at the time, but if you are the head of the American Bible Society, you get asked this question often. 

I’ve never forgotten Dr. Nida’s answer: “The best translation of the Bible is the one you will read.”   

That’s the point: read your Bible.  Trust the Holy Spirit to speak to you while you read.  I usually read my Bible at night.  I will be reading, and the Spirit will nudge my heart.  It seems like the Spirit is saying, “See this.  I wrote this for you.  It applies to the moment you are living right now.   

Find yourself in the stories.  In the story of David and Goliath, are you David or Goliath?  You are David if you depend on God; you are Goliath if you depend on yourself.   

Confession:  sometimes, you will read the Bible, and the passage may not speak to you.  It happens.  Keep at it.  On the next page, there might be a story that will change your life. 

My hero, Duke McCall, once wrote that his Bible, the one he read, was inspired.  When he opened the pages of his Bible, God spoke to him.  No matter how supernatural the Bible is or how it was inspired, it doesn’t matter until you open it, read it, and apply it to your life.  Remember, God wrote it for you.

Greeleyville and Grace…

I was on my way to Charleston and taking the route through Greeleyville. There was construction on the Interstate, and this seemed like the fastest way. For those of you unfamiliar with South Carolina towns, Greeley is a small town of about 500 people. It has a bank, a school, a couple of churches and a nice furniture store. It also has a cop named “Yolanda.” 

I have a heavy foot. It’s genetic. My Uncle J.N. had a service station back in the day. Older ladies would bring their cars into the station and say, “It’s not running right.”  My Aunt Iris would take those cars out late at night and blow out the carburetor (you don’t need to do this anymore). I have it on good authority that Aunt Iris would run the cars about ninety to Avon Park and back. The ladies would pick up their cars and praise Uncle J.N. for his mechanical ability. 

I was merely fulfilling my family legacy and did not notice the thirty-five-mile-an-hour zone as I entered Greeleyville.  Yolanda, however, noticed me. She pulled out, lights flashing, siren blaring, and in the words of Sheriff Buford T. Justice, she was in “hot pursuit.”   

By this time in life, I learned to pull over, get my license and registration, and say, “Yes sir” or “No ma’am.”  Yolanda wrote me a ticket for doing fifty-five in a thirty-five zone. It was a four-point violation. She was kind enough to tell me if I appeared in person, I might get the fine and number of points reduced. 

I appeared on the appointed day. The small waiting room had about fifteen chairs; two members of our church were there as well. We commiserated until I was called back to see the magistrate. 

She sat behind a desk in a black robe. Yolanda stood beside the desk. The hammer of justice was coming. The magistrate asked Yolanda for the charge, and Yolanda responded: “Subject was clocked by radar doing fifty-five in a thirty-five zone.”  The magistrate looked at me and asked, “How do you plead.” 

At this moment, I knew better than to lie. The magistrate had heard it all before. I was guilty, and everyone in the room knew it. However, I did not want to pay the fine nor have the points added to my license. So, I replied, “You honor, I plead grace.” 

The magistrate looked up from her pile of papers and said, “What?”  I said, “You honor, I plead grace.”  She smiled and said, “Are you a preacher?”  I looked sheepish and said, “Yes, I am your honor.”  I was looking for any angle possible. 

The magistrate said, “Well, how about a reduction of fine to fifty dollars and two points?”  I replied, “How about no dollars and no points?”  The magistrate looked up again, this time without a smile, and replied, “Sir, in Greeleyville, grace is fifty dollars and two points.” 

I decided not to push my luck, thanked the magistrate and Yolanda, and hustled out of the office. At least now I knew the price of grace in Greeleyville.   

Jesus followers talk about grace but rarely define it. But what I know is grace, the real grace of God, is not God saying, “I will pay most of your fine, but you pay the rest.”  Grace is God paying all we owe. 

Earlier in my life, I was driving my family to Christmas in Gaffney, SC.  I was pulled over for speeding – forty-five in a thirty zone. At the time, my mother-in-law worked at the County Clerk’s office. When she found out about my ticket, she called the trooper involved, and they arranged for me to appear before the magistrate in Cherokee County. Right before my court date, the trooper pulled me aside and said, “Don’t say anything.”  I nodded. He went into the magistrate’s office and told the magistrate he had made a mistake and must have clocked someone else. I think the magistrate knew this was a lie, but he let it pass, and my ticket was torn up. I walked out, not having to pay a fine and not having any points on my license. My mother-in-law arranged for me to have grace – no fine and no points. 

Jesus does not lie on our behalf. He knows everything I have done (and everything you have done). He chooses to pay the fine himself. He arranges for there to be grace so our broken relationship with God can be restored. Thanks be to God. Grace with Jesus is better than grace in Greeleyville.

USC vs. Florida…

Thanks to my generous cousin Ned, I had tickets to the Florida-South Carolina game.  Thankfully, the tickets were in the Florida section, so I did not stick out quite so bad when I cheered for Florida.   

It was an entertaining game.  I often tell people I wish every game were a blowout – with my team doing the scoring.  It rarely works out that way, and it surely didn’t Saturday at Williams-Brice Stadium.    

Both teams had no defense to speak of.  Both quarterbacks had stellar performances.  Both teams made some impossible plays.  Twice, Florida converted on fourth down deep in their own territory to keep drives alive.  There was only one interception on the next to the last play of the game.   

It was the kind of game you couldn’t leave.  You had a feeling whoever had the ball last was going to win.  It almost worked out that way.  You had to stand up most of the game because other people were standing in front of you, and you didn’t want to miss a moment. 

It was a shame South Carolina lost.  I like their coach and their quarterback.  He doesn’t quite have all the pieces in place yet.  The coach at Florida is new, too.  The challenge of college football today is getting the right players on the bus and keeping them.  It looked like Florida had the edge when compared to South Carolina, but not by much.  But if someone had to lose, I was glad it was South Carolina (sorry to all my friends and church members who are South Carolina fans). 

