Moral Compass…

I have a compass app on my phone. I use it sometimes when I’m not sure which way is which. Something I have never done: argued with my compass. If it points North, I trust it.

Trust goes hand in hand with determining right and wrong. When I was a child, I trusted what my parents told me. If they said it was wrong to steal, I believed them. If they said to tell the truth, I believed them. But I learned they were not entirely trustworthy. They told me liver tasted like steak. They lied. Their moral authority was tarnished a bit.

Who determines what is right and wrong? That’s the scary thing about adulthood. When you are an adult, you make the decision. But who provides you with a moral compass?

For centuries, religions have provided the answer. If the church said it was wrong, it was wrong. In Western Culture, there was an agreed-upon social compact based on the teachings of scripture. Even kings had to acknowledge their right to rule came from God. When democracy was born in the United States, Thomas Jefferson wrote these words in the Declaration of Independence: “We, therefore, the Representatives of the United States of America, in General Congress, Assembled, appealing to the Supreme Judge of the world for the rectitude of our intentions…”  The representatives appealed to God about the rightness of their actions.

Fast forward to today. The church seems to have lost her voice. Clergy, once the most trusted profession, has fallen to eleventh place, behind chiropractors. Perhaps we have only ourselves to blame, with clergy scandals a regular feature in the news. 

The book of Judges refers to an era in the life of God’s people when there was no King and “every man did what was right in his own eyes.”  Maybe that is an apt description of our own era. A teenager shoots another teen because “He disrespected me.”  A man leaves his wife and children because “I’ve fallen in love with someone else.”  A company lies about its true financial condition because “We need to keep the stock price up.”  We have become people who believe the ends justify the means.

I have seen enough of humanity that I do not trust people to determine what is right and wrong for themselves. Human beings, including myself, seem able to justify nearly anything. Every terrorist believes they are doing the right thing. Leaders of countries are convinced they are doing the right thing when they go to war. I’ve done counseling through the years with people who have blown up their lives. Every one of them was convinced at the time they were doing the right thing. 

In the self no one sees, we all justify our anger, our greed, our lust, our sloth, our gluttony, our pride, our envy. Though most of us would agree it is wrong to harm people, we have trained our souls to look the other way at the damage we cause. A numb soul can bulldoze people without a thought.

Dallas Willard once said, “Original sin is the one doctrine no one disputes.”  The evidence is too great. While we might think we are “good people,” careful examination shows we are not. This is why we need a moral compass outside of ourselves.

It is Jesus who gives us the best, simplest plumb line. He said the great moral compass is to love the Lord your God with all your heart, mind, soul, and strength and to love our neighbors as ourselves.

If I love God, I will adopt his values. I will value human life. I will depend on him. I will want his Kingdom to come, his will to be done. The ends will not justify the means. I will not judge people. I will want and work for the good of as many people as possible. Before I speak or act, I will ask, “Does this honor my Heavenly Father?”  I will remember how I do something matters as much as what I do.

If I truly love my neighbor, I will tell the truth, not just the version that best suits me. I will not treat people as objects. I will not take from another what belongs to them. Greed will not drive me. Before I rush to anger, I will pause and try to understand why I am angry. I will not fall into the lie that if I had what you have, I would be happy. As much as possible, I will take responsibility for my own life and not blame others for my unhappiness. I will not expect others to carry my load. I will respect my neighbor, even if I do not agree with him.

When Jesus said, “Follow me,” he invited his followers to learn to trust him, to see that his way of living, though radically different, was the best way to live. Followers of Jesus do not get to be their own moral compass. When we are not sure, we pray and ask our Heavenly Father to direct us in his way, not our own. This is the genius found in that simple question: “What would Jesus do?”

Sleeping in Church …

From the Archives…..

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Jesus Talks to Outsiders; Jesus Talks to Insiders

There are always outsiders who don’t quite fit in. Outsiders may be outside by an inch: an odd quirk keeps them out of the inner circle. Outsiders may be outside by a mile: their skin is the wrong color, their religion is wrong, or their culture is a threat. We like to keep people outside our circle… well, outside. We push them to the margin. We blame them for their problems. When outsiders come to our church, our smiles are a little forced, and they pick up the cue: go find your own people.

Jesus met outsiders in his day. Tax collectors were outsiders. Jesus met at least two. To Matthew, he said, “Follow me.”  “Follow me” is the ultimate invitation to become an insider. To Zacchaeus, he said, “I am going to stay at your house today.”  This is less an invitation and more Jesus busting down the door of the outsider to say, “I’ve come to make you an insider.”

In Jesus’s day, women were outsiders. For Jewish males, foreign women were seen as exotic temptresses. Jewish women were thought by some to be of value only for bearing children. Jesus stopped to notice women, not as sexual objects or reproductive agents. He gave hope back to a widow when he raised her son from the dead. When a woman who had ongoing bleeding touched the hem of his garment, he stopped to discover her and then pronounced her healed. He protected a woman caught in adultery from being stoned. His longest recorded conversation was with a Samaritan woman at a well. He changed her life and her village.

Every time Jesus encounters the outsider, he speaks to them invitingly. He notices them. He lets each of them know they matter to God.

There are always insiders who have position and power. Oddly, insiders often protest they are not insiders. Sometimes, they do this so their power can stay hidden. Sometimes, they protest because they are genuinely clueless about their privilege.  

We all long to be inside. This longing is so deep if we are deprived of it, we will create our own insider group to exclude others (usually people from another insider group that threatens us). Kids from dysfunctional families join a gang. A group at work forms to gossip about another group at work that gossips. We want to be inside. 

Jesus met insiders, too. Pharisees were insiders. Their keeping of the religious code made them the spiritual elite. Every time Jesus encountered a Pharisee, he challenged their ideas of superiority. When Jesus met Nicodemus, a Pharisee, he opened the discussion with a challenge: “You must be born again.” Translation: your insider status counts for nothing.

The rich young ruler was an insider, based on the fact he was rich, young, and a ruler. Jesus loved him enough to tell him to sell everything he had, give it to the poor, and follow him. A more radical challenge could not have been given. The rich young ruler couldn’t do it. Being an insider was more important than following Jesus.

Pilate was the ultimate insider. He represented Rome. He had the power of the military behind him. He made decisions about life and death. Yet when Jesus was in front of him, on trial for his life, Jesus did not hesitate to speak truth to him. It so unnerved him he mumbled, “What is truth?”  Funny how power can make you cynical about the truth.

Every time Jesus met an insider, he challenged them. He challenged their convictions. He was fearless. He did not need or want their approval. He had no desire to enter their inner circle. He wanted every insider to turn away from the insider circles they had created to realize the radical change they needed.

Churches are supposed to speak like Jesus. Followers of Jesus need to speak invitingly and warmly to all outsiders. We need to say, “Come and see.”  We do not need to be afraid of messy people. As my hero, John Ortberg puts it: “The messier your story, the more the good news is for you.” 

Followers of Jesus need to speak confrontively to insiders, especially to ourselves. There are too many opportunities to fool ourselves into believing we’re special because we keep a religious code. Maybe instead of passing the peace of Christ, we should pass the challenge of Christ: “Am I seeking the lost so they can hear good news and be saved?”

Don’t miss the truth of Jesus: He loves the outsiders enough to invite them in. He loves the insiders enough to challenge them with the truth. Which way is he loving you?

They Don’t Build Them Like They Used to…

When my mother built the new house, I remember the fun of going to the furniture store.  There were only two in town.  We went to the high-end store, which meant not all the furniture was made of pine.  I was about seven.  Mama picked out a few pieces (money was an issue), good solid pieces.  This furniture came when the house was finished.  The men brought in each piece with care.  All the furniture was put together and fit in the spaces just right.

I married my wife because I loved her.  The fact that her father owned a furniture store didn’t hurt.  Over the years, I have absorbed some knowledge of the furniture business.  My father-in-law decried imports.  I can still hear him say, “This ain’t nothing but a cheap piece made in China.  It will fall apart in a month and be thrown in a ditch somewhere.”  In his opinion, if it didn’t come from High Point, NC, it wasn’t worth having.

These days, most furniture is made overseas.  I don’t know about the economics, but I understand the difference.  Instead of men delivering furniture to my house, now the UPS man brings a box.  When I open the box, out spills a hundred pieces, a large puzzle that I am to put together.  The instructions are all diagrams and no words.  I am convinced in China, there is a regular gathering of industrial engineers who laugh at how they drew the instructions, visualizing an American male trying to put in screws and cams. 

