2020 Snuck Up On Me…

The headline jarred me: “The NBA All-Decade Team.”  I’m not a big NBA fan; it was the “All-Decade” part that threw me.  Somehow my brain had not absorbed we were marking the end of a decade.  I knew we were changing from 2019 to 2020, but it doesn’t seem like ten years have passed.

I think my confusion is justified.  When I was little, I watched a cartoon called The Jetsons.  According to that cartoon, by 2020 we’d all be living in the clouds, have flying cars, and robot maids.  Roombas do not count as maids.  In 1965 James Bond had his own jetpack.  I’m still waiting for mine.  I pretty sure 1965 was the same year Lyndon Johnson declared war on poverty.  That war has lasted a long time. 

Growing up in the sixties, science had all the answers.  After all, science and engineering put a man on the moon.  We were told by 2020 disease would be wiped out and people would be living on Mars.  Only in the movies. 

We’ve made some progress.  When I tell my children about writing a computer program for a college class and having to use punch cards, they ask, “What’s a punch card?”  Computers were the size of cars and had reels of tape.  My first computer was portable; it weighed thirty-four pounds.  The last computer I bought weighs three pounds.  It is easier to carry.

I got my first cell phone in 1994.  The church had a business meeting to decide if I needed one.  My cell phone was the size of a shaving kit, stuffed.  I marveled that I could drive and talk on the phone at the same time.  Who knew in 2020 we’d be saying, “Hold on just a minute, I want to take a picture” and then whip out our phones?

Not all progress is good.  When I grew up, supper was home cooked every night because fast food only applied to something running faster than you could shoot.  Mama used to make cat-head biscuits (if you don’t know what a cat-head biscuit is, ask your grandpa).  All the biscuits in our house now come in tubes labeled “Pillsbury.”  My Aunt Neta used to make the best chicken and dumplings you ever tasted.  She had no recipe.  When a granddaughter asked her how she made them, her directions started with, “Go out to the chicken coop and grab a hen…”  “Fresh” had a different meaning back then.

Church has changed too.  We didn’t need microphones for the preacher in those days.  Preachers of the Baptist flavor preached at the decibel level of a jet engine.  Even Methodist preachers of that era thundered like a Peterbilt diesel cranking on a cold morning.  Now we have a “Sound Man” and even the smallest churches must have a screen and a video projector.  Imagine how effective Jesus would have been if he’d had PowerPoint. 

When I started as a pastor, if someone was having surgery, we’d have special prayer.  I’d be there to pray before the surgery, stay through the surgery, and hear the Doctor’s report of the surgery.  Surgery was touch and go in those days.  Recently a member of my church had a heart attack; he was airlifted to Columbia, had three stents put in, and came home the next day with a scar on his wrist (I’m still trying to figure why working on your heart means you have a scar on your wrist).  I asked him why he didn’t call me.  He said, “I didn’t want to bother you, it was minor.”

Revivals were two-week meetings when the lost were saved, the saved were stirred, and the preacher got a break.  Vacation Bible School lasted two weeks as well.  When I was a young pastor and suggested we cut VBS to one-week, you’d have thought I suggested devil worship.  We not only had church Sunday morning, we went Sunday night too.  Now revivals have just about died out, VBS is down to four nights, and Sunday services are fading fast.

Music changed too.  I still remember the first time I heard a guitar in church; I thought it was a sign of the Apocalypse.  When we decided to use drums in worship at the church I serve, we sat them on stage for a month before we ever played them.  Today, thought, there are young people who think you can’t worship the Lord if the fog machine is broken.

A new decade is coming, unless, of course, Jesus comes first.  Whatever your expectations are about the future, they are probably wrong.  Instead of trying to predict what will change, maybe you should focus on the One who does not change.  There is an old gospel song that says it well, “I know not what the future holds, but I know who holds the future.”

Welcome, 2020.  The God who led me through The Jetsons, the moon shoot, Richard Nixon, disco, Jimmy Carter, Reganomics, “No new taxes,” the saga of Bill and Hillary, 9-11, Obamacare, and Trump tweets leads me still.  He not only holds the future, he holds me too.

Be Anxious for Nothing…

Be anxious for nothing…

“Excuse me Lord, but I don’t think that’s possible.  You see, I have Christmas breathing down my neck, I don’t know how I will afford Santa this year, and on top of that, my in-laws are coming for two weeks over Christmas break.  And Lord, besides that, they’ve asked me to volunteer for the church Christmas play.  I’m supposed to wear my old bathrobe and be Joseph.  They told me I don’t have to say anything, just stand there and look holy.”

 Be anxious for nothing…

 “Lord, I wasn’t quite finished with my prayer.  My wife has been really moody the past couple of days.  Jesus, I wish she would get off my back – Oops, sorry Lord.  Plus, my boss is on me about closing that Palmer deal before the end of the year.  He keeps telling me to push harder.  I’m telling him if I push too hard, I’ll lose the deal.”

 Be anxious for