I find myself wishing sometimes my life was an easy game.  Who wouldn’t wish for easy touchdowns and weak opponents?  Maybe that happens for some people, but not for anyone I know. 

Even Christians have troubles.  Jesus said, “In this world, you will have trouble…”  I have to admit some of my troubles I inflict on myself.  But other troubles seem to just happen.  A Florida player made an amazing catch during the game.  The South Carolina defender that was right there made the right play.  Somehow, the Florida player caught the ball.  Sometimes, trouble finds you. 

Some days, I do everything right, and trouble still finds me.  I have four deadlines to meet, and someone in a crisis calls me.  I have to take that call, and now I still have deadlines and less time.  A bill gets accidentally thrown away, and the next thing I know, I receive an ugly, threatening letter.  I have to hurry to the bathroom on Sunday, and the next thing I know, someone has posted on Social Media that the pastor at Alice Drive ignores people at church.   

I once was reamed out by an upset family member for not visiting their loved one in the hospital.  I didn’t know the person was in the hospital.  When I shared this with her, she told me, “That doesn’t matter.  You should have known.”  This is what is known as being the target of opportunity. 

Like South Carolina, you can do everything well and still fall short because you just run out of time.  The temptation then is to go back over the game and second-guess every decision.  Or you review your schedule and try to figure out what you did wrong: “Well, I guess getting more than four hours of sleep was a mistake, and maybe eating lunch wasn’t a smart choice.”

Life seems to be like the South Carolina-Florida game.  It is a pitched battle, and you are never quite sure how it will turn out.   

If you are one of those who think life should be easy, it is not.  But remember the second part of what Jesus said: “In this world, you will have trouble; but be of good cheer, I have overcome the world.”  The promise of Jesus is not that you will have a trouble-free life or that you will win every game.  It is in the end he wins.   

I think Jesus is reminding us that no matter how tough the game is, no matter how much it seems like we will lose, no matter how much we think we will win, the outcome is his.  Through his death and resurrection, he proves he overcomes the world.   

So be of good cheer.  You may lose some yardage, your defense may not play worth a hoot, and your opponent might catch the uncatchable ball.  You may struggle, you might get bruised, you might hurt from life.  Be of good cheer:  Jesus has overcome the world. 

Hope…

From the Archives.

Ever had a day that wasn’t horrible but wasn’t so great? I have. A couple of days ago, in fact. It was one of those long days. I had to jump into work early and stay late. I worked on a writing project where the words didn’t sparkle. A lunch meeting to explore a ministry opportunity resulted in being with a guy for an hour that I just didn’t connect with. I had to turn in work to meet a deadline that really wasn’t my best.   Three meetings were scheduled late in the day. In one of the meetings, some issues surfaced I wasn’t aware of but I was responsible for. That’s always fun. 

I didn’t leave work until about 9:30 and had to go by the store on the way home to make sure we had green beans for the dog (I know, it’s strange). After gobbling a sandwich, I made the mistake of checking my email. One contained news I wasn’t happy about, but I would have to live with. I decided to relax by watching some TV. The news came on. The lead story was about a terrible tragedy. The next story was about political posturing. None of this made me feel better.

It wasn’t a horrible day; my children and wife were all still alive. There was still money in my bank account. My dogs still loved me – if I fed them green beans and gave them belly rubs, of course. Still, I was tempted to be grumpy.

Do you know this temptation? Grumpy is a low-grade form of anger. We get angry because we can’t meet our own expectations. We get angry because other people don’t meet our expectations. We get angry because we can’t control situations we’d like to control. We get angry because we have responsibilities. We get angry because this world is not the way it should be…  Or am I the only one who gets grumpy/angry?

There is a small post-it note in my study that reads “The most spiritual thing you will do today is choose.” To be grumpy is a choice. To hope is a choice.

What does it mean to hope? To hope is to trust good is coming while waiting non-anxiously. Can you hope when the day isn’t going so great? It’s your choice.

When the day is long, you can choose to go through it with hope, trusting good will come from your labor. When projects don’t come together, you can choose hope and trust that will come together at the right time. When the news is bad, you can choose hope and trust that God is at work behind the scenes in ways you do not see.

You may not feel hope at first, but hope is more than a feeling. It is an orientation. It is taking a longer look at life. It is finding value in life, in work, in people, and in yourself.

I admit I went to bed grumpy that night, and I woke the next morning with a grumpy hangover. As the cobwebs started to clear themselves from my mind, I felt the Spirit whisper to me, “Your choice today, Clay. Stay grumpy. Choose hope. You decide.”

It’s the same choice you face. Sometimes, the question is not just “What would Jesus do?” but, what would Jesus choose?

Hope. Jesus always chooses hope.

Pride Goeth Before Getting Stuck …

At the ranch in Florida, we’ve had about fourteen inches of rain in the past two weeks.  It’s wet.  When it gets this wet, the road to our cow pens turns to mud.  We had to work cows, even if it was muddy.  Some of the calves were getting as big as their mommas.  We went ahead and scheduled it and prayed the rain would hold off. 

When I went to rent a car at the airport in Sarasota, I asked for something with four-wheel drive.  They were very accommodating and gave me a Jeep Gladiator.  The lot manager insisted on orienting me to the Jeep, which was very kind.  However, he said, “That’s the four-wheel drive shifter, but you won’t be using that.”  I didn’t have the heart to tell him I would probably be using it - a lot. 

On the way into the cow pens the next morning, the road was muddy and rutted.  You could tell where the trucks and trailers had slipped and slid.  I put the little Jeep into four-wheel drive and went forth on faith.   

I know many people who read this are city folks and do not know the joy of bouncing and sliding through the mud.  I was throwing rooster tails of mud from the front tires and the back, trying to get traction.   

I made it all the way to the pens with a grin on my face.  You see, I have a reputation for getting stuck.  Because I am a risk taker and because I think four-wheel drive means you can go anywhere, I sometimes try to go places better crossed by boat.  It was a small triumph to get to the pens. 