When I put together furniture like this, I fear two things: first, I will run out of screws, cams, or bolts.  The second: I will have leftover screws, cams, and bolts.

I have searched for thirty minutes for a piece labeled “10,” only to discover there is no piece labeled “10.”  The print was so small I misread the instructions.  I have been frustrated that I am to look for the piece labeled “LR” and find that piece after an hour of looking.  It turned out “LR” was hidden under another piece, and you could only find the label if you took the assembly apart.

I am also convinced that the Chinese lie to us.  One piece I put together clearly said, “Takes 1 hour to assemble.”  They lied.  Two hours later, I had it almost put together and had one last major piece to add.  It was then that I realized in Step 2 that I put a piece in backward.  I had to take it all apart, put the piece in correctly, and spend two hours putting it back together.  The dog learned new vocabulary words that night.

The last piece of furniture I put together was a nightmare.  It took Gina and I working together for three hours to assemble it.  To finish it, we had to lay it on the floor.  When I stood it up, the bottom piece began to separate from the top.  The whole thing began to wobble.  As I attempted to move it to the place we intended, screws began to pull away from the pressboard, cams began to come loose, and the back fell off.  We took the top off, and I had Gina hold the bottom while I tried to fix it.  When I tried to reattach the top and bottom, it leaned precariously.  A gap opened between the side and the bottom drawer.  When I stepped back, it looked like something my grandson would build out of his wooden blocks.

Gina thought maybe we should return it.  I wanted to burn it.  But I think a few brackets from the hardware store might salvage it.  Being an American male, I think I can fix what was poorly designed. 

Through this whole process, I could hear my father-in-law’s voice: “They just don’t make them like they used to…”

It is easy to forget before Jesus was a rabbi, he was a carpenter.  He knew about building things.    

Jesus told us a story about people who build quick and cheap things not meant to last.  He said it is like building a house on the sand.  It’s fine for a while, but a storm will come, and it will not stand.  Like my cabinet, people build a life that is not strong enough to persevere, to stand in the storm that surely comes to us all.

Jesus then told about a man who built his house on the rock.  It is harder to build on the rock than the sand.  There is a lot of extra sweat.  It takes more time.  But when the storm comes, it stands.  People who build their lives on the rock of Jesus, on his teaching, on his values, they come through the storm.

After the storm, I wonder if people walked by the wreckage of the life built on the sand and said, “You know, they don’t build them like they used to…”

Breaking Up…

“It’s not you,” she said, “It’s me.”  Something in her tone, her lowered eyes, and her shift in the chair told him it was a lie; it was definitely him.  He knew their relationship had been running cold for the last few weeks, and he was pretty sure he knew why.

“Are you breaking up with me?” he asked.

“It’s not really a breakup; it’s more like taking a break, you know?” she explained.  There was something in her tone that communicated, “I am not going to tell you the whole story.”

“Why?” he questioned.

“We’ve been seeing each other for a long time,” she responded.  “I just need some space.  I mean, we started hanging out together in elementary school.  And I’d be the first to say you’ve been there for me.  When my parents got divorced, and I really struggled, you listened to all my heartbreak.  In high school, you were always the one to encourage me.  That’s when I felt like we were the closest.  I know you pressed me to get serious, but I felt like I just wasn’t ready, and I backed away.  Now that I’m in college, I’m ready to try some different things.”

“Like what?” he asked, “Or should I ask ‘who’”?

Bowing up a little, she said, “That’s just like you.  You always want to know more than I want you to know.  You want me to belong exclusively to you.  If you must know, there’s this cute guy in my philosophy class.  We’ve been talking periodically after class.  He sees the world differently than you.  He says we can trust our feelings and just let love lead us.  He’s not into being uptight about things like you are.”

“I know all about him,” he said.  “I’m sure you can’t trust him.”  She knew he was usually right but didn’t want to listen this time.

“Have you been stalking me?  How do you know him?  How can you know anything about him?  This is why I need to break up with you.  You always act like you know more than anyone else.  You’re always telling me what is right and wrong.  What makes you so sure that you know what is right and what is wrong?  And don’t tell me about how you know things I can’t even understand!” she shouted.

“I thought you just wanted a break.  Now you are saying you want to break up?” he asked, with a gentleness in his voice.

She replied angrily, “This conversation is over.  This is why I can’t have you in my life anymore.  You are always asking me to think about some ‘deeper meaning’ about what I say and what I do.  I just want to live my life, have fun, and live free.”  She got up to leave.

“Before you leave,” he said, “I ask you to remember two things.  Remember, I have always wanted the best for you.  Anytime I shared wisdom with you, that sounded like a rule; it was because I wanted you to have the best life possible.  And remember, I will always love you.”

She grimaced, paused, and looked at him.  A tear formed in the corner of her eye.  She brushed it away, turned, and walked on with a determined stride.  She was finally going to live her life her way.  What did he know anyway?  Weren’t his words just ideas from stuffy old men?

Jesus looked sadly down at his nail-scarred hands as her shadow retreated.  What else could he do to show her that he loved her best and it would be his love that would set her free?  His heart was breaking.  Another one of the people he died for had succumbed to the temptation to walk away.  The temptation looked so good, but he knew the temptation destination: destruction.

How many of us have broken up with Jesus because he cramped our style?  How many of us have come back to him to admit life without him just doesn’t work?  How many of us have to say walking away from Jesus, doing our own thing, was the worst mistake we ever made?

The good news?  He still loves you.  Always.

Stray Dogs…

From the time I was born until I was about six years old, my best friend was Mo. Mo was a German Shepherd, fiercely loyal and protective. My mother would tell me to play outside, knowing Mo would watch over me. He did. Once, I headed north. I made it almost a mile; then, I got tired and curled up under an orange tree and fell asleep. When they found me two hours later, Mama said Mo was snuggled around me, protecting me, while I took my nap.

Another time, I headed south. An old man had escaped from the county rest home and was tangled up in the barbwire fence. They found me again, sitting crisscross, Mo, seated by my side, watching the old man trying to disentangle himself, cussing up a storm. I remember learning new words that day.

Despite my best friend being a German Shepherd, it was drilled into me from before my memory: never trust a stray dog. Unfortunately, people would drive out into the country, find a dirt road, put out an unwanted dog or an unexpected puppy, and drive off. The dog would run after the car, but no dog, not even a greyhound, can do sixty miles per hour. 

The reason I was told to never trust a stray dog was rabies. Mama had strong memories of rabid dogs, salivating, turning aggressive, and biting everything in sight. That was why we did not welcome strays. And there were a lot of them.

Mo tangled with some. Others we ran off with loud shouts. I remember Mama firing the shotgun at two strays once. They tucked their tails and ran. 

You might think we should have taken them to the ASPCA. We’d never heard of that organization, and there was no pet shelter in our county. You had to take care of the strays on your own.

When I lived in rural Kentucky, a stray dog came up to our house. Under the influence of my wife, I had grown more tenderhearted and put out some food for him. He ate. He slept that night on the carport. He hung around one more day, but the next day, he was dead. My vet friend thought it was distemper. 

Dumping dogs is still a problem. Our ranch foreman in Florida called me not too long ago to tell me a pack of wild dogs attacked one of our cows and chewed its ears off. A neighbor saw what was happening and fired a shot. Frightened, the dogs ran away, and the cow lived. The pack of wild dogs was probably a group of strays that banded together, scavenged food wherever they could, and reverted to ancient ways of hunting as a pack.

Last time I was down in Florida, a stray that looked like a cross between a dachshund and a terrier followed me while I was walking. He looked fed and well cared for. I thought he must belong to a neighbor up the road. He showed up the next day. I began to suspect someone had dumped him. The women of the family put something out for him to eat and worried what would happen when we weren’t there to feed him. I tried to explain that there was nothing we could do and was grateful we had flown and there was no way to bring him home.

A friend lives near my pasture. He recently got a message to me that a stray bull mastiff had killed his cat. He warned me in case he started to attack my calves. I guess someone turned him out because he got too big or was costing too much to feed.

My current dog, Rags, does not scavenge for food. He eats pretty good dog food, usually flavored with bacon. I have precooked it for my own breakfast. He has his own bed but likes to sleep on a bigger bed with two adults in it. He is very insistent that he be petted, walked, and loved. He is deeply cared for.

I think about our Heavenly Father. He looks at all of us who are unwanted, and it moves his heart. He sees us who have been cast out and rejected. He knows being unwanted makes some people turn wild and destructive. Some people who are unwanted try to find a home. Some people follow anyone who will show them some care and love.

