Dry Rot in the Soul…

I was hauling my boat to the lake to meet up with my family.  It was just me, pulling the boat up the interstate.  About an hour into the trip, I felt a jerk.  I look at my rear-view mirrors and saw my boat trailer leaning to the right.  Flat tire.

I should say shredded tire.  I pulled over to the emergency lane, put on my flashers, and got out to inspect the damage.  The tire had simply come apart.  I didn’t understand it.  I had checked the air pressure before I left and greased the bearings.  But these things happen.

Because of my recent knee surgery, I decided to call for assistance.  When the man said it would be an hour and half, I decided I could tough it out and change it myself.  This was not the smartest idea I had ever had.  But I got the trailer jacked up, the lug nuts loosened, and unbolted the spare.  Traffic flying by at 80 mph is motivation to work quickly and pray hard.  I had to dig out underneath the axle to fit the spare onto the hub.  Good thing I carry a shovel.

Once the tire was changed, I knew not to venture too far without a spare.  I Googled for a tire shop at the next exit (thank you, God, for smart phones), and picked up a new spare.  Back on the road.

I was about forty miles further down the road, when I felt the trailer jerk again.  I looked up and sure enough, another flat on the trailer.  On the right side again!  The spare, which had plenty of tread, had blown.  When I got the truck and trailer stopped, and ventured out to examine the tire, it was shredded, just like the first one.  Was the right side of my trailer cursed?

I Googled tire stores in the next little town, mindful it was twenty minutes till five.  I explained the situation, and the man said he could send someone right out and bring me another tire.  The service man arrived pretty quick, and he had the new spare, bought 40 miles ago, on the trailer in no time (every job is easy if you have the right tools).  Then he popped another new spare on the rim of the shredded tire. 

I knew this man knew more about tires than I did.  I asked him, “What made this tire shred like this?”  I figured whatever caused it, probably caused the last one too.  He smiled because this was not his first rodeo.  He said, “You see this a lot on boat trailers.  People don’t use their boat very much in the winter, then they take it out on a long haul.  When you don’t use it, dry rot sets in.  You probably didn’t notice the small cracks or the tread being brittle.  When a dry rot tire hits the road, it disintegrates like this, because of the pressure and the heat.  Your spare probably had dry rot too.”

His words made me wonder about dry rot of the soul.  Your soul is the sum of your life: your decisions, your thoughts, your feelings, your body, and your relationships.  I think dry rot of the soul happens when you don’t use your soul.  Being self-centered is the first sign of soul dry rot. 

I wonder how many Christians have soul dry rot.  If faith is something a person does not nurture or cultivate, but only calls on in a crisis, is that why people have a faith blow out?  Maybe their faith has not been used enough.  I do not know this for sure, but I think some people who lose their faith have let it sit, unused.  The compound that holds faith together has broken down, like a tire. 

I know going to church (or watching online these days) is not the same as having a relationship with God, but it is one small way to take your soul out for a spin.  Obeying nudges from the Holy Spirit to do acts of kindness, or to speak words of witness, or to speak for those who cannot speak can keep your faith fresh.  If you really want to keep your faith well exercised, try serving the least of these.

In these days, I’ve thought a lot about our nation.  We seem to be going through a national spasm, fed by fears of COVID, financial pressure, and an awaking to the racism that still exists in our country.  I remember 1968, which also felt like a spasm in our history.  These spasm years feel like – well, like a boat trailer jerking and swaying and telling you it is time to get into the emergency lane. 

A nation has a soul, just like a person.  Collectively we make decisions, share thoughts and feelings, and have relationships based on being Americans.  Our nation is a body that expresses its will through our government.  We don’t seem to care about truth or compassion anymore.  We assumed that our Judeo-Christian ethic could be taken for granted, that everyone would respect each other and make an effort to get along.  It’s not happening.  It takes effort to get along.  I think our national self-centeredness has caused dry rot to set in. 

Someone asked me the other day if I thought the turmoil of 2020 was a sign of the end times.  I wish I had thought to say, “I’m not sure, but it may be a sign of a dry rotted soul.”

When Should You Have Church Again?

In the past month I received several emails asking, “When are we going to have church again?”  Some of these inquiries come from folks eager to get back to normal.  They long for the rhythm of Sunday: getting up, getting dressed, singing the songs of faith, hearing God’s word face to face.  Occasionally the message will say something like: “If people can go to Walmart or Lowes, then it should be safe enough for us to have church.”  I’m not sure we can trust Walmart’s or Lowes’ motives are the same as God’s.

I talked to my fellow pastors.  We tried to figure out what data point to use to show us it is safe to gather in the building again.  The problem is there is not a data point specific enough to make that decision for us.  This is the problem with data: it is good at telling you what is happening, but lousy at making decisions.  One of the pastors said, “I think we can’t wait till it is safe enough to remove people’s anxieties.  We will just need to trust God to tell us.”  Amen, brother.

Some church members have informed me they will not return to corporate worship until a vaccine is developed.  They are in the “at-risk” group and do not want to risk exposure.  I respect that.  Every person is responsible for their own health.

I saw one church’s plan for re-gathering.  The writer of the plan must have been in the military.  Every detail, every possibility was spelled out.  However, a German general once said, “No battle plan survives first contact with the enemy.”  Every church that regathers knows a lot more after the first Sunday back than they did before they regathered.