We were selling calves and had to load the trailer for multiple trips.  The first trailer load made it out fine.  But every load after that required hooking up a chain from the tractor to the front end of the truck and pulling the truck and trailer out a half-mile to the paved road.  We hauled out four loads that way.  We finished a little after lunchtime.  Sid, who had left his truck at the front gate, asked me to drive him up there.  I was a little worried because I knew the road would be worse than before.  I struck out, trying to keep the Jeep out of the deeper ruts and up on the highest ground.  To my surprise, I made it out just fine.  Every other truck had to be pulled out by the tractor. 

Have you ever heard the expression pride goeth before the fall?  Later that afternoon, I was riding through the orange groves.  Everything was fine until I went to the Resthaven grove. 

When it is dry, the Resthaven grove stays damp.  When it is wet, it becomes a pond.  An old-timer once told me he remembered sitting in the old country schoolhouse and seeing alligators swim in the pond where the grove is now.  I believe it. 

I knew in this grove, I had to be careful.  I stuck to the dry spots and then swung down a middle I remembered as one of the dry areas.  I started to hear the wet “squish” underneath my tires and thought, “Maybe this middle isn’t so dry after all.”  I could see the water ponding, but I thought, “I made it through all those muddy spots this morning; I can get through this.” 

Can you see where this story is heading?  I went forward and felt the wheels starting to spin.  Like every country boy I have ever known, I gave it more gas.  I went forward about ten feet and then went down into a puddle hiding in the grass.  Water rose to the door.  I tried the time-honored tactic of backing up, but I just spun the tires deeper.  I tried to go forward; mud went everywhere, but I didn’t move.  I was not in over my head, but in over my tread. 

Richard has worked for us for over forty years.  Whenever I got stuck, I knew to call Richard.  Back in the days before cell phones, I would have to walk to the nearest house and ask to borrow a phone.  Now, it just requires a call. 

Richard came in his swamp buggy.  He was laughing at my predicament.  All I could do was laugh with him.  I got out of the Jeep, and the water went over my boot all the way up to my knees.  I hooked up the strap and put the Jeep in neutral.  Richard got a good start; the strap went tight, and he slid around.  The Jeep didn’t move.  He made two more runs at it before, and finally, the Jeep started to move.  When I do something like getting stuck, I don’t believe in doing it halfway.   

When we unhooked the strap, we laughed again, and I told him thanks.  I also said, “At least it has been several years since you last had to come pull me out.”   

My pride and your pride lead us to overestimate our capacity.  We think we are in control.  When we start to slip and slide, we think if we try harder, we can make it through.  You might the first couple of times, but that only leads us to believe we can make it through every time.  Then you face a situation and think you can make it on your own, and you get stuck.  Or a decision blows up in your face.  Or you find out the addiction has a death grip on you.  Or you discover you can’t control other people.   

Whenever you get stuck (and you will), the Good News is Jesus has a tow strap.  Call on him.  He will come for you. 

Peaceful Moments …

When I was young, we would hog hunt on the cool nights of the fall. Sometimes, we would turn off the trucks and listen for the dog's barks and yelps. Strange as it may sound, there was a kind of peace in those moments. There was not much light pollution then, and the moon was a friendly source of light, splashing through the trees. On those crisp, clear nights, the stars were glittering diamonds of light strewn across a black velvet sky. Listening for the dogs, I would look up into the night and have a great wonderment at the vast universe. God was near. There was a peace in the grandness of his universe and the quiet of the night. 

The first time I went to Cades Cove in the Great Smoky Mountains National Park, I walked the meadows beside a stream bouncing over the rocks and pebbles. That feeling of peace came upon me. There was such beauty in the sound of the water, the feeling of the gentle breeze, and the view of rising mountains.   I thought how amazing it was that God could make a place as beautiful as this. If God could do this, what kind of beauty did he want to create in my soul? I felt the great peace of God in the beauty of the valley. 

My youngest child had a great many ear infections before she turned two. She would only sleep if she was rocked. I usually took the 2:00 AM shift. I would rock her in my big recliner. Her little body would relax, and her fingers would curl around one of my fingers. She changed from a child in pain to a child at rest. There was something in her rest that brought my soul peace. I learned to sleep while rocking her back and forth. I thought about how God holds me and calms me. Her rest reminded me of the peaceful rest I find with Jesus. 

I remember sitting with a woman who was dying in the hospital. She was not conscious. Her family had stepped out for rest. I told them I would be glad to sit with their loved one for an hour. After a half-hour, the nurse came in, checked her vitals, and told me it would not be long. This was before cell phones, so I had no way to contact the woman's family. Instead, I held this woman's hand and prayed out loud for her. Her heart monitor showed a longer interval between her heartbeats. Then, the idea struck me that I should sing. In a soft voice, I sang to her the old hymns: Amazing Grace, Blessed Assurance, It is Well with My Soul, and This is My Father's World. Her breathing stopped. Her heart monitor flat-lined. A peace came over the room. This woman, a follower of Jesus, went home. I thought about how the hope of Jesus brings such deep peace that though I was not dying, I could feel the peace and hope from the one crossing over. 

About three years ago, a threat came into my life. The details are not important. There was enormous pressure building inside my soul. I was making a long trip, and the situation and possible outcomes felt overwhelming. I was praying for a specific outcome, but the pressure continued to build. Then I remembered Philippians 4:6-7: "Be anxious for nothing, but with prayer and petition, with thanksgiving, present your requests to God. And the peace of God, that passes all understanding will guard your hearts and minds in Christ Jesus." I began to say these two verses over and over. For almost 50 miles, I repeated them. The pressure began to drop. I felt like I truly put the matter in God's hands. I could not control outcomes or the actions of others. I could only surrender my anxiety to God.   Peace came to me. That situation lost its power over my mind and my feelings. Surrender brought the peace I needed. 