Our Heavenly Father, out of his great love, sent his son Jesus to die for the unwanted, the rejected, and the lonely so they could be adopted into his family. Jesus’ resurrection is the proof he has the power to include us. We are welcomed into our Heavenly Father’s family, to be loved and cherished, to be called his own children.

An old friend told me he didn’t believe in reincarnation, but if he did, he would want to come back as an old lady’s lap dog. I asked him why. He said he thought it would be the closest thing to heaven, just to be loved and cherished.

I don’t want to come back as a dog. But I am looking forward to a forever experience of my Heavenly Father’s love, grace, forgiveness, peace, and joy.

PS: To quote the late Bob Barker, “Don’t forget to have your pets spayed and neutered.”

Cold…

I don’t like cold weather. I could never see the attraction of snow skiing. Why would you pay money to fall down, get snow in your pants, and end the day cold, wet, and miserable? I did take an ice-skating class in college. That was a mistake. I fell, busted my chin, and had to get stitches. My instructor had pity on me and gave me a “B.”

I assume my dislike of cold weather began in my childhood in Florida. I grew up in an eighty-year-old drafty house. For some reason, the fireplace had been boarded up. We had a little gas heater in the living room. You learned to take your clothes into the living room and change in front of the heater. Mama warmed the kitchen by leaving the gas oven on and keeping the door open. When Mama built the new house, it had central air and heat. I marveled that the whole house was warm.

We didn’t have many cold spells in Florida, but that made it harder. We never acclimated to the cold. When it got cold, going down to feed up was miserable, but the horses emitted some warmth we could enjoy. The worst was when it dipped below freezing. When it got below about twenty-eight degrees, the oranges would freeze. In a few days, they would drop to the ground, and the crop would be lost. Before we had irrigation, all we could do was pray.

After we had under-the-tree irrigation, we could water the trees. The water would protect the trees and create heat as it freezes (it’s science, look it up). One year, it froze on Christmas. I remember a miserable night trying to unclog a filter. There is nothing like having gallons of water pour over you in twenty-seven-degree weather. 

We used to hog hunt when I was young. Some of the nights were cold, but most of the guys were not feeling anything if you get my drift. But I remember one cold night, riding in the back of a truck through the woods, freezing. I grabbed one of the dogs and pulled him close just so I could get a little more warmth.

I think God wanted me to experience a little more cold in my life, because he directed me north to school. The years in Birmingham were not too bad. The winters in Louisville were a nightmare. People say the coldest place on earth is in Antarctica. These are people who never spent twelve winters in Louisville. Louisville really wasn’t that cold; it was just miserable. Gray days started in November, and bright days did not come back until March. We would be snowed in, huddled around fireplaces and heaters. 

The snow was pretty as it came down, but driving on snow and ice is not for the faint-hearted. I wrecked one car on an icy road and pulled out in front of another car that had no headlights on a misty, foggy dusk. That car had to be junked. 

My last winter in Louisville, we got seventeen inches of snow in one night. The city came to a stop. The next night, the Pastor Search Team from Alice Drive in Sumter, SC, called and invited me to come be their next pastor. I asked how much snow they had. They said none, and I knew it was a sign from God.

This winter, much of the country is experiencing record cold. I have to wear my heaviest coat to go out and feed cows. I wiggle my toes ever so often so I remember that I have them. I know my friends from up north, who have lived in places like North Dakota, will think I am a wimp. When it comes to cold, they are right. Give me a blanket and a fire, and maybe a dog to warm me up.

One of the great things about heaven is there is no mention of cold. The warmth we need will come from our Heavenly Father. His love will warm our souls, and his light will brighten each moment.

I once heard an English pastor say, “Don’t you believe that hell is hot? Hell is cold, bitter cold. In hell, there is no love, no love of God to warm souls.”  I’m not sure he is right about hell not being hot, but I think he has a point. Maybe in hell, it is possible to be burning hot and freezing cold at the same time. Either way, I prefer the warmth of my Heavenly Father.

Jimmy Carter…

I met Jimmy Carter twice.  The first and most meaningful was at my seminary graduation when I obtained my Ph.D.  His pastor in Plains had earned his Doctor of Ministry degree, and President Carter agreed to speak to honor his pastor. 

I still remember much of his speech.  It was not the typical seminary graduation speech.  Instead of being laden with theology, he told us about the work of the Carter Center.  Most of us, despite earning advanced degrees, had never heard of the guinea worm, but President Carter told us how this worm destroyed thousands of lives each year.  The threat of the worm could be eradicated by teaching people to use clean water and providing water for them.

I did not realize it at the time, but he was teaching us, like he taught Sunday School for decades, that we were to be doers of the word and not hearers only.

He spoke of the Atlanta project and how Habit for Humanity would revitalize decaying neighborhoods.  He was showing us the gospel was not just for the uttermost parts of the world but also for folks here at home.

I remember being profoundly moved, not so much by the content of his words, but by the man himself.  Eric Sevareid, a news commentator of an older generation, once said of Harry Truman, “…what stands out now is the character of the man.  He seems like a rock now.”  What stood out that day to me about Jimmy Carter was the character of the man.  He was a man who simply believed what he said.

After he spoke, our names were called, and we walked across the stage to receive our diplomas.  President Carter graciously stood there, shook our hands, and said, “Congratulations” to each of us.

The other time I met President Carter was at a book signing in Birmingham, Alabama.  I was at a meeting, and he was the speaker.  I don’t remember what he said, but I remember buying his book, Turning Point, standing in line, and him autographing the book.  The book, which was not one of his best sellers, recounted how he challenged a fraudulent election in South Georgia and won a seat in the Georgia State Senate.  This may be why the Carter Center has focused on free and fair elections around the world and why President Carter always advocated for justice.

I admit I felt a connection with President Carter.  As Lewis Grizzard, the columnist, once wrote, “I voted for Carter because he talked the way I did.”  I grew up in rural Florida, which was the rural South.  When we moved off the ranch in 1968 to the suburbs of St. Petersburg, everyone in my class was from Michigan and Ohio.  They made fun of my accent.  When Jimmy Carter ran for President in 1976, he made it normal to be from the South.

His book, An Hour Before Daylight, is my favorite.  His stories of life before electricity and plumbing were the stories of my father and mother’s lives.  Times changed so fast, but he left a written record of what it was like to rise early, milk the cows, work hard, and overcome adversity and hard times.

Right before Jimmy Carter’s death, a prominent evangelical leader said he prayed that Jimmy Carter would go to heaven.  His inference was that Jimmy Carter’s progressive views were theologically unsound, and that disqualified him from heaven.  When I read that, my stomach turned.

Three verses apply.  The first is from Ephesians: “It is by grace you have been saved, not of works, lest any man should boast.”  Jesus saves people out of his overflowing grace, not because we believe a doctrine, but because we believe in a person.  The second verse is from the lips of Jesus: “By this, all men shall know that you are my disciples – that you love one another.”  President Carter, over and over, showed the love of Jesus by building homes, doing acts of kindness for his neighbors, and doing his best to stamp out disease.  The last verse is from Micah, the prophet: “What does the LORD require of you, O man, but to do justice, love mercy, and walk humbly with your God.”  In a world that speaks less and less about what is right and wrong for the least of these, Jimmy Carter spoke on their behalf. 

Whether we agree with his politics or not, can we acknowledge that Jimmy Carter served as a follower of Jesus should serve?  I wonder how many people who made the trek to Plains to hear him teach Sunday School had never heard the Bible taught before. 

No one, of course, knows a man’s heart.  But Jesus also said, “By their fruits, you shall know them.”   What do you think Jimmy Carter’s fruit really showed? 

For that matter, what does your fruit show?

What if They Said No?

I believe God gives people room to say “no” to him.  We are not robots.  Somehow, even though God knows our choices, his knowledge does not limit our ability to choose obedience or rebellion.

What if the people in the Christmas story said “no” to God?  What if when Zachariah came home, deaf and unable to speak, and he tried to explain to Elizabeth what had happened in the Temple, then suggested they try one more time to have a baby, she said, “No way, old man.”  Then, there is no John the Baptist.  There is no forerunner for Jesus, no one preparing the way.  Instead of being celebrated as the first couple to launch all God was doing, they would have been forgotten in the dust of history.

What if Mary had said “no” to Gabriel?  When Gabriel made his great announcement, what if Mary said, “I’m sorry, I’m not going through with that.  I will not risk my life or my engagement to something that sounds crazy.  I don’t even know what it means for the Holy Spirit to overshadow me.  No.  That’s my final answer.”  What would God have done?  Chosen someone else?  Tried to persuade Mary to reconsider?