Some of the problem is the way we think about church.  The word translated “church” in the New Testament is “ekklesia.”  It is a verb that means “to gather a group of people to do something.”  When translated over into Old German, they used the word “kirche.”  It is a noun originally meaning “castle” or fortress.”  The word came over into English as “church.”  Maybe this is why we began to associate the word “church” with place.  Maybe this is why some churches regard their building as fortress, a place to be safe from the world.

I know churches that value “place” over “gathering.”  They make idols of their buildings, complete with fifty-page documents detailing how the building is to be used (mostly “not used’).  Funny that Jesus never had his disciples build a building.  When his followers pointed out how wonderful the Temple was, he told them it would torn down.  Jesus was not into buildings for building’s sake.

The answer to the question, “When should I go to church again?” is to be the church right now.  Church is being the body of Christ.  Bodies are designed for action.  We can be the body without a building.  We can love our neighbors.  We can sow masks for medical personnel.  We can call and check on our brothers and sisters in Christ.  We can listen to good teaching of God’s word.  We can even sing songs of faith – you do not need a building, or an organ, or a fog machine to lift up your voice in praise.

Most of all, we can encourage one another.  Jesus followers can remember that we are Easter people.  Our greatest fear is not death.  Our greatest fear is being distant from our leader.  When Paul wrote, “Work out your salvation with fear and trembling, for it is God who works in you to will and to act according to his purpose,” he was telling us no matter what situation we are in, God is at work.  Find where he is at work and join him.

In the Bible the word for “worship” also means “serve.”  Serve God right now.  Do what he wants.  Love the people around you.  Going to a building is good; being church is better.

Burdens…

If you do what I do, people tell you their stories.  Their stories sometimes amaze me, sometimes humble me, and sometimes, their stories break my heart.

A few weeks ago, a man with all his hair and a flat stomach told me a year ago he attempted suicide.  On the outside, he looked so put together.  He was better now, he said, but the darkness still crept up on him.

A man I respect broke down weeping as he talked to me because his wife went to the doctor and heard the word “cancer.”  I always thought this man was the tough type; his tears surprised me.  “I don’t know what I would do without her,” he sobbed. 

I was out walking the dogs and a couple I know drove by.  They stopped and we chatted.  Before I knew it, they were telling me their worries about one of their children and that child’s sexual orientation.  They were struggling: how did they reconcile their faith and the love they had for their child?

A friend of mine, whose skin color happens to be a different color than mine, told me how he worries about his grandson, who just got his driver’s license.  “I’ve told him if he gets stopped to be polite and do what the officer says, but what if something goes wrong?” he says.  “I just don’t know what I would do if I had to bury my grandson because someone else made a mistake.” 

I got an email from a man who read something I wrote.  He told me his story, how both his sons ended their life by suicide.  The heaviness in his heart was in every word.  He told me some days were better than others, but most days were still hard.

It has been over 50 years since she opened the door to the Army officer who brought her news that her son was killed in action in Vietnam.  She’s a small woman, quiet.  Most people don’t know how she mourns the loss of her only child, who died at nineteen, in a flawed war. 

She was weeping on the couch in my office.  Her husband had left her for a younger woman.  She stammered over and over, “What am I going to do?”  She wasn’t talking about raising her kids alone or making ends meet.  She was talking about the dam-busting flood of emotions swirling in her soul.

We passed each other in the hall and I asked, “How are you?”  She said, “Not too good.”  That’s a cue to stop and listen.  Then she told me she had miscarried earlier in the week.  It wasn’t the first time.  “Why can’t I keep a baby?  What’s wrong with me?”

I hear stories like these again and again.  Sometimes I wish I possessed a magic powder that would take away the pain.  I wish I could speak magic words and their burdens could be lifted. Despite what you may have read in Harry Potter, magic isn’t real. 

What I can do is what Jesus did: I can be with them.  When one of Jesus’ friends, Lazarus died, Jesus made the journey to be with his sisters.  Yes, he did the miracle of raising Lazarus from the dead, but before he did that, he let them know he understood their burdens.  He listened to them.  He wept with them.  He was there.  Isn’t that what we need to do?  We don’t need to give answers.  We need to offer help.  Listen.  Be there.

Every person I know carries a burden.  They may not talk about it, or talk about it to you, but it is there.  Before we rush to condemn anyone, we ought to pause and remember they carry a burden.  I’m pretty sure the world would be a better place if we could be selfless enough to remember people carry a heavy load.  Maybe we would gossip less.  Maybe our posts on Facebook wouldn’t be so vicious. 

Peter, one of Jesus’ closest friends, carried burdens.  He betrayed his friend.  He too often said the wrong thing at the wrong time.  In his old age, he wrote these beautiful words, “Cast all your cares upon Him, for He cares for you.”  Peter had discovered that his friend Jesus was there to help him carry his burden.

Whatever burden you carry; Jesus invites you to put the burden on his strong back.  He cares for you, cares enough to carry your burden.

Thank God for New Hope…

The first church I ever knew was my home church, New Hope Baptist Church, Wauchula, Florida.  My earliest memories were of my Aunt Faye feeding us cookies and cool-aid in Sunday School.  Wise woman that she was, she laced our memories of church with sugar, making a grace-filled chemical bond in our brains. 