God does not want you to have only moments of peace; he wants you to have a life of peace. I will not pretend that I have this peace every moment. What I do know is when the peace of God guards my heart, life is better. To have this peace, see what a great God we have, to create a vast universe, and to create places of great beauty. Find rest in God's presence. Feel the hope God grants to all who believe. Surrender. There is a god in the universe, and that God is not you. A pastor wrote in a book, "I live with greater peace ever since I resigned from being in charge of the universe." Wisdom for all. 

Pause. Think about God's peace. Live there. 

When to Pray…

When I was a pastor in Kentucky, I taught a women’s Bible study every Monday morning.  I would pick up an older lady, Mrs. Horn, and bring her to the Bible Study.  Mrs. Horn lived in a ram-shackled old farmhouse where she had raised ten children.  Her hair was thinning, and she was as plump as her husband was thin.  But Mrs. Horn had a deep and simple walk with Jesus. 

One rainy Kentucky morning, I splashed into her yard with my truck and pulled around to her back door.  She was waiting as usual, right behind her storm door.  I got out and escorted her to my little truck. 

She was all smiles and told me that the Lord had already answered one of her prayers that morning.  She said she thought she heard me coming up the driveway and opened the storm door.  A gust of wind blew the door out of her hand and pinned it against the house (the chain to hold it in place was long gone).  She could not reach the door without getting soaked. 

Mrs. Horn said she prayed for God to send another gust of wind in the opposite direction to blow the door back into place.  After a moment, the wind suddenly blew in the other direction, and the door came right back into her hand.  She said, “Isn’t it wonderful how God answers prayers!” 

At the time, I was a Ph.D. student at the seminary, full of book knowledge.  As Mrs. Horn shared her story, I was skeptical.  I was sure the God of the universe had more important things to do than cause a gust of wind to blow a screen door back into place.  I assumed God was busy working on world peace or doing some great act of healing or was convicting people somewhere of sin.  But I could not share my insights with Mrs. Horn; she believed it was God.  So I did what many pastors do in that situation: I nodded my head, agreed that God did amazing things, and inwardly pitied the simple Kentucky country woman. 

The great drawback of theological education is you can learn a great deal about God and not know much about him.  With the passing years, I realized I was full of arrogance.  Mrs. Horn was right, and I was wrong about God.  What I see now is Mrs. Horn had a problem that was beyond her power to solve.  She prayed, and the problem was solved.  Did God cause the wind to gust in the opposite direction?  I think God did.  It was a gracious act for an older woman who had simple faith.  Actually, she had a better faith than I did. 

When I think back to that conversation, I see Mrs. Horn taught me to pray about all things.  There is no need so small; God cannot consider it; there is no need so big; God cannot fill it. 

When should you pray?  Pray about everything.  Leave it to God to sort out your requests.  If we think God is too busy for us, or God is not concerned with the minor details of our lives, our God is too small.  God, being infinite, is able to hear all our prayers.   

Pray about all things.  You will learn that God cares for you.  Remember, God is not a genie in a lamp.  He is not there to grant your every wish.  But our Heavenly Father hears you and wants to bring good to you.  You probably won’t win the lottery, but God will guide you about your money if you pray. 

Years later, I was conducting a funeral for a man about my age.  A woman had been invited to share for five minutes.  She droned on and on.  After thirty-five minutes, I was about to rise and stop her when she suddenly said, “I’m sorry.  I’ve gone on and on.  It must be my chemo brain.”   

After the service, a friend approached me.  I knew my friend had doubts about God.  We had several long conversations about whether God was real.  My friend looked at me with wonder and said, “You know I struggle with the whole God thing.  But while that woman was going on and on, I was feeling so frustrated.  So I actually prayed, ‘God, if you are real, would you please stop this woman from talking.’  Then she stopped.  It was like God actually heard me!”

 I was older and wiser this time.  I looked at my friend and said, “You have been asking if God is real.  I think you got an answer.”

Bullwhip or Yoke…

Once, we were working cows with an uncle of mine (when I tell this story, you will understand why I’m not sharing his name). His horse was acting up. By “acting up,” I mean he wouldn’t stand still so my uncle could put his foot in the stirrup. The horse would circle around my uncle as he raised his leg toward the stirrup, leaving my uncle standing awkwardly on one foot. Being the naturally empathetic cow crew we were, we asked him if he was going to stand like that all day or if he was going to get on his horse. 

I’ll never forget what happened next. My uncle took the wooden end of his bullwhip and began to beat the horse’s head. The horse’s eyes bulged with fear, his ears stood straight up, and he tried to back away. My uncle had a firm grip on the reins, held the horse in place, and kept beating him over the head, yelling at the horse for being an idiot, hard-headed, and stubborn. The other members of the cow crew clammed up and turned their heads. After all, the horse belonged to my uncle. After a few more seconds, my uncle stopped beating the horse, came down his left side, mounted up, dug his spurs into the horse’s side, and said, “Now move, you stubborn animal.”  Except he didn’t use the word “animal.” 

It was no surprise that the rest of the day, the horse was skittish and non-responsive to the reins. If someone beat you with a piece of wood, you would be skittish, too. There was more yelling from my uncle, but the horse never settled down. I have never found yelling to be an effective way to settle anyone down. 

There was an older man helping us that day. He had known my father. My father, in addition to his other interests, bred quarter-horses. When my brother and sister were growing up, there were always seven or eight mares, a stud horse, and five or six colts around the barn. I have no memory of this, but I was told my father had a way with horses.   

As we rode out to gather the cows that day, the old man rode up beside me. He didn’t say a word for a minute. Then he broke the silence and said, “If your Daddy had been here, he would have snatched that bullwhip out of your uncle’s hand and beat him over the head with it.” 

I was a teenager when this occurred, but I never forgot that day. I’ve been around horses all my life, but I can never claim to be an expert. But even then, I knew if a horse was giving you trouble, beating him over the head with a bullwhip handle was not going to make the situation better. The horse was obviously in an agitated state. Horses, like people, act out when they don’t feel safe. That horse needed a gentle touch, a soothing voice, a moment to calm down. You can’t hurry horses or people to a better place. 