What if Joseph had said “no” when he woke up from that dream?  What if he had dismissed the dream as indigestion?  What if he said, “God wouldn’t speak to me.”   What if he had said, “No way am I going to be humiliated.  I will have Mary stoned for getting pregnant, the little tramp.  Nobody is going to make a fool out of me.”  Jesus would have died when Mary was stoned.  Or what if Joseph stuck with his original plan and divorced Mary quietly?  Would Jesus have been born to a single mom?  Who would be his male role model?  Who would teach him a trade?

What if the Shepherd had said, “I don’t care what those angels shouted.  I’ve got to stay here with the sheep.  I can’t afford to lose a single one.”  They would have wasted a most amazing revelation, given especially to them, that the Savior born in Bethlehem was the chosen one, the Leader of all.  The story that changed their lives would never have been told.

What if when the wise men saw the star, they had said, “My, that’s unusual.  It seems to signal the birth of a new king of Judah.  We ought to go see what’s happened, but you know, it is such a long journey.  I doubt we can even get a university grant to make the trip.  Plus, we have classes to teach and finals week coming up in a month or two.  And we all know if Herod the Great is still living, we’d be risking our necks to see if there was a new king.”  They would have missed seeing God’s future in a toddler, a moment of worship that would never happen again in their lifetimes.  Joseph and Mary would never have received gold, frankincense, and myrrh, which might have financed their flight to Egypt.

What if Herod, instead of being upset by the news that the Messiah had been born, instead of being infuriated that the Wise Men had left the area without telling him what he wanted to know, had said “no” to his paranoia?  What if he realized in that moment that there was a great King, and it was not him?  What if Herod realized his time was growing short and he needed to get right with God?  Herod might have worshipped this new king himself.  He might have genuinely repented and realized he needed to be right with the great God of Heaven.  He might have gone to heaven instead of hell.

What if you stop saying “no” to Jesus?  What if you begin to listen for the whispers of God?  Might you hear God say, “You are being foolish.  You are not in control.  I do not wish to humble you, but if you set yourself against me, you will fail.”  What if you stopped saying “no” to God and began to take his word seriously?  What if you decided to forgive your enemies?  What if you decided to stop your efforts to get even?  What if you got honest about your addictions?

Part of no longer saying “no” to Jesus means you also learn to say “yes.”  When you say “yes,” you become part of God’s story, like Zacariah and Elizabeth and Joseph and Mary.  When you say “yes,” you realize you are invited to see what God is doing, sometimes what he does only once in history or once in your lifetime, like the shepherds.  When you say “yes,” you decide sacrifices of time and money are worth it, because you are being used by God in ways you do not even know, like the wise men.  When you say “yes,” you get over yourself, and you begin living out the words of Micah the prophet: “What does the LORD require of you, of man, but love mercy, do justice, and walk humbly with your God.”  Herod never did that, not once in his life.

This Christmas, will you say “yes” or “no?”

Telling the Story of Christmas…

No one really knows how the Christmas story was told. But if I can use holy imagination, it might have gone something like this:

One night, a small group gathered in the familiar upstairs room. Matthew was there; he wrote everything down. Luke was there, doing interviews and carefully researching the story of Jesus. John was there along with Mary, the mother of Jesus. There is a fire in the corner. The stories of Jesus are not yet etched into memories nor polluted by sentiment. Maybe it is Luke who begins: “Mary, how did the birth of Jesus happen?”

Mary smiles and looks above the heads of Luke, John, and Matthew. She is seeing something they cannot see, hearing again words that will never leave her soul. 

“Well, Luke, there are really two stories. There was Joseph’s story and my story. 

“Our parents agreed when we were children that we would marry. We had our engagement ceremony, but shortly after that, Joseph found out I was pregnant. He assumed the worst, but he was a good man.”  She sighed.

“He decided to divorce me quietly to spare my life. But one night, he had a dream. An angel appeared to him and told him I was pregnant by the Holy Spirit. I would give birth to a son, and he was to call his name Jesus.

“Joseph decided to believe the dream. He came to me, told me about it, and we were married a short time later.

“My story is more involved. It began with my cousin Elizabeth and her husband, Zachariah. He was a priest on duty in Temple. The angel Gabriel appeared to him and told him Elizabeth was going to have a baby who would have a special mission from God. He found it hard to believe. Then the angel struck him deaf and unable to speak. He managed to communicate to Elizabeth the message of the angel, and she got pregnant. 

“About six months after she had a baby, an angel appeared to me and told me I was graced by God. He said I was to give birth to a son who would save the people from their sins. I protested I had never been sexually intimate with anyone; how could this happen? The angel told me the Holy Spirit would come upon me, and I would conceive.

“I remember having so many questions at the time. I had never heard of the Holy Spirit conceiving a child in a woman. What would Joseph think? What did this mean for my life? But I said ‘yes’ to the angel.

“Right after that, I went to see Elizabeth. When she greeted me at the door, she went, ‘Uff.’  I knew enough to know the baby had kicked her. She then broke into a beautiful song I’ll never forget.

“I went back home a few months later, and by then, my condition was hard to conceal. That’s when Joseph found out. Thank God he listened to the angel and went ahead with the wedding.

“We heard that Elizabeth’s baby had been born. When Zachariah wrote, “His name is John,” his deafness went away, and he was able to speak again! Then he sang a beautiful song.

“Then came the event that upended our lives. Caesar issued a decree that everyone must pay a special tax. We had to return to our ancestral homes, which meant Joseph and I had to travel to Bethlehem. That’s a long trip for a pregnant lady!”

“When we got there, the town was overrun. A man had pity on us and let us stay in his barn. One night, the labor pains started, and I gave birth there in that barn. I wrapped my baby up in blankets, then laid him in a manger. It was the only place that was sort of clean.

“I was exhausted, but in a couple of hours, some shepherds came to see the baby: our first visitors! They told of an angel appearing to them, telling them of the birth of a baby who would be the Savior, the Messiah, and the Lord for all people. It was hard to believe at first, but by this time, Joseph and I started to believe angels spoke to people!

Another strange thing happened when we went to the Temple to dedicate Jesus eight days after his birth. An old man, Simeon, and an old woman, Anna, took Jesus from us and proclaimed him as the chosen one of God. I was chilled when Simeon said to me, ‘…a sword will pierce your own heart, too.’

“We decided to stay in Bethlehem for a while. Joseph could work anywhere; his skills as a carpenter were in demand. I think it was about two months later, late in the evening, some scholars from the East came and brought us expensive gifts: gold, frankincense, and myrrh. They looked at my precious little baby and said, ‘He is to be a great King.’ 

They did not tarry, but that night, Joseph had another dream, telling us wicked King Herod wanted to kill our baby. We packed in a hurry and fled in the night to Egypt, out of Herod’s kingdom. We stayed there two years and heard Herod was dead. It was time to go back home. We returned to Nazareth, and as they say, the rest is history.”

Matthew and Luke had been writing furiously as Mary talked. She suddenly looked very old and very young at the same time. She had seen God do incredible things in her life, things beyond description. She had known great joy and great heartache. But the sparkle in her eyes spoke of a youth, an eternal youth, an optimism. She had seen it all, the whole story. She knew what her son had done, so she knew how it all turned out. In her face, you could see a peace beyond understanding, the peace of knowing God’s plan worked for good. Good for Joseph, good for her, and good for the whole world.

What One Bale of Hay Costs…

I was going out of town for a few days. Thanks to a recent frost, all my grass is brown. Brown grass is not very nutritious. It’s like cereal: filling, but not much energy. I’ve put out protein tubs, and I feed my cows several times a week, but while I was gone, I knew they would need more.

My friends, the Lowders, grow the best hay in these parts (in Florida, the best hay is grown on the Buckhorn Ranch. Message me for details). But feeding hay is expensive. I try to hold off as long as possible, but not too long. As the old-timers say, “No one made money in the cow business starving their cows.”  I’ll start feeding hay in earnest in a few weeks, but for now, I just needed one bale. For one bale, there’s no need to hook up the trailer. It’s a tight squeeze, but one bale will fit in the back of my truck.

I pulled up to Lowder’s barn and signaled to my friend I needed one bale. He loaded it, then got out to talk to me for a minute. We had a good visit, and then he slammed the tailgate shut.

I’ve had trouble with the tailgate on my truck. It's not surprising since I have slammed it with gooseneck trailers, backed it into trees, and had my bull, Happy, headbutt it trying to get to the feed. Sometimes, I have to push it in to unlatch it. Right before the tailgate slammed shut, I thought of saying, “Stop!”  But I figured it really wasn’t any problem. I was wrong.