My friends were all in that class: Mark White, Mark Lambert, Teresa Weeks, Audrey Graham, and Denise Grimsley.  We learned the stories of Bible from pictures sent from Nashville.  After the Bible stories, we got to work puzzles or play with Play-Doh, a marvelous invention, unless your name was Clay.  Early on I was tagged as “Clay-Doh.”  Personality tests I have taken through the years say I am very flexible when it comes to ideas.  I trace that trait back to my childhood nickname. 

After Sunday School, we would go to church.  There was no such thing as “Children’s Church” in those days.  When the hymn books opened, we were supposed to stand and sing, though none of us could read.  For some reasons, the song leader would call out “Let’s sing verses 1, 2 and 4.”  I never sang the third verse of hymn until I went to college. 

When the preacher got up to preach, we were expected to be quiet.  It’s hard to be quiet when you are only four or five.  Once, Mark White and I were looking through a Bible and came upon a picture of Abraham sacrificing Isaac.  Isaac was naked, except for a strategically placed sheet.  Five-year-old boys find naked people funny.  We started to giggle.  We knew it was wrong to giggle in church, but some things make giggles grow.  We laughed out loud and I received from my mother a pinch that would flatten barb wire.  My mother had not read Dr. Spock’s theories on child punishment.  Her pinch stopped my giggles.  In the front yard of the church, in full view of the church body, I received one of the strongest “whippings” of my life.  I have never laughed at a picture of a mostly naked man in church since.

In those days we had church on Sunday nights, to prove we were more pious than the Methodists and Presbyterians.  Backsliders would stay home and watch “Bonanza” or “The Ed Sullivan Show.”  But Sunday night were usually better than Sunday mornings, because I would get to sit next to Mama Cat, who always had some candy in her purse for bored little boys.  What was even better was after church when the adults would stand around and talk.  We kids would play tag (this was before smart-phones took away childhood).  I was chasing Harold Lambert one night and swallowed a stink bug.  I went to tell Mama and she told me, “Don’t you dare throw up.”  It was a threat of self-preservation – she had a weak stomach.  There was something in her voice that told me it was better to digest than expel.  I’ve heard about people stranded on deserted islands eating bugs to survive.  If I am ever on a deserted island and bugs are my only option, I will die.  One bug was enough for a lifetime.

Childhood does not last forever.  When I was teen-ager, New Hope had a youth Sunday.  The youth led the service, and I was the preacher.  It takes a lot of grace for aunts and uncles to listen to a sixteen-year-old berate them about their sins.  I didn’t know it at the time, but the older you get, the options for sin you have.

One summer, New Hope let me be a summer intern to work with the youth.  I wasn’t very good at it, but they gave that most precious gift, the gift of experience.  Experts say you need 10,000 hours of doing something before you get good at it.  My first hours of teaching Sunday School, preaching, even leading the singing (I would make everyone sing the third verse), happened at New Hope.

When the time came for me to be ordained as a Minister of the Gospel, it was New Hope that laid hands on me and whispered blessings in my ears.  My brother and sister got married at New Hope.  My father, mother, and step-father had their funerals at New Hope.  There are twelve stained glass windows given in honor or memory of folks.  I kin to most of them.

Across the road from church is the cemetery.  My father, mother, grandparents, two sets of great-grandparents, uncles, aunts, and more cousins than you can shake a stick at are buried there.  My New Hope roots run pretty deep.

I’m going home this week to speak at New Hope’s 140th anniversary.  To invited is more than an honor.  It’s a sacred duty.  Whether you realize it or not, everyone has spiritual roots.  Somewhere along the line, someone gave and sacrificed to help you have a spiritual foundation.  The people of New Hope did that for me.  I thank God for them.

People I will not meet until I am in heaven started a church 140 years ago.  They believed.  They gave.  Their faith seeped into my soul and has carried me a long way in my journey.  They named their church New Hope.  Isn’t that what Jesus really brings?

Church is Family When…

Church is family when a wife is sitting by herself in a crowded waiting room.  Her husband is having serious surgery 180 miles from home.  A familiar voice calls her name.  It belongs to a member of her small group from church, who made the drive just to sit with her through the nerve-wracking moments.

Church is family when that man who had surgery and his wife get back home and find their yard mowed.  It turns out someone from church came by and mowed it for them.

Church is family when a young couple, far from home, needs someone to keep the kids so they can have simple evening out on the town.  A kind grandmother from church volunteers to keep their precious treasures and refuses to be paid because she remembers what is was like when she was young, far from home, and had no money.

Church is family when two men stay after a church meeting just talking over the bed of a pickup truck.  One is talking out his troubles at work.  The other man is listening, not really offering advice, just nodding, understanding, just being there.

Church is family when that family that hasn’t been to church in two years shows back up one Sunday. No one says, “’Bout time you came back to church.”  Instead, there are smiles, handshakes, and “Good to see you this morning” is spoken to them over and over.

Church is family when information is shared in a group that could easily turn into gossip, but instead the small group decides this information is a call to prayer.

Church is family when gathered for a covered dish dinner.  Everyone shares what they have.  All cooks are not created equal, but all desserts are consumed.

Church is family when a group of church folks make sure a child is picked up from school each day.  The parents can’t because the Mom works and the Dad has a brain tumor.  No one from the church misses their day because it’s a small worry they can take off this family’s plate.