Maybe this is why gentleness is a fruit of the Spirit. When you walk with Jesus, he offers the gift of gentleness to you. He moves at the right pace for you. He offers you the words of comfort and grace that you need. Once you have received this gentle care, he wants you to be gentle with others. Gentleness does not mean you are weak; it takes great strength to be gentle and apply just the right amount of correction and encouragement in a relationship.   

A new way of training horses has taken hold in the past few decades. Tom and Bill Dorrance were among the pioneers of what is called “natural horsemanship.”  It is based on older ideas that a good trainer must build a relationship with the horse, must understand how a horse responds, and must think like a horse so “… he will know what happened before it happens.”  The trainer moves at the speed of the horse, not at the speed of the trainer. Though some of these trainers reject the title, they are often called “horse-whisperers.” 

Isn’t this exactly what Jesus has done for us? He came into this world so we would know he “gets us.”  He understands our anxieties and fears. Jesus said, “Come to me, all you who are weary and burdened, and I will give you rest. Take my yoke upon you and learn from me, for I am gentle and humble in heart, and you will find rest for your souls. For my yoke is easy and my burden is light.” 

Jesus comes to us, not with the wooden handle of a bullwhip but with an easy yoke. Harnessed with him, we learn to be gentle and humble. If you think about it, his way makes sense. Bullwhip handles usually make things worse, not better. I’ll take the easy yoke of Jesus any day. 

Glad to be Here…

My wife and I took a vacation to Key West. Though I am a fourth-generation Native Floridian, I had never been to the Keys. Funny, when we told people we were going to Key West, some would roll their eyes and say, “Well, you will see a lot of interesting things.”  The inference was we would see things that would shock us, or that would be negative. 

During our three days there, we had a ball. It happened to be the weekend Jimmy Buffett died, so we got to see the memorial parade. We visited the Little White House and the Hemingway House, went on a porpoise and diving cruise, and had many pieces of Key Lime Pie. Contrary to the impression some people gave us, everyone was friendly, and we saw nothing that shocked us or even offended us. Of course, we skipped the clothing-optional bar. 

By the third day, our feet were tired, and we called an Uber. Our driver was named Williams, and he spoke with a heavy Spanish accent. He asked where we were from, and we asked him the same. Williams said he was from Cuba and that he had been in the United States for eleven years. Hearing that, I had to ask him his story. 

He told us he had applied for political asylum and was allowed to leave Cuba to come to the States. He was fearful he would not be allowed to stay, but his case was processed rapidly, and he was granted citizenship. He rifled through the papers in his glovebox and pulled out his passport. With obvious pride, he showed it to us. 

Then he told us he kept his passport with him at all times. He had been stopped many times by officials checking to see if he was “legal.”  He said, “I know they stop me because of the way I look, so I always want to show my passport to show I am a citizen.”

I expected him to protest how unfair this was, but he didn’t. Instead, he said, “I am so glad to be in this country.” 

He told us that in Cuba, corruption was everywhere. Everyone worked for the government, and then the government took all your money. “In the United States,” he said, “you work hard, and you get to keep your money. I am so glad to be here.” 

He told us his uncle had died in Cuba during the COVID pandemic. He had gone to the doctor, but the doctor told him there were no drugs. Only the elite received the vaccine; only the elite had access to medical equipment like ventilators. You could hear the grief and bitterness mixed in his voice at the unfairness of a system that claims to treat everyone equally but, in reality, only serves the elite. 

The ride was a short one, but I kept thinking, “Isn’t this the kind of person we want in our country?”  Someone who works hard sees injustice, someone who was willing to take the courageous step of walking away from home because they could not stand the tyranny of a government that does not care for its people. Aren’t these the kind of people who built this country? 

I thought about Williams on the trip home (when you are driving back from the Keys to South Carolina, you have a lot of time to think). In the brief ten-minute ride, there was so much to learn. I’ll start with the obvious: Jesus said when you take in the stranger, it is like you are taking in him. True followers of Jesus welcome people because God loves them. I don’t pretend to understand immigration policy, but I do understand every person matters to God. If people matter to God, they should matter to us. Williams matters to God.   

I was reminded not to profile people. No one from immigration has ever stopped me and asked me to prove I’m a citizen of the United States. Is that because I am a white male with traces of a Southern accent? Jesus told us, “Judge not, lest you be judged.”  If I am truly a follower of Jesus, I will not judge people based on their accent or the color of their skin. To quote Martin Luther King, Jr., “I have a dream that my four little children will one day live in a nation where they will not be judged by the color of their skin, but by the content of their character.” 

The poem written by Emma Lazarus affixed to the Statue of Liberty says,

"Give me your tired, your poor,
Your huddled masses yearning to breathe free,
The wretched refuse of your teeming shore.
Send these, the homeless, tempest-tost to me,
I lift my lamp beside the golden door!" 

That is our ideal as a country. We don’t always live up to that ideal. It should be our goal. It is also an ideal for Jesus’ church. Give us all the broken people (for that is all of us). We will show you the door to eternal life, life with Jesus.   

Like Williams, I am glad to be here, a citizen of the United States of America. But I‘m also glad to be here, part of the body of Jesus.

Standing in Line for Elvis

For some reason, my mother was a fan of Elvis Pressley. I never quite understood why. When Elvis broke through in 1956 with “Heartbreak Hotel,” my mother had just turned thirty, had been married for ten years, and had two children. She was hardly a teeny-booper. But something about Elvis captured her, and she became a fan. 

Fast forward to 1972. I was twelve. Elvis was coming to play Bayfront Center in St. Petersburg. In those days before Ticketmaster and Stubhub, the only way to get a ticket was to go to the box office. It was decided that I would go stand in line at the Bayfront and get the tickets for my mother and stepfather, plus a few extra. 

My stepfather managed the Kress store in downtown St. Petersburg, so I rose at six on Saturday morning and went down to the store with him. I got scrambled eggs, grits, bacon, and toast at the lunch counter (I think it was the sixty-nine-cent breakfast special). Then my stepfather put the enormous sum of $120 dollars in my hand with instructions to walk the five blocks down to the Bayfront Center, get the tickets, and come back. I would not dream of turning a twelve-year-old lose with $120 in downtown St. Petersburg today, but it was a different world back then. 