When I got back to the pasture to unload the hay, I lifted the tailgate handle. Nothing happened. I pushed on it, like usual. Still nothing. I leaned on it with all my weight. Nothing. It was then I remembered my high school physics: a six-hundred-pound bale of hay exerts a force greater than a two-hundred seventy-five-pound man. 

The cows were already gathered around my truck, pulling tufts of hay over the side. I opened my toolbox and went to work. First, the farmer’s favorite tool: WD40. I sprayed it all over. I tried to open it again and again; nothing. I got out a crowbar. I pried one corner, then another. Nothing. I was starting to bend metal and that did not seem like a good idea.

Not all ideas are good ideas. I got the idea to drive my crowbar into the bale, then hook my tow strap to a tree and pull the bale over the tailgate. Problem: I only had one crowbar. I remembered there were some metal fence posts in the barn. I got one, drove it into the bale, and hooked up the tow strap around the tree. The crowbar held. The metal fence post bent. Cheap import. 

Since that didn’t work, I decided to wrap the strap around the bale to see if it would hold enough to get the bale out. Once the tow strap was arranged correctly, I eased forward. I could see the bale starting to move. This was going to work! 

It did, but not in the intended way. I heard metal screeching and felt the thud of the hay bale. Success, but I had a feeling something was amiss. 

Again, I should have paid more attention in high school physics. When a six-hundred-pound hay bale in motion meets a defective tailgate mechanism, the hay bale wins. My tailgate was twisted like a piece of licorice. 

The cows, however, were very happy. They tore into the hale bale, happy to eat something nutritious. Strangely, I was happy too. I got the hay bale out of my truck.

When I took my truck to the body shop, my friend Billy (my body shop man and I are on a first-name basis) took one look and said, “You did it this time.”  He says that every time. The tailgate was beyond being straightened. It would have to be replaced, along with a taillight I hadn’t noticed. I don’t know the final cost yet, but it will be more than the cost of that hay bale.

Hay bale + truck repairs = hundreds.

No matter how much our false wisdom twists up and wrecks our lives, Jesus says you are worth whatever it costs to straighten you out. You are worth so much; I came to earth, lived in a human body, died on a cross, and rose again so your life could work the way God intended it to work. 

We don’t have to count the cost of straightening ourselves out. He already paid the bill.

A Church that Throws Parties …

One of my heroes is a man named Tony Campolo. A charismatic speaker, insightful author, professor, social activist, and pastor, he passed away last week from a stroke. 

Tony Campolo was one of the voices in my early adulthood who expanded my picture of God. He spoke in the seminary chapel, and I will never forget the story he told, which he later captured in the book The Kingdom of God is a Party.

Tony was invited to speak at a conference in Honolulu. He said, “Hey, sometimes you get Louisville, sometimes you get Honolulu!”  He woke up early, too early, one morning and knew he could not get back to sleep. He went down to an all-night café to get some coffee and a doughnut. At about 4 AM, in walks four “ladies of the evening.” They were winding up an evening of work, sharing their experiences. One of the women told the group, “Hey, tomorrow is my birthday.”  The other women sloughed it off, one of them saying, “What do you want me to do? Get you a cake? Throw you a party?”  “No,” said the first woman, “I just thought I’d tell you.”  Then she mumbled under her breath, “I’ve never had a birthday party.”

After the women left the diner, Tony called the short-order cook over. “Do those women come in every night?” he asked. “Yeah, pretty much every night,” the cook replied. Tony said, “What say we throw the birthday girl a party tomorrow night.”  The cook said, “That’s a great idea! Everybody loves Agnes! In fact, I’ll make the cake.”  Tony agreed to provide the decorations.

Tony went to the café the next night with his arms full of decorations. He and the waitresses hung streamers and balloons and a big banner that said, “Happy Birthday Agnes!”  The cook had whipped up a beautiful cake. Then they waited for the birthday girl.

At about 4 AM, Agnes walks in with her friends, who had been tipped off to the plan. Everyone in the diner, the waitresses, customers, the cook, and Tony yelled, “Surprise!”  Tony led in a boisterous singing of “Happy Birthday!”  The cake was brought out with some candles, and Agnes was invited to blow out the candles. She did, but people could tell she was in a state of shock. She stared at the cake, and then the cook said, “Come on, cut the cake.”  Agnes said, “Can I please take it home? I promise I will come right back. It's just that I have never had a cake before, and I want to take it home and stare at it. Is that okay?”

What could they say? Agnes left with the cake, and there was silence at the diner. Sensing the awkwardness, Tony said, “Let’s pray.”  That’s what Baptist preachers do when they don’t know what to say.

Tony prayed for Agnes, for God to bless her on her birthday, to show her his love and care. He prayed for God’s protection over her while she walked the streets. He prayed that God would provide for her so she could make different choices in her life. And he prayed for her friends and everyone in the café. 

When Tony said, “Amen,” the cook leaned over the counter and grabbed Tony by the shirt. He pulled him close and said, “Hey, you never told me you were a preacher. What kind of church do you belong to?”

Tony said at that moment, the Holy Spirit gave him the right words to say. He looked the cook in the eye and declared, “I belong to the kind of church that throws birthday parties for hookers at four in the morning.”

The cook said, “No, you don’t. There isn’t any church like that. If there were, I would belong to that kind of church.”

I remember that day in the chapel; Tony paused long enough for all of us smart seminary students to squirm in our seats. Then he said, “Wouldn’t we all want to belong to a church like that?”

I heard that story over forty years ago. I think Tony was right. Our churches need to throw more birthday parties for hookers and for all the other broken people in the world.

Thank you, God, for Tony, for reminding us the Kingdom of God is a party.

Don’t Rush By Thanksgiving…

On November 1, I drove by a house where the man was taking down his Halloween decorations, and his wife was putting up Christmas decorations.  Americans now spend 6 billion dollars on Halloween, making it the second-largest commercial holiday besides Christmas.  Gone are the days of kids dressing like hobos and trick-or-treating in the neighborhood.  One little boy bragged to me that he had three costumes.  A middle school girl told me our Fall Festival was the third one she had hit; she said she had enough candy to last till Christmas. 

In my friend group, several couples are bragging that they finished decorating for Christmas before election day.  We haven’t even gotten the decorations down from the attic yet.  One woman explained that in order to get all five of her trees decorated, she had to start early.  I guess if you decorate five trees, you should start early to enjoy them longer. 

Thanksgiving has become a speed bump between Halloween and Christmas.  Black Friday has threatened to overtake Thanksgiving as the most important day of Thanksgiving week.  Few people stand outside the store waiting for the 5:00 AM deals.  Instead, people log on early and let UPS bring the store to them.

Thanksgiving is my favorite holiday.  The Smith family has gathered for the last eighty-seven years in the woods.   Usually, eighty to a hundred people gather.  Most, in some way, tie back to my Smith grandparents.  It is a special time to see cousins, catch up, remember old times, and argue about Florida State and Florida football. 

The table will be laden with some of the best food you have ever eaten.  There will be ribs, swamp cabbage, guava cobbler, my sister-in-law’s deviled eggs, brown rice casserole, my wife’s brussel sprouts with bacon (bacon makes everything better), and mashed potatoes that are one-part potato, one-part heavy cream, and two-parts butter.  I’ve learned not to overeat because, on Thanksgiving night, we will fry a turkey, cook a ham, and eat more good stuff. 

But Thanksgiving is never just about the food for me.  It’s about the people.  There is something about a family, when you bond over a lifetime of shared memories, loved ones who are no longer there, and the joy of seeing new generations.  We are four generations deep now.  I am in the oldest generation.  That’s hard for me to believe, but I am the youngest in my generation.  We take pictures of each generation each year.  Though there are four of us left, I will probably be the only one in good enough health to attend.

I never know when the best part of Thanksgiving will come.  Sometimes, it comes early in the morning.  Sometimes, it comes late in the afternoon.  There will be a moment when I am outside, maybe in the groves, and surprise some turkeys or out in the pasture, taking in the sunset.  At that moment, I will feel a sense of awe and wonder.  I will marvel at God’s goodness, his creativity, his blessing.  I will think about my own life and how many times God has rescued me from my own mistakes and my own sins.  My soul will stir, and a thanksgiving will rise from me to God.  I will thank my Heavenly Father for all he has done for me, gifting me with an amazing life, a world full of wonder, and, most of all, the calm assurance that he loves me and I belong to him.