Church is family when a group of women get together and decide to give a baby shower for a pregnant teenager.  They know she’s already endured shame; they want to smother her with grace.

Church is family when an older couple, whose children live across the country, are invited to join another family for Christmas dinner.  It’s the first time in many years they’ve had the thrill of watching presents opened on Christmas morning.

Church is family when a pastor shows up to pray with a couple who were just awarded permanent custody of their foster child.  Everyone is rejoicing and thanking God and the pastor wants to be part of the joy.

Church is family when two retired nurses sit in a teepee during Vacation Bible School to hand out Bandaids to children young enough to be their great-grandchildren.  They’re there because they love the noise of children running through the building.  “It makes the place alive,” they say.

Church is family when after church, one church members backs into another church member’s car.  The backer profusely apologizes and the backee smiles and says, “Don’t worry.  I’ve got insurance. It’s all okay.”

Church is family when a group realizes one member won’t have much of a Christmas for their kids. They gather a bunch of cash together and slide the envelope under the front door of that family.  The Mom thinks the money must have been brought by a angel.  In a way, it was.

Church is family when an older man puts his hand on the shoulder of young man just beginning his career and says, “Young man, I just want you to know I believe you have what it takes.”  In the tough days ahead, that young man remembers those words over and over.

Everyone of these stories is true.  I’ve seen them.  When church is family, it’s at its best.  These are not the kind of stories that make the front page of the paper, or go viral.  But they are the kinds of stories that change the world. 

Church is family when we do one simple thing: Love one another as Jesus loved us.  That simple. 

The Church that Didn’t Need Money

Once upon a time, there was a church that didn’t need money.  It happened like this:

A group of men gathered under the old oak tree that sheltered the little church.  One of them, Earl, spat on the ground and then offered his judgment: “I’m tired of the preacher preaching on money all the time.  That’s all he talks about!  Seems to me like he ought to talk about the Bible a little more and money a little less.”

“That’s right,” said Calvin.  “Why he just preached on tithing… when was it?  Back in November?   I reckon if he didn’t live so high on the hog, running the air conditioner in the parsonage all the time, he wouldn’t be so money hungry.”

“Now fellows, it takes money to run a church.  A church is like a business you know,” said Doyle.  “What we’ve got to do is figure out a way to cut expenses.”

“Why don’t we start with the preacher?” asked Ray.  “We cut his salary and we could save – what do we pay him? Twenty-five thousand?  Man, that’s pretty good wages for only working two hours a week!”  Every man laughed at that tired joke.

“Who’ll we get to preach?” inquired Doyle.

“Who says we need a sermon?  We could just gather up on Sunday, sing a few songs, make the announcements, have someone read a devotion, and have a closing prayer.  We’d get out early for change.  Might even beat the Methodists to the Cracker Barrel,” said Earl.

“You know, we could cut out Sunday night church, too.  It’s nothing but a bunch of old women and kids that come anyway.  You know what the light bill must be for Sunday nights?  I’ll bet you it costs a hundred bucks to run them big overhead lights in the sanctuary.  All we’re doing is making the electric-coop rich.”  All the men nodded at Calvin’s wisdom about the high cost of running the lights.

“You know I bet we could cut out a lot of things,” said Ray.  “Why do we keep sending money to missionaries.  Everybody in the world can watch TV now.  There ain’t no need to send somebody over there.  If folks want to find about Jesus, all they have to do is watch TV.  And we don’t need to send the kids to camp.  If parents today would take a belt to their hind ends like I did with my young’uns, they wouldn’t need no camp.  Let the parents teach ‘em at home.  That’s what my Daddy always said.”

“During Vacation Bible School, all I heard was the women gripe and complain,” offered Calvin.  We could cancel that and save a bunch of money.”

Silent Fred had been listening the whole time, but he finally spoke up: “We ought to stop buying those Sunday School books.  I’ve been telling people for years all we need is Bible.  If we stopped buying all those fancy video courses we could save enough to fix that leak in the roof.”

The talk went on for another hour or so and the men laid out their plan: Fire the preacher, cut out Sunday night church, cut out ministries to children and youth, stop sending money to missionaries, and stop buying church studies.  The way those men figured, the church could operate on about 20% of the current budget.

Over the objections of some folks (especially the preacher), they put their plan into action.  At first, it seemed like everything was the same, except for no Sunday night church.  Attendance was down a little bit, but the bank account was growing.  It didn’t take them long to cut out the devotional reading on Sunday, but everyone seemed happy that church was only lasting thirty minutes.   A couple of families with young children left, but the men figured they didn’t give much anyway. 

Then a couple of more families left.  The men couldn’t understand why.  Calvin went to talk to one of them and was told the church felt like it was dying.  He reported this to his friends under the oak tree and they all agreed that family was a bad influence anyway.

In about a year, the church was down to Earl and his wife, Calvin and his wife, Ray (whose wife quite coming to church with him and went to a church in town) and Fred (he had never married).  Doyle and his family had stopped attending; they weren’t going anywhere.  The men still talked under the old oak tree, but they assured themselves that everything was fine; the church had all the money it needed.

One year later, a realtor hammered down a sign in front of the church:  For Sale.  Zoned Commercial. 

If a church doesn’t want to do ministry, it doesn’t need money at all.