I walked down to the Bayfront Center, turned the corner, and was shocked. The line stretched across the Bayfront parking lot, turned the corner, and stretched up the street. I am sure my memory now exaggerates, but it seemed a half-mile long. I found the end of the line and took my place. 

You’ve heard of a snail’s pace? This line moved at the pace of a snail with a handicap sticker. Though only twelve, I was tall for my age. Conversation soon broke out among those near me in line.  One woman asked me if I was in college. She thought I was lying when I told her I was in middle school. I found out the names of my fellow snails and the names of their spouses, kids, parents, and third cousins. We discussed sports, local TV stations, books, and churches. After two hours had passed, we had progressed halfway to the ticket booth. A long line stretched behind us, and we had run out of conversation topics. In this age, before smartphones, we were on our own.   

Several people asked me to hold their place in line and then would disappear behind a line of bushes. I didn’t understand then; I do now. No one thought to bring any water; none of us had anticipated such a long line. 

By the third hour, we reached the shadow of the Bayfront Center, which provided blessed relief from the beating Florida sun. I was hallucinating a small bottle of ice-cold Coke. At the top of the fourth hour, we made it to the air-conditioned lobby where the ticket booth was located. That was my first inkling of what heaven might be like, a blessed relief from the heat of this world.   

It was finally my turn to approach one of the two cashiers (management was a little out of touch). I plunked down the money, asked for tickets, and was rewarded with eight precious seats. I was not asked where I wanted to sit; I accepted what was given. 

The five blocks back to the store was much longer than it had been that morning. I passed three or four Coke machines, but I didn’t even have a quarter. All my money had gone to the tickets. When I got back to the Kress store, I found my stepfather, who said, “Where have you been?”  I explained what I found and my waiting in-line experience; his face of disapproval melted into concern. “You mean you waited in that line for four and a half hours?”  “Yes, sir. That’s what you told me to do.”  “I thought you were goofing off somewhere downtown.”   

Out of guilt, I suppose, he splurged on my lunch: Fried chicken, mashed potatoes, coleslaw, and, to top it off, a root beer float. It cost him fifty cents more than the usual hamburger and fries I was allowed.   

The newspaper the next day published pictures of the long ticket line. It turned out that about thirty minutes after I got the tickets, they sold out. For a glorious day, I was a hero to Mama. 

When the time for the concert came a few months later, Mama begged me to go. She felt guilt, I think, that I stood in line and wasn’t going to enjoy the show. I don’t recall if I thanked her, but I told her I didn’t want to go anywhere near the Bayfront Center for a while. It was stupid, of course; I missed my one chance to see Elvis in concert. 

Five years later, I was coming home from my summer job for lunch when I heard the news that Elvis had died. I went into the house to tell Mama the news; to my great surprise, she broke down in tears. To this point, I had seen my mother cry twice in my life. I did not know what to do or say; I awkwardly patted her on the back. After a minute, she pulled herself together, got up, and set my lunch down for me. Then she went off to her bedroom. 

I never knew why Mama cried for Elvis or what those songs meant to her. It did not take a counselor to understand Elvis touched some part of Mama’s soul. 

I had not thought about this in decades until this week when I found myself in Tupelo, Mississippi, the birthplace of Elvis. I had a few minutes to spare before leaving town, so I found the birthplace of Elvis. There is a museum, a small park, and the house, a small three-room frame building. I was tempted to get out and take a closer look. But I had a plane to catch and work to do, so I just stopped on the side of the road. I took a picture, thought about Mama, and then drove off—another missed opportunity. 

I wonder how many of God’s opportunities I miss because I’m turned off by something silly, or I’m tired, or I’m in a hurry. Like Elvis, those opportunities might only come once. Don’t let them pass.

Deep End Or Shallow End?

I learned to swim in the shallow end.  Though my brothers often tried to throw me into the deep end, it is amazing how much fight you can put up when faced with imminent drowning.  I’m not sure if, at that young age, they realized there would be more inheritance for them if I was out of the picture or if I was really just that annoying as a little brother. 

My mother, of a gentler school, told me to lay flat on top of the water.  She would hold me up while I kicked my legs and moved my arms.  One day, without me realizing it, she let go.  To paraphrase Forest Gump, “I was swimming!”  Soon, the shallow end of the pool was my kingdom.  I learned to push myself off from the side and zoom around the pool.  But I stayed away from the deep end.  I knew I wasn’t ready. 

Then, one day, my brother Steve and my cousin Bob seized me without warning and threw me into the deep end.  I had no time to prepare, no time to fight.  I sank, but then instinct kicked in, and my legs and arms began to move.  I broke the surface of the water, laughed at my brother and cousin, and swam around the deep end, frightened no more. 

When people start to read the Bible, they often want to start in the deep end.  They want to know if God really made the world in six days and if Jonah was really swallowed by a fish.  They get so busy trying to stay afloat that they miss the story. 

This is God’s story in the Bible:  God made the world, we messed it up, and because of His great love, He has been working to save people from their own destruction.  That’s the shallow end.  You can see this story on page after page in the Bible. 

I’m not saying you should avoid the deep end.  I am saying, make sure you build some confidence in the shallow end first.  Know the basics of the story.  Know the character of God.  Then, go to the deeper stuff.   

Learn some Bible background.  It helps to remember the Bible has two parts: the Old Testament and the New Testament.  The Old Testament is about God’s efforts to save a nation called Israel (later cut down to one sub-group, Judah).  The New Testament is the story of God sending his son Jesus into the world to die for all the sins ever committed and to bring new life and power to those who believe. 

You won’t always find simple answers.  The universe isn’t a simple place, and God is not a simple being.  Why does the Bible tell us stories about God’s judgment, wiping out whole nations?  Dallas Willard once said, “Hell is simply the best God can do for some people.”  Maybe the same principle applies.  Maybe destruction is simply the best God can do for some people.  Some things in the Bible are hard to understand.  That doesn’t mean they aren’t true. 