You cannot get that feeling watching a football game or a parade.  Halloween does not give you that sense of awe and wonder.  My recommendation to you is to put yourself in a place where you feel the presence of God.  It might be to carve out five quiet minutes to read Psalms 103 and 104.  You might want to risk an awkward moment and have people at the Thanksgiving table share what they are thankful for.  Maybe you will want to sing to yourself the Doxology.

Whatever you do, do not rush past Thanksgiving.  One thinker called it “The humble holiday.”  Thanksgiving is a celebration that is not about us.  It is for the one who gives you great and wonderful gifts.  Thanksgiving prepares us for the real meaning of Christmas: being grateful for God’s best gift of all, Jesus, his son, who comes to save us, to set the captive free, to heal the broken, and to conquer sin and death once and for all.

 Happy Thanksgiving.

Everybody Has a Story…

My mentor, John Ortberg, has a saying: “Everybody has a story; no one gets the story they want.”

You get to know people’s stories when you do what I do. Sometimes, before I preach, I look out at the congregation. Some I have known for years. Some I do not know. But every one of them has a story.

I see a couple whose only child made choices that break their hearts. Another couple was separated but are now trying to make it work. A man still grieves his wife, who passed away five years ago. A lady on a walker wonders how much longer she can live independently. A couple is holding their new baby, the one they prayed for, who was born after five years of infertility treatments. A young widow is still bewildered, never dreaming she would be facing this stage of life alone. A couple is dating, and she wants him to ask the question soon. I can get so lost in the stories I almost lose my place in my sermon. Everyone has a story; no one gets the story they want.

I remember sitting in an IHOP near the Dallas/Fort Worth airport with my friend Robert, waiting on a flight. A very beautiful woman, holding a little girl, walked in, followed by an older woman. They sat in the booth next to us. As an old sage said, “It isn’t eavesdropping if you can’t help but overhear the conversation.”

The older woman asked how the shoot went. As they shared back and forth, it turned out the younger woman was a model. She had been in Venezuela for the Sports Illustrated annual bathing suit issue photo shot. She detailed how uncomfortable it was, wearing next to nothing, standing in cold water, missing her little girl, having to force smiles and “come hither” looks. She said except for the money, she wished she had just stayed home.

I could not help but think of the thousands of men who would see her pictures and fantasize those looks were for them. She had a story; from her own lips, it was not the one she really wanted.

 Jesus, over and over, met people who had a story. None of them had the story they wanted. He encountered a leper. No one wanted his story. In those days, leprosy meant death by pieces, rotting flesh, and social isolation. I am sure that when this man was growing up, he had never dreamed of being a leper. Jesus told him to stretch out his hand, and the leprosy was gone. Jesus changed his story.

 Jarius, a synagogue leader, had a story no parent wanted. His little girl had taken ill and died. No parent ever holds their baby and says, “I hope you die before your time.”  To lose a child is more than heartbreaking; it is a ripping of your soul into pieces. In desperation, he goes to Jesus. Jesus says he will come to Jarius’ house. But on the way, there is a woman who has a story she doesn’t want. She has a disease, a continual menstrual flow. Her dreams of marriage, closeness, and having children were washed away. She, like the leper, must live in isolation. But in her desperation, she moved through a crowd, touched the hem of Jesus’ garment, and then was healed. Jesus calls her out and blesses her, telling her her faith has healed her. Her story was changed.

But Jarius was waiting for Jesus to change his daughter’s story. Jesus goes to his house, gets rid of the mourners, and brings that girl back to life. He changed her story.

Everybody has a story. No one gets the story that they want. There was a woman who met Jesus at a well. She had been rejected by five husbands. Unless you are a celebrity, this is not a story you want. Imagine the pain of her first divorce. Her second, then her third and fourth. The fifth divorce probably seemed unreal. Now, she lived with a man, and the whole town shunned her. Do you think this is the story she wanted?

Like most of us, when she met Jesus, she did not tell her whole story. But Jesus knew her story like he knows ours. Something remarkable happened at that well. That woman, who had just a small seed of faith, saw her faith bloom. She believed. She told everyone in town she met a man who told her everything she had ever done and did not reject her. The whole town came out to see this man. At the end of the story, the entire town is now interacting with this previously broken woman, appreciating her for introducing them to Jesus. Jesus changed her story.

Everybody has a story. No one gets the story they want. But Jesus can change your story. Will you let him?

The Next Four Years…

A man was very unhappy with his work life. He shared his troubles with a friend, who, in response, asked, “What do you really want to do?”  He replied, “I really want to be a lawyer and work in public service.”  His friend said, “What’s stopping you?”  The man snorted a harsh laugh, “I’d have to go to law school. That’s three years! That’s too long.”  His friend said, “How old will you be in three years if you go to law school?”  The man responded, “Fifty-two.”  His friend asked, “How old will you be in three years if you don’t go to law school?”  The man looked puzzled and said, “Fifty-two!”  The friend wisely said, “It seems to me that in three years, you can be more miserable, or in three years, you can walk across a stage to something you really want to do.”

What’s going to happen in your life in the next four years? I will put in the usual exclusionary clause: if Jesus does not return. 

In the next four years, my grandsons will grow older. Maybe another grandchild will be born. I want to be there to see them take their first steps, go to first grade, and maybe even learn to drive a tractor. After forty-one years, I will retire from being a lead pastor. I will take up a new calling, helping churches take their next step. I hope to reset forty acres of orange grove at the ranch and get a watering project done. There are some books I want to write. There are places I want to see with my own eyes. 

In the next four years, I want to be a good citizen. I will pray for our political leaders at all levels. I will vote. I hope when my candidates win, I will be gracious; when they lose, I hope I will be gracious then as well. I will remember that every political decision will impact people. Some people I care about will be afraid after the elections; some people will be unrealistic in their expectations. Most of all, I will remember the wisdom of the Psalms: “Put not your trust in princes.”

In the next four years, I want to walk closer with Jesus. I hope to have more time to think about life with him. I want to pray deeper. I want to follow Jesus to new adventures and new experiences that will draw me closer to him. I want to sit with my wife in worship instead of being the one on the platform. There is an old hymn with the line, “Oh, for faith to trust him more.”  In the next four years, I want to trust him more.

In the next four years, I’d like to develop some deeper friendships. As I begin to lose people from my past, I sense the need not to replace friends, because that cannot be done, but to add friends so life stays rich, and I can have people to do life with.

There will be some temptations to divert me from my hopes. When I was a pastor in rural Kentucky, I remember an older man telling me his biggest mistake was retiring, coming home, and sitting in his Lazy-boy recliner. He said, “Preacher, I came home, sat down, and now I can’t get up.”  I don’t want that to be me.

Not being the most disciplined person, I will feel the temptation to just focus on myself. Some of that would be good; some would be unhelpful and unhealthy. A study by a well-known psychiatric clinic showed a direct correlation between people who focus too much on themselves and mental illness. The key to health is not to focus just on yourself. I don’t want to become the old man who watches the news all day and gets filled with anger over things I can’t control.

What about you? In the next four years, will you bless people? Will you notice the least of these? Will you do what Jesus said even if it is against what your political party says is right? Will you seek a deeper walk with Jesus? Will you ask God to guide your thinking? Will you be open to new people that God brings into your life? 

The next four years will happen. What will you do with them?

Making it Through Turbulent Times…

I am no prophet, but I think we are in turbulent times. Some of you are reading this before the election, and some are after. No matter who wins, there will be turbulence. We will still be a divided nation.

Some people want to believe you can hide from turbulence. I don’t think that is possible. You can try to create a bubble where you check out or stockpile food and supplies, but turbulence has a way of finding you.

The first time you encounter turbulence, it is frightening. I remember fishing with my parents. I was fourteen, and they trusted me to drive the boat back to the landing. A thunderstorm had popped up and was whipping the waves into towering whitecaps. Stinging rain pecked at our faces. I had never encountered anything like this, and I was scared. I looked back, expecting my stepfather to take command. Instead, as we bounced up and down on the waves, I saw him with his arm around my mother, laughing like a kid at the county fair. I calmed down. 

The first lesson in getting through turbulent times is to expect to be frightened if you have never faced something before. Fear is God’s emotional gift to alert you that you need help to face the situation. In my case, I needed the reassurance of my stepfather. He had been through storms before; this one did not scare him.

I remember going through difficult days as a pastor. I spoke to an older pastor who calmed me down and told me his own story about turbulent times and how he survived. My fear didn’t go away entirely, but his story calmed me greatly.