Church Is …

As far back as I can remember, I knew God wanted me to be a preacher. “Preacher” was synonymous with “Pastor,” but we were never that formal at Route 1, Zolfo Springs, FL.  I knew what I was supposed to be, but I did not know where. 

We lived in suburban Lemon Grove (urban Lemon Grove had Graham’s Store; suburban Lemon Grove meant you could not see another house from your porch).  We attended church seven miles away in Popash, a country crossroads that used to have a school, but now just had a church and a country store that kept going out of business.  I’m not sure why, but in my five-year-old mind, I decided Lemon Grove needed a church. 

I knew Popash needed a church, because there were apparently a lot of sinners there.  The preacher at New Hope Church talked about them constantly.  Sinners apparently stayed home from church on Sunday nights watching “Bonanza,” went to dances, drove up to the County Line (it would be years before I understood “The County Line” did not refer to a political boundary but a liquor store), and snuck over to the theater in Sebring to watch non-wholesome, non-Disney movies. 

I didn’t understand all that the preacher at New Hope talked about, but I was aware of sin in Lemon Grove.  My brother Steve was the source of most the sin I knew about.  In reality, he was simply performing “big brother” duty.  But he was mean to me, bossing me around, telling me I was adopted, and generally being annoying.  Having a church in Lemon Grove meant I could preach to my brother and label his sins for all the world to condemn. 

We owned a piece of land on the dirt road that met our house.  It was covered with palmettos, tall pines, and blackjack oaks.  I decided that was the perfect place to build my church. 

I announced this to my mother, my sister, and my brother.  I left out the part about being able to preach hell and fire (“damnation” sounded too much like a cuss word and I was afraid I’d get my mouth washed out with soap).  They smiled indulgently.  My mother said something like “You’d better start gathering bricks now.”

At age five, I started collecting bricks.  There were always a few to be uncovered down at the barn.  Once, I took one from my Aunt Mildred’s flower bed.  I got a whipping and was told never to take something that didn’t belong to me.  Bricks were harder to come by in those days.

I wasn’t sure how many bricks I needed; I could only count to a hundred.  One day I tried to count the bricks on the building at New Hope and I ran out of numbers before I ran out of bricks.  Building my own church was going to be a lot harder than I thought.

Of course, I never built my own church building.  But for years, we referred to that twenty acres as “the land where Clay is going to build his church.”  Even when I went off to college, the land was still uncleared.  Finally, economic reality set in.  Pop cleared the land and set an orange grove there (any old-timer will tell you blackjack oaks and palmettos make for a fine orange grove). 

Somewhere along the way a different idea began to take hold in my soul.  Church wasn’t a building.  I learned church was people.  You could have a church without a building, but you couldn’t have a church without people. 

Then I learned that definition was incomplete as well.  Church wasn’t just a group of people.  Church was supposed to be a group of people gathered to do something for Jesus.  Church is a movement.

I’ve sat in meeting after meeting and heard people say, “Church is a business.”  Wrong.  Businesses exist to serve owners.  Churches exist to change the world with Good News.  If a church doesn’t make Jesus its focus, it loses its power.  It becomes an institution, centered on maintaining the building and keeping everyone happy.

About a hundred churches close each week in North America.  My hunch is somewhere along the way, folks forgot church is a movement.  Church is a group of people who share the adventure of following Jesus and telling the Good News of God’s love as they follow him.  The building is just a tool to help the movement.

How do you make sure your church is a movement?  It starts with you.  Do you want the church to focus on you?  Or do you want the church to focus on Jesus?  Your answer either makes the church a pile of bricks and sticks, or makes it a movement that has the power to change the world.  Your choice.

The Frog…

One Easter, some friends with small children came over to the house.  While the adults talked, the kids ran around the back yard and stuck their feet in the pool.   

Believe it or not, kids do not need something with electrons to entertain themselves.  They found a frog.  Pools and frogs go together.

The frog was scooped out of the water and carefully examined.  One little girl hugged it tight against her chest, like you hug a baby doll.  Never, however, have I seen a baby doll’s eyes bug out like the frog’s. 

Her elder brother snatched the frog away from her and said, “Let’s see if we can make it hop.”  They sat the frog down on the ground.  The frog wobbled a little bit, a little dizzy from all the human interaction.  They poked the frog with a twig, and he would hop.  If you want to see an example of human depravity, watch preschoolers make a frog hop.  Drunk with power, they made the frog jump around the patio for about ten minutes.  At this point, I began to think the frog was in need of post traumatic stress counseling. 

Frogs, of course, know the feeling of being airborne when they hop.  A couple of the older kids began to wonder if frogs could fly.  One of the smallest girls snatched the frog away from her brother, and threw it up in the air.  I think she wanted the frog to sprout wings. 

Frogs do not sprout wings.  They do land, however, with a sickening thud because little girls do not always have the best eye to hand coordination.

Two of the older boys decided to play catch.  With the frog.  They started under-handed, but quickly moved to overhanded pitching.  I’m no expert on frog body language, but as the frog passed by me for the eleventh time, his facial expression was a cry for help.

After a few more minutes of play, the frog was set on the concrete where he lay silently.  One of the children said, “I think he’s dead.”  I couldn’t blame him.  Amongst eight little hands, dying was the preferred option. 