It’s important not to be arrogant about our own time and culture.  We assume our culture’s values are the correct ones.  The Bible, however, is a book for all peoples, for all times.  Some teachings in Scripture may not make any sense to us but were perfectly clear in the time they were written.  They may also be clear in a culture halfway around the world that has a different outlook than we do. 

Any honest person has to admit there are parts of the Bible they don’t understand.  I’ve been studying the Bible as a follower of Jesus and as a pastor for a long time.  There are still stories I don’t get.  I still read some of the laborious laws in the Old Testament and ask, “What is that doing there?”  But if the Bible is truly God’s book, wouldn’t it make sense that I may not understand all of it?   

If you’ve never studied the Bible, start in the shallow end.  Read the teachings of Jesus.  They will help you, whether you believe or not.  Don’t be afraid of the deep end; God will let you know when you are ready to tackle some deeper challenges. 

The main thing is: Get in the pool.  Open your Bible.  Read.  Let God speak to you.  Dive in.  There is something in there for you.

The Mouse, the Feed, and the Bull…

I needed to feed my cows, but I had a very tight schedule.  I didn’t have time to swing by my regular feed store, but I remember there was another feed store near my meeting downtown.  I swung by and got one fifty-pound bag of sweet feed, then headed to my meeting.  After the meeting was over, I headed out to my little pasture to feed up. 

My few cows have learned a white Ford F-150 truck at the gate means groceries.  They lined up at the fence in eager anticipation.  Once I made it into their pasture, they ran to the trough, ready for their “sweet treat.”   

My bull, who my grandson named “Happy (he is the only male with ten young females, so he is),” thinks he is a pet.  I have tried to explain to him that he is not a pet, but I am sure I do not help things when I rub his head before pouring out the feed.  He does get impatient when he is hungry, like a few other folks I know.  More than once, he has pushed me into the truck, trying to get at the feed.  I’ve learned to quickly open the bag before Happy gets too aggressive.   

As I poured out the feed into the trough, I noticed something unusual.  At first, my brain could not figure out the still, gray, fuzzy matter.  Then the gears in my head started turning, and I realized it was a dead mouse. 

Mice and feed go together.  When I was growing up, we kept horse feed in an old fifty-five-gallon drum.  You always look in it before you scoop because the mice often found a way in.  Though we had a tight lid on the drum, and there were no holes in the drum, the mice were there.  Maybe they beamed themselves through the metal.   

This particular bag of feed had come from the warehouse.  I figured the dead mouse chewed a hole in the bag, got in the bag, and thought he had found heaven.  There was unlimited food and no one to bother him.  I couldn’t help but notice the dead mouse was pretty plump.  I could put the story together: he ate himself to death.  Some mice, and some people, just can’t stop themselves. 

All these thoughts happened in a few seconds.  Then I saw another clump of gray fuzzy matter; only this clump was moving.  Apparently, another mouse had joined the buffet but had not yet killed himself eating.  As Happy the bull lowered his great head into the trough, his enormous black tongue scooping the feed into his mouth, this mouse was running for his life.  However, the mouse could not make it up the slick sides of the feed trough.  He would make a run and get halfway up, then slide back. 

My cows have a pecking order when it comes to food.  Happy the bull always goes first.  Then three cows that are a bit more aggressive join him, then the rest of the herd (except two shy ones) put their heads down and start chewing.  That mouse was not just running from Happy; he was running from nine cow tongues and two-hundred eighty-eight cow teeth.  You might say that the mouse was moo-tivated.   

I couldn’t just leave the mouse.  I got my shovel, waited until he made another run for the top, then pushed him out with the shovel.  I may have pushed too hard; he did a backflip before he landed.  As soon as he hit the ground, he ran off into the tall grass in desperate search of a hole. 

I thought about the fictional mouse stories I read growing up, about the city mouse and the country mouse.  This mouse had a cushy life in the feed warehouse; now, he was in a whole new environment.  No more sweet feed buffet for him.  I know mice do not think like we think, but if he could, I would bet that mouse was pretty mad that I flipped him out of that trough.  Maybe he thought he would get out, wait until the cows finished and left, and then he would crawl back in.  He had no way of knowing Happy would clean up every last bit of feed.  I doubt the mouse stopped to think, “Whoever got me out that trough saved my life.”   

I wonder how many times we get angry with God because an easy time in life comes to an end.  Sometimes we feel like we have been scooped out of our comfort zone and dropped into an alien environment.  We wonder, “Why is this happening to me?”  We do not even consider that God may have saved us from an evil that would devour us.  We might have been in danger from something worse than cow tongue and teeth. 

The next time your life gets upended, ask God to show his hand at work.  He may not have caused the problem, but his hand might be on the shovel that saves you.

Valda Long…

Valda Long was born on the opposite side of the county from me, and she was two generations ahead of me.  Since Hardee County was only about 50 miles wide, our upbringings were not that different.  We both grew up in rural, historic Southern Baptist churches, where the gospel was preached, the old hymns were sung, and most of the congregation knew that one day they would be buried across the road in the church cemetery.  We both grew up hearing about missionaries in the far corners of the world.  A sermon on the Great Commission (“Go ye therefore, making disciples of all peoples…”) was an annual event.  And we both grew up in a culture where every service station had three bathrooms: “Men,” “Women,” and “Colored.” 

Valda left Hardee County to become a surgical scrub nurse for another Hardee Countian, Dr. Leffie Carlton, in Tampa.  I don’t know all the details, but sometime in the 1950s, God began to speak to her.  Though she was not married, she had a secure job doing important work.  God was calling her to leave what she knew, to leave the comfort of the United States, to be a missionary. 

Most people don’t realize that when God calls you, you can say “No.”  I have known many people God called, and they said, “No.”  Most of them can’t get past the leap of faith required to trust God to take care of them in a strange environment.  There are fears of financial sacrifice.  “No” is easier to talk yourself into than “Yes.” 