On several flights, I’ve heard the captain come on and say, “Ahhhh, folks, we’re encountering some turbulence. Please return to your seats and fasten your seat belts. Flight attendants, please discontinue cabin service.” 

The second lesson in getting through turbulent times is to buckle up. Life is not a smooth ride. Strap down everything you can. When Tim Keller started his church in Manhattan, he and his wife had a frank conversation about what would be required. They knew one of the most important things they could do was keep the lines of communication open over the first two years. They were trying to make sure their relationship was in shape for the first bumpy stretch. That’s one way of buckling up.

I grew up in rodeo. This was before big money, when cowboys would rodeo on the weekends and be back at work on the ranch on Monday. Though I was a child, I learned nobody stays on every bull. A cowboy might get two good rides, but there would always be one bull that would spin and twist. The bull-rider would get thrown off the bull, fly about twenty feet, and land in the soft sand of the arena. Sometimes, the rider would get thrown, kicked, and wind up under the bull. Not a happy position.

The third lesson to get through turbulent times is you might get thrown off. This doesn’t mean you are incompetent or weak. It means turbulence is unpredictable. Don’t tie your self-worth to being casualty-free. If you get thrown off, as soon as you can, run for the fence and live to ride another day.

A pastor friend of mine made a mistake after serving as a pastor for about ten years. He left the ministry, did the work to keep his family together, and relocated. He and his family were active in their church, but he didn’t seek to lead in any public way. One day, his pastor asked him to have lunch and told him the church wanted to plant another church. He felt strongly that my friend was supposed to be the pastor of the new church. After prayer and consultation with his wife and wise friends, my friend said yes. After a twenty-year interruption, my friend was back as a pastor and has grown that church plant to over 700 attendees. He got thrown off; he got up. God gave him a second act.

That stormy day on the lake, with my parents laughing in the back seat of the boat, I steered through the wind and the rain. I kept my eye on my destination: the landing. I knew when we got there, we could load the boat, get in the car, and be safe from the turbulent storm. 

This is the final lesson on getting through turbulent times: keep your eyes on the destination. The wind was pushing the boat around, and the rain was coming right at us. If I let the wind control the boat, we’d miss the landing. If I turned so the rain wasn’t stinging our faces, we’d wind up where we started. 

Steven Covey, the author, said the key to effectiveness is to begin with the end in mind. Andy Stanley reminds us direction, not determination, determines destination. 

If you are a follower of Jesus, this should be no surprise. If we keep our eyes on him, and follow him, we will wind up where he is going. He called that place “His Father’s House.”  Others call it “heaven. Jesus followers, no matter how turbulent the times, call it “Home.”

Cousin Kay…

People do not grow up anymore like I did.  My cousins lived just a mile and a half away.  I spent much of my childhood in the company of my cousins Don, Linda, and Kay. 

We played most of the time at Kay’s house.  Kay’s parents were Uncle Earl and Aunt Frieda.  We climbed on tractors and pretended to race them.  One strange game involved putting hay twine around someone’s neck and leading them into the horse trailer.  We called the game “Horse.”  We would go down to the hay barn and build forts.  Occasionally, a corn snake would slither out, and we would run back to the house, convinced that the snake was on our heels.

We were tasked with feeding the chickens and gathering the eggs.  They were in a big pen, about the size of a four-car garage.  They were experts at disguising their nests.  The nesting boxes were often empty, but they would have made a nest out of pine straw hidden behind a tree. 

Of course, there was also the day some chickens were taken out of the pen.  Sometimes their necks were wrung; occasionally, their heads were chopped off.  I thought a chicken running around with its head cut off was one of the funniest things I had ever seen.  Kay would cry when the chickens met their demise, but strangely, it never stopped her from eating that bird on Sunday. 

The most fun we had, however, was playing “house.”  Uncle Earl had a smokehouse that we were allowed to convert into a playhouse when he wasn’t smoking meat.  Though it was illegal, we pair off and pretend to be married cousins.  Kay would always marry Don, and I would always marry Linda.  We would clean out the play house (though none of us cleaned our own rooms), rearrange furniture, prepare pretend meals, and play until the fireflies called us inside.  I can still hear Aunt Frieda calling us in, “Bonita Kay Gill, it’s time to get a bath and get in bed.”

I often spent the night at Aunt Frieda’s, sleeping with Kay in her bed.   Once she turned seven, however, I had to sleep on the couch.  I protested.  I had always slept in Kay’s bed before.  What had changed?  She was becoming a young woman, and our elders decided it was no longer appropriate for us to share a bed.  Much later, I would joke that Kay was the first woman I slept with.  I thought it was funny, even if no one else did.

Uncle Earl had a ranch in a place called “Slidell.”  It was about an hour and a half away.  We rode to Slidell in the back of Uncle Earl’s truck, sitting on an old coach.  We would work cows, four or five kids under twelve, Uncle Earl and Aunt Frieda.  I remember spending the night at Slidell, sleeping on a pallet on the floor.  There was no electricity at Slidell.  I have never seen the Milky Way so clearly as I did at Slidell.

We grew up, of course.  Kay and I went down different paths.  She stayed in our hometown and became a teacher, like her mother before her.  She taught in the same school she attended.  Hundreds of children passed through her classroom and were touched by her gentleness, care, and instruction.  She married a man very much like her father, had two boys, and became, like her mother, the best cook in the community.  She lived almost all of her married life in the house she grew up in, merely moving across the hall to what was once her parent’s bedroom.

As she aged, Kay had to fight several chronic diseases.  A combination of viral and bacterial infections finally overwhelmed her.  She passed away a few days ago.

People ask me why I write about these memories from days gone by.  I write so I can remember.  As people who walked with me through life pass on, I want to capture in a few words the memories I hold.  Maybe my grandchildren will one day read these words and wonder what kind of life their grandfather had as a child. 

I know not everyone has a great childhood.  Mine had lots of ups and downs.  But if you go back and remember your childhood, you might find some special people God put in your life.  Some of those people were adults who loved you and nurtured you.  But some people were your cousins, neighbors, or playmates.  You laughed with these kids.  You learned to give and compromise.  You got mad and then got over it because the game looked so fun you didn’t want to miss out. 

What Christians Should Do on Election Day…

A fellow recently said to me, "I think on the day before the election, I am going to go for a long hike and not come back in a week." I asked him why.  He said, "No matter who wins, it's going to be crazy." 

Even if he is right, I don't think checking out is the answer.  What should followers of Jesus do on election day?

First, pray.  Pray for God to give you a peace that passes all understanding.  Pray for our country that no matter what the outcome, we will all remember we are blessed to live in an exceptional country with remarkable freedom.  Pray for guidance in how you vote.  No matter how you lean politically, ask God for direction.  God might surprise you and guide you to vote against your political party.  Remember, God is neither a Republican nor a Democrat.  Be open to the leading of His Spirit.

Second, vote.  More than once, I've heard people say, "I don't like either candidate, so I just won't vote." I get that.  But then I remembered that throughout human history, people had no choice in their political leaders.  Kings thought God appointed them to their thrones, no matter how many people they had to kill to protect their power.  Dictators and generals took power and asserted their rule.  Very few countries in this world can freely choose their leaders.  As I pray through the candidates, I remember a list about the qualities of a leader called "The Five C's." A leader must Care, Coach, Communicate, have Courage, and take care of their Core.  Which leader best embodies these qualities?

Third, Christians need to respond to others as Jesus instructs us.  He is very plain about this: "Love your enemies; do good to those who persecute you." On election day, followers of Jesus should not attack their political opposites.  They should not gloat in victory.  Jesus told us to love people, which means wanting good for them and working to bring good when we can.  It shames me to see how some who call themselves believers respond to political discussions on social media.  Their words and the attitudes they express are not loving.  Jesus would disown many of the things that are said in his name.

Fourth, accept reality.  The reality is there will be one winner.  About half our nation will be disappointed.  If your candidate loses, that does not give you the freedom to break laws, injure others, or live in the land of denial.  No one gets the reality they want.  If I could get the reality I wanted, chocolate would have no calories, and hair that falls out would grow back.  God only deals in reality, not fantasy, not wishes.  Until you accept reality, your prayers will be warped.

Fifth, pray for the fruit of the Spirit as you react to others.  Paul wrote in Galatians 5 that the fruit of the Spirit is love, joy, peace, patience, kindness, gentleness, goodness, faithfulness, and self-control.   If you are truly led by the Spirit, these qualities will be present on election day.  You will love people in line to vote.  You will be joyful and have a deep sense of peace that God is in control.  You will act with kindness and gentleness.  You will be patient with those who are upset.  You will be self-controlled, bearing witness that "Greater is he who is in you than he who is in the world."