What do you do with a dead frog?  One of the children said, with some enthusiasm in his voice, “Let’s bury him!”   Since I was the only pastor present, they ran to me with their request: “Pastor Clay, will you do a funeral for the frog?”

Funeral for a frog:

               Processional – “Jeremiah was a Bullfrog”

Scripture – Exodus 8:6 – “So Aaron stretched out his hand over the waters of Egypt and frogs came up and covered the land.”

               Remarks – “He was a Prince of a Guy until He Croaked”

                              1.  He overcame his tadpole ways

                              2.  He lifted up his song every evening

                              3.  Sure he had warts, but don’t we all

                              4.  It was always tempting to pull his leg and fry it

               Postlude – “It Ain’t Easy Being Green”

Just as I was getting up to get the shovel and conduct my first frog funeral, the frog, having momentarily been left alone, gave a mighty leap off the concrete.  Four quick hops and he made it into the flower bed and safety. 

The children cried because they had been denied a frog funeral.  I am sure the frog made his way to whatever constitutes an emergency room in the frog world.  I can imagine explaining his experience to the doctors (frogtors?) and his family: “I was minding my own business when the devil got ahold of me.  He squeezed me, made do his devil’s dance, and then, I flew through the air without hoping!  I was left for dead, but I stayed still until they were distracted and I hopped to safety.”

When I think about that afternoon, I think about the church.  Not just my church, but every church where Jesus is preached and God’s work is done.   You can squeeze the church, abuse the church, try to make the church do a few tricks.  You can even take delight in planning the church’s funeral.  Just when you think the church is dead, God breathes some life into her and she keeps hopping.  The church may be ugly, but kissed with the grace of Jesus, she is a princess, a bride.  The church is a frog kissed with grace of God, warts and all.

Before you give up on the frog that is the church, you might want to check yourself for warts.  I’ll bet you have a few.  That means you will fit right in at church.

Once Upon a Time, There Was a Church…

Once upon a time there was a group of folks in country who wanted to have a place to worship God.  The nearest church to them was miles away and across the river.  Just about everyone in their area farmed.  Sunday did not mean chores went away; they were just fewer in number.  Cows still needed to be milked, wood stoves heated up, and livestock fed.  These farm families would then have just an hour or two to hitch up their horses to a buggy and make it to a gathering place for worship.

One neighbor talked to another neighbor, and they decided to not just talk; they set a date to meet.  In a couple of weeks, they would gather at a clearing in the woods, and start a church.  A cousin of one of the farmers was a preacher; they invited him to bring the first sermon.

Anticipation and joy were thick in the air on the first Sunday of meeting.  Several of the teenagers had never been to a worship service.  The adults had trouble remembering the last time they worshipped together.  Of course, there were no hymnals.  The preacher stood on a stump and thundered forth for an hour – there was a lot of Bible to cover to make up for lost time.

After the worship, baskets were uncovered to reveal cold fried chicken and biscuits.  Neighbor shared with neighbor.  One family brought a jug of molasses which was liberally poured over bird and biscuit. 

Around two in the afternoon, the children were told to go play in the woods.  The adults voted on a name for the embryonic church.  An offering was received.  The man who owned the woods agreed to donate that plot to the new gathering.  The men agreed to gather the next Saturday and raise a brush arbor – a stack of thick limbs leaned up against poles to provide a little shelter.  In two weeks, they would come back and have services again.  They hollered for the children to come out of the woods, sang more songs, and heard another sermon.  Then, they set out for home, before darkness closed in, getting back in time to feed up and milk.

Two weeks later, they gathered under the brush arbor.  More people came out this time.  The pattern was established – singing, preaching, eating, business, singing, preaching and a journey home.  New folks came every meeting.

After a few years and storms, the brush arbor gave way to frame building, which was too small on the day they finished it. Rooms were added onto the back.  The preacher moved on; another one was found.  A mission offering was collected: $12.37.  That was big money in those days.  They sent the offering to Nashville.

It took fifty years, and a dozen preachers for the church to decide to have services every week, instead of every other week.  By then, there were holes in the floor of the old frame building that let the winter drafts chill everyone’s feet.  Some people were not even coming in horse and buggy anymore; they rattled up to church in Model T Fords.

The church nearly split over whether to build a new brick building.  Some of the old-timers were so attached to the memories in the old building, they couldn’t bear the thought of leaving it.  Others were anxious to have warmer feet.  The vote to build carried and the new brick church was built.  The old frame church was moved away to become someone’s hay barn.

By now the church had a Sunday School and a choir.  There were committees and deacons, but everyone knew that three families really ran the church.  Some people were fine with that; others resented they weren’t in control.  Squabbles would break out in church business meetings over silly issues, like the color of carpet that should be purchased.  The real issues were avoided.

Preachers came and went.  Now, instead of the kids growing up and farming down the road, they went off to the University and got a job in town or in the city.  No one noticed that congregation was growing grayer and moving slower.  Two of the patriarchs died within a month of each other.  All of a sudden, the church had trouble paying its bills.  “All we seem to have any more are funerals,” was the remark of those who had grown up in the church.  “I remember when we had so many young’uns we couldn’t fit them in the nursery,” was the wistful reply.  The church seemed to be living more and more in the past. No one farmed anymore.  Most folks had five acres, a garden, and a social security check that arrived every month. 