Valda said, “Yes.”  She did additional training and was assigned to serve in a Hospital in Nigeria.  To point out the obvious, most Nigerians are black.  She overcame Southern prejudices and served there for twenty-six years.  When she came home on furlough, she would speak at local churches, and we would all dig a little deeper to give to the missions offering.  I remember hearing her as a child and asking Mama for a quarter so I could give something.   

The local mission circles of the church would tear up sheets and roll bandages to send to her, packing them in 55-gallon drums.  Budgets and supplies were tight in those days, and it was one tangible thing the ladies of the church could do. 

Much later, when I was in college, one of my professors served as the President of the Nigerian Baptist Theological Seminary.  He knew Valda and described her as a “true Christian servant.”  I should have taken the time to ask more.  What I gathered from his words was she was the kind of person who got things done in the name of Jesus. 

Valda retired in 1982, coming home for the last time.  She moved back to New Zion, the community of her birth.  Two years later, she passed away. 

You will not find a monument to Valda in Hardee County or in Nigeria.  When I Googled her name, there were few internet traces.  She did not serve to be honored; she served because she said “Yes” to Jesus. 

I believe God created every person for a purpose.  Valda’s purpose was to go to Nigeria, be a nurse, and tell people about Jesus.  When I received my calling on the other side of the county, my purpose was to be a pastor and help as many people as possible take their next step toward Jesus.  I know a man whose purpose is to coach baseball and mentor boys, most of whom do not have fathers in their homes.  I know a woman whose purpose is to sew quilts for newborn babies to show the love of Jesus.  I have a friend whose purpose is to build bridges over racial divides in the name of Jesus.   One of my best friends was a man who kept his business going because he knew his employees depended on their jobs.  He was providing jobs in the name of Jesus. 

Your mission field may not be Nigeria; it may not even be working for a church.  But you have a purpose and a place.  God made you for a reason.  When you live out your purpose, in ways small and large, you bring the Kingdom of God near to people who need the hope and peace of Jesus. 

When you hear the call of God, answer “Yes.”  Someone, somewhere in this world, needs you to say “Yes” to your call, to your purpose.

Who has Character?

George Washington had character. Though some wanted to name him King, he refused to set up the United States as a monarchy. Perhaps the greatest service he gave to our country was stepping down after serving two terms as President.  King George III said, “If he does this, he is the greatest man in the world.”  Washington had the character to resist the temptation of power. 

Thomas Jefferson was brilliant. Insightful, learned, and multi-talented, he wrote our Declaration of Independence, served as Secretary of State, Vice-President, and President. But at best, Jefferson’s character had great flaws. He undermined both Washington and Adams. He kept Sally Hemings as a mistress and a slave. When he passed, he was deeply in debt. Being a great thinker doesn’t mean you have great character. 

An obscure President, John Tyler, had great character. He ascended to the office of President upon the death of William Harrison. When powerful figures such as Henry Clay and Daniel Webster suggested he was only “acting” President, Tyler stood his ground and declared he was the President, with the full authority of the office. He had the character to not let others define him or box him in. 

Of all our Presidents, perhaps Abraham Lincoln had the strongest character. He was willing to hold the tension of a Civil War to preserve the Union. He had empathy enough to understand Southerners were battling for a way of life that could not exist any longer.   Lincoln declared: “’A house divided against itself cannot stand.’  I believe this government cannot endure, permanently half slave and half free.”  In his second inaugural address, he said, “With malice toward none, with charity for all, with firmness in the right as God gives us to see the right, let us strive on to finish the work we are in to bind up the nation's wounds, to care for him who shall have borne the battle and for his widow and his orphan ~ to do all which may achieve and cherish a just and lasting peace among ourselves and with all nations.”  Lincoln had character enough to want peace and reconciliation when others wanted vengeance.   

Rutherford Hayes was a man of good moral standing. He stood for most of the right things and was a teetotaler who refused to serve alcohol in the White House. But Hayes came into office as a result of back-room deals that swung the 1876 Presidential election to the Republicans. Would a man of character have taken office under such a dubious cloud? 

Theodore Roosevelt stood against big corporations and trusts. He knew that business could easily dominate the government. Every free-market capitalist believes competition strengthens the market. Every businessman wants a monopoly. Roosevelt looked at the empires of men like John Rockefeller and saw that he had rigged the game in favor of his company, Standard Oil. Roosevelt, never one to shy away from a fight, had the character to insist on a fair and level playing field for all. It takes character to demand fairness.   

My favorite President, Harry Truman, insisted on doing what was right, even if it proved unpopular. Thrust into the presidency; he made decisions about ending World War II, dropping the Atomic Bomb, how to deal with Stalin, and getting the economy back to a peacetime footing. Moving past his roots, he desegregated the military and advocated for Civil Rights. He was not afraid of taking on powerful unions, politicians, and generals. His decision to fire Douglas MacArthur stands as a line in the sand that civilians control the military, not the other way around. It takes character to do the right things. 

Lyndon Johnson wanted to build a Great Society. He fought for Civil Rights. But he lied to himself and to the American people about Vietnam. Johnson was perhaps the greatest politician in modern American History, but he did not have the character to tell the truth. 

Character is the quality of your soul. Like a computer program, you can have a corrupt character that is unworkable. Most of us, like most presidents, have a mixed character: some parts work well; others, not so well. By the time we reach our thirties, the cost of improving the quality of our character gets very high. It is worth asking, however, what would happen in your life if your character functioned without flaws? 

Jesus had that kind of character. That is part of what we mean when we say, “Jesus was perfect.”  He had a character that told the truth, that sacrificed, that served, and, most of all, a character that loved. 

Growing up, we unconsciously pattern our character after the adults we see. As adults, what would happen if we patterned our character after Jesus? We probably won’t get to Jesus quality, but wouldn’t every step closer to Jesus make our character that much better? Would your life be better with a better character? I think you know the answer.