Finally, remember God is in control.  I am unpleasantly surprised when people who claim to trust God with their eternal destination do not trust him to guide the affairs of this country and all the countries of the world.  Spend time reading the prophets.  God is keenly aware of the sins of our country and every country around the world.   He works in the minds of leaders and in the affairs of nations, working his will over long periods of time.  We can look back and realize that God worked in our own Civil War to attack the institution of slavery.  When Jim Crow laws emerged, God began a long, slow work that flowered into the Civil Rights movement so that the heinous sin of racism would be infected and begin to whither.  If you think God cannot work no matter the election's outcome, perhaps your God is too small.

At the outbreak of the Civil War, Julia Howe was challenged to write new words to a popular tune, "John Brown's Body." She said in the middle of the night, inspiration seized her, and she rose, found the stump of a pencil, and penned these words: "Mine eyes have seen the glory of the coming of the Lord; He is trampling out the vintage where the grapes of wrath are stored.  He has loosed the fateful lighting of his terrible swift sword.  His truth is marching on.  Glory, Glory Hallelujah.  Glory, Glory Hallelujah.  Glory, Glory Hallelujah.  His truth is marching on."

Remember on Election Day, His truth marches on.

Care Enough to Correct…

From the Archives.

I grew up in a small town where everyone knew everyone else, and you were kin to most of them.  In my childhood, it seemed like every adult I knew felt free to correct me.

 Alvin Simmons lived up the road and worked for my mother.  He took my brother and I with him while he did chores.  I remember discovering if I yelled “Help” loud enough, there was an echo off a dense bunch of trees.  I yelled it over and over until Alvin told me to stop.  He said, “Somebody might think you are really in trouble.  Never yell for help unless the trouble is real.”  Since that day, I have never yelled for help unless I really needed it.

 Bert Calder cleaned the house and watched me while my mother worked in town.  I had a little toy pistol, the kind that with a roll of caps that made a noise when you pulled the trigger.  For some reason, we didn’t have a roll of caps, but it didn’t matter.  I would point the pistol at whatever I wanted to shoot and yell, “Bang!”  One day I made the mistake of pointing at Bert.  “Bang” was barely out of my mouth when she snatched my pistol away from me and told me never to point a gun at anyone.  I must have been four or five, and even at that age, I knew the difference between a real gun and a toy.  I protested, “It’s just a toy.”  Bert shook her finger in my face and said, “Toy or not, never point a gun at anyone.”  Since that day, whenever my hand holds a gun, I hear Bert Calder’s voice, and I am mindful never to point it at a person.

 My Aunt Iris kept my brother and me sometimes.  Aunt Iris was close to six feet tall and solid.  She wasn’t fat, mind you, but she had a no-nonsense way about her.  When I was seven, she told me to sit still on the couch.  In a fit of original sin, I said, “Make me.”  She snatched me up and put me on the couch, and sat on me.  Aunt Iris brought a lot of gravity to bear on the situation.  In this instance, I cried for help because I needed it.  My brother Steve was laughing at me.  Aunt Iris stood up, and I gasped for air.  “Are you going to do what I tell you?” she demanded.  “Yes, Ma’am,” I gasped out.  Since that day, when someone tells me to sit still, I do.  Aunt Iris really made an impression on me.

 Wayne Collier would take my brother and me cow hunting.  I rode a one-eyed Shetland pony my Uncle Larry had procured for me and tried to keep up with the big people.  I was riding behind the cows as we pushed them up to the pens, and one of the cows turned back and ran right out.  I froze.  Wayne yelled, “Don’t let her get by you, Clay.”  She got by me.  Wayne and Uncle Earl rode after the cow, and Wayne roped her.  He dragged her back to the herd.  I was a little bewildered.  Wayne rode up beside me and said, “Son, I’m sorry I yelled at you, but when a cow starts to turn back on you, don’t freeze.  You’ve got to put your horse broadside to her and turn her back.”  Since that day, every time I worked cows and one made a break for it, I heard Wayne’s voice in my head.  I might do the wrong thing, but I do something.

 These people were not my parents.  I suppose in some circles today, a parent might have said, “You have no right to talk to my child like that.”  Back in those days, children were community property.  Everybody in my community thought it was their job to look out after children and teach them things they needed to know – like not to cry for help when it wasn’t needed, or never point a gun at a person, or sit still when you’re told, or even don’t let a cow turn back on you.

 American bison typically run when they sense danger, but when predators approach without warning, bison form a multilayer circle of protection. The females form a ring around the young, and the males form an outer ring surrounding the females.  For a predator to get to the most vulnerable of the herd, they must get through the whole herd. 

 There is something to learn from the bison.  Our children need our protection.  They need every adult to take ownership and teach them things they need to know.  This is not a job we can leave to a smartphone or assume one teacher takes up the slack.  Our children need all of us to protect them, advocate for them, support them, and show them the way. 

 I think when you step in and teach a child something they need to know, even if that child is not yours, you are doing God’s work.  Every child deserves a circle of adults who care enough to correct.

Don’t Give Up…

There was a judge in town who was crooked. Most everyone knew it, but no one had ever proved it. If you knew the right people and had the right amount of money, you could win your case, no matter how guilty you were. He was involved in all kinds of crooked deals, and it had made him a rich man.

The funny thing about him was he was in church every Sunday. He would piously boom out “Amen” when the preacher made a point he agreed with. If the church made a decision, everyone knew that whatever side the judge took would be the side that won. It was rumored the judge had slept with half the ladies in the church and was always on the prowl. His wife looked like a beaten-down woman who had resigned herself to a miserable life.

If you didn’t have money and if you were not an attractive female, the judge didn’t care what you thought or your case. He was known to put continuance after continuance on cases that didn’t benefit him, just so he wouldn’t be bothered.

In that same town, there was an old widow. Her husband had died, leaving her little to live on. However, there was a man in town who owed her husband some money. If she could get the man to pay, she would have some breathing room. The man who owed the money was the kind of man who conveniently would forget to pay his bills. He owed money all over town.

The widow went time and again to the man’s house, but he wouldn’t answer her knocks. She could hear him moving around. She would beat against the door again, but there would be no response.

After a few months of this, she decided to take him to court. Her case landed on the desk of the crooked judge. He hated these kinds of cases. The amount involved was trivial to him. The woman was in no position to do him a favor. The man on the other side of the case was nothing but a headache. The judge decided to set a trial date a couple of years away and hoped the case would settle without his involvement.

The widow, however, needed that money. She started calling his office. Every day, there would be a voicemail: “Judge, can you move my case up on the docket? It is a simple dispute, and you would do me a real favor. I appreciate it Judge.”  After a few weeks of this, there started to be two voicemails a day, then three. One day, his secretary/mistress told him an older woman was sitting in the waiting room and wanted to see him about a pending case. He knew who it was before she gave him the name. He made some excuse not to see her. Two days later his secretary/mistress messaged him to say that the older woman was back. Before long, things settled into a rhythm: the woman showed up in his office every other day. 

He was at home one night, a rare thing. There was a knock at his door, and he answered it. It was the widow. She said, “Judge, I don’t understand why you won’t hear my case. It’s simple; it shouldn’t take much of your time. If you give me justice, it will make my life so much easier.”  The judge stammered some excuse and shut the door in her face. The next night, the same thing happened. The judge started staying out late, but when he came home, he noticed a strange car parked in front of his house. He went to see who was inside, and the widow opened the door and said, “Judge, why won’t you hear my case? I need some justice.”  The judge realized he had his own personal stalker.

The widow was showing up at his office, leaving messages on his phone, and staking out his house. The judge began to worry what this woman might be finding out about him. It dawned on him that he was spending so much time trying to escape this widow that it was interfering with his “side” deals. 

He thought, “This is ridiculous. I’m a judge. I do what I please. But this woman is driving me nuts. I’ll be better off to schedule her case, decide in her favor, and get her out of my life.”  He called his secretary/mistress into his office and told her to move the widow’s case to the top of the docket.

Jesus told a story like this. Luke, who put the story in his gospel, explains why he told it: he wanted his disciples to learn to pray and never give up. When he told the story, he made the point that our Heavenly Father is not like the unjust judge (Thank God!). He said God will make sure his chosen ones are heard, and justice will come.

The lesson is this: When you feel treated unfairly when you feel like an injustice has been done, pray. Keep praying. Do not give up. God hears. God is moving. God will act at exactly the right time.

Don’t give up. Keep praying.