One pastor left after only twenty-four months.  The three remaining deacons realized they could no longer pay a full-time minister.  They found a retired pastor who preached, visited in the hospital, and didn’t do much else except check his direct deposit stub.  When he died, the church was down to twelve people in a building designed for three hundred. 

The church held a meeting.  The average age of those present was seventy-eight.  They talked, they cried, and they voted to close.  They put their building up for sale and dispersed to different churches in town.

What happened?  Was it the natural life cycle of a church?  Or did they forget their church started because people had a hope, a faith that God would do something?  Did they gradually shift their focus to their comfort instead of their mission?  Did they stop trying to do something bold and instead do something safe?

The building was bought by a multi-ethnic Pentecostal church meeting in the old closed country store.  They prayed, they sacrificed, and they gave.  The day that small group of people gathered in the old brick building, their hearts were filled with hope, with faith, that God was going to do something, something more than they could ask or think.

Are we living as people of memory?  Or are we living as people of hope?

Shadow Mission

People in church can get upset at the craziest things.  A lady pulled me aside once, whispering she had something important to tell me.  My mind flashed through worse case scenarios: she had cancer; a deacon had passed out, a car in the parking lot was on fire.  With deep conviction, she told me she had seen one of our staff members walking around in BLUE JEANS!  She knew I would want to know and speak to him.  It was a molehill turned into a mountain.

A pastor friend of mine was verbally attacked in his office for having the staff read a book.  An immature man told him he was undermining the legacy of his father and grandfather in the church.  How does reading a book threaten your family history?  Besides, I thought church was supposed to be about Jesus and his will, not a dead relative’s legacy.

Pastors can do crazy things too.  A youth pastor got up and told his church that if they didn’t worship the way he did, with loud guitar riffs, skinny jeans, and hands held high, they weren’t real Christians.  Didn’t Jesus say something about judge not, lest you be judged?

Years ago, an older pastor got upset with me in a meeting when I suggested the methods of the past may not work anymore.  He accused me of being a liberal heathen (I’m not, I’m a Florida Gator).  He believed we needed two-week revivals, more Stamps-Baxter music, and a sermon every week on how we were all in danger of hell.   I didn’t know how to tell him the pace of life has changed; the average age of people buying Stamps-Baxter music was 75; and, while hell is important to talk about, there were other subjects in the Bible that needed to be taught.  He was praying for the 1930’s (the years of his childhood) to come back.  I was 100% sure 1935 was not going to pop up on the calendar again.

One man pulled me aside and told me, “Preacher, we don’t need to reach any more people until we take care of the people we have.”  As lovingly as I could, I told him I thanked God the people of the church didn’t feel that way, or else we would have never reached him when he was far from God.  Jesus told us to love each other, sure, but he also commanded us to go make disciples.

Someone else asked me not too long ago if I thought another church’s growth hurt our church.  “No,” I replied, “last time I checked we were under the same ownership.  Our competition is not the church down the street, it’s everything else that pulls people away from God.”  When any church wins, God’s Kingdom wins.  It’s not a competition. 

I believe every church has a mission from God, a unique reason God made it to exist.  God may gift one church to grow large, gift another church to stay small but be a faithful witness in an under-served area, and gift a third church to reach a slice of people that everyone else ignores.  Most churches, however, never do the hard work of discovering their unique role in God’s kingdom.

Instead, churches are tempted by shadow missions.  A shadow mission is when your true mission is derailed, not by something bad, but by something that is pretty good.  It’s good to want to respect God, but wearing blue jeans is not a sin.  Getting upset by new ideas means forgetting to ask, “Does this new idea help us accomplish our mission?”  Condemning other people for the way they worship makes the style of worship more important than the God we worship.  Clinging to old ways can be an idol.  We can spend so much time loving each other, we forget to love the least of these; we can forget to love those far from God.

Long before management gurus discovered the idea of mission, Jesus gave his church a clear mission: “Go, make disciples, of all peoples, baptizing them in the name of the Father, and of the Son, and the Holy Spirit, teaching them to obey all I have commanded you.  I am with you all the time, even to end of the days (Matthew 28:19-20).”  The mission of the church is to make disciples – people who live their lives like Jesus; seems clear to me.  If a church puts anything above that, it’s a shadow mission.

Jesus promised he would be with us each day as we do his mission.  Many churches seem to lack the power of Jesus.  I wonder if those churches are doing a shadow mission Jesus wants no part of. 

That last thought makes me pray, “Father, keep your church on mission.”

Beyond the Walls…

I grew up in New Hope Baptist Church, Route 2, Wauchula, Florida.  Like many a Southerner, white and black, the walls of church were a comfort to me. 

For starters, the church was air-conditioned; our house was not.  To step into the sanctuary from the blazing Florida heat was like stepping into grace.  As a squirmy four-year-old, I heard the preacher thunder that hell was hot and I believed him: I had already survived four Florida summers. I made the connection early: heaven was air-conditioned, just like church.

Church was not just like family, it was family.  Just about everyone within those walls could trace their lineage back to where it crossed (or at least brushed up against) everyone else’s.  Out of boredom one Sunday, I decided to figure out who in the choir I wasn’t related to.  There was one person: the preacher’s wife.

I loved the hymns we sang.  “Love Lifted Me” was my favorite, maybe because of the chorus: “When nothing else could help, love lifted me!”  Back then, people sang out, even people who couldn’t carry a tune.  A hundred and fifty voices bouncing off those walls lifted your soul.

I remember sermons on missions.  When Valda Long, a missionary to Nigeria, a native of our county, came to speak, everyone dug a little deeper in their pockets and pocketbooks to support her.  However, we didn’t have any sermons on witnessing that I remember.  I guess we thought we didn’t need them.  We knew everyone who didn’t go to church in the great Popash – Lemon Grove area.  We figured they knew where the church was and what time we started (11:00 AM, of course).  Besides, we would pray for them during revival time and invite them to hear the guest preacher.  We didn’t see much need to go beyond the walls.

That world I grew up in is gone, even in Wauchula.  I’m not sure it ever really existed.  We could pretend it did when the United States had a “churched” culture.  A “churched” culture is when everyone knows they are supposed to be in church, whether they go or not.  A “churched” culture is when people believe the Bible is true (“The Bible says…”), even if they don’t live by it.  A “churched” culture is when everyone agrees on “right” and “wrong.”  All we had to do was stay in the walls of church and let people come to us.

There are still churches that try to live behind their walls.  They build their own schools and their own fitness centers so people are able to stay in a church bubble.  I know of some churches that even have their own restaurants.  This is church as a fortress, inviting people to come and do life together, away from the dirt of the world. 

Jesus, the one who is the head of the church, didn’t spend a lot of time behind the walls.  He was out with people.  The more non-religious the people, the more he seemed to like them.  Messy people didn’t scare him.  The religious establishment, the people behind the walls, were threatened by him.  Ultimately, they killed him.  No wonder Jesus went beyond the walls.

After Jesus’ death and resurrection, he gave his disciples one final instruction: Go.  He did not tell them to build walls to huddle behind.  He did not even tell them to be a family.  He told them to go.

New Hope Church, which I love, is still a place of comfort for me.  The people of that church did and still do many things right.  What we did not do in those days was “go.”  We wanted to stay behind the walls.

Church isn’t church if it stays behind the walls, Jesus told us to go beyond them.  Out beyond the walls, there are people who need to hear some good news.  Out beyond the walls, there are people who need hope.  Out beyond the walls, there are people who need to know that when nothing else will help, love will lift them.  Out beyond the walls, there are people who need Jesus.

It is time for the church to go beyond the walls.  Will you go?

Old Times There Are Not Forgotten…

When my mother and step-father married, we moved off the ranch and lived in Largo, Florida, where I went to high school.  Largo was home to the Band of Gold, perhaps the finest high school band ever to exist in this country.  We won five National Championships, a World Championship, and so many state championships we literally ran out of wall space to display the trophies.  For the twelve years Bob Cotter was the director, the Band of Gold was a musical force.

From the first time I heard the Band, I wanted to be in it.  I learned to play trumpet, then French Horn.  When I finally put on the shimmering gold shirt, I knew I belonged to something bigger than myself.  One man playing a French Horn could make a sound; one hundred and fifty people could make a tidal wave of sound.   

We didn’t just play at high school football games; we played at Miami Dolphin games and did half-time at the very first Tampa Bay Buccaneer’s game.  My senior year, we played a University of Florida Gator game at Tampa Stadium.  One of our songs was the theme from “Jaws.”  The Gator cheerleaders asked us to play it over and over.  That’s right: the Band of Gold originated the famous Gator “chomp.”

I don’t mean to throw other high school bands under the bus, but we were drilled in the fundamentals of marching and music.  It showed.  We marched in step.  Ever notice how the TV cameras will always focus on the one kid out of step in the band?  They never found “that guy” in the Band of Gold.  We played in tune.  For the non-musical among you, that meant we sounded like one instrument though we were one hundred and fifty different instruments. There were lots of different sounds making one song.

Playing in the band meant you didn’t really hear the music; you heard the echo off the stadium.  You never saw the show; you saw the impact.  I don’t remember ever performing and not receiving a standing ovation.  At the World Music Contest in Holland, I remember the standing ovation went on for fifteen minutes.  Nothing else in my life has ever been quite like it.

I realize now, the Band of Gold and Mr. Cotter, the director, taught me a lot about church.  When you are doing church – I mean really doing it – you don’t see what it looks like.  You can see people’s reaction to church, you can hear the cheers and boos, you can hear the echoes, but you don’t get the true picture when you are part of the movement of Jesus.

There is, however, something powerful, something beyond ourselves, when we join with others to have impact.  We can meet the needs of our community with a tidal wave of grace.  People will stand up and notice when we are in step and in tune.  When church sticks to the fundamentals – loving Jesus, loving each other, and loving God’s world – there is a power that overwhelms doubt and difference. 

I went back recently for the Fiftieth Anniversary of the founding of the Band of Gold and the Fortieth Anniversary of the World Championship.  We gathered to remember and celebrate old times that are not forgotten.  They showed old videos of field shows, and I saw the impact we made. 

Maybe that is part of Heaven: there, we will actually see the impact of our churches.  Which makes me wonder: Will we see the impact of the unified body of Christ, bringing grace to a hurting world?  Or will we see the feeble attempts of a group of people doing their own thing, playing their own tune, putting Jesus’ name on it, and calling it a church?

Is it time for you to get in step and in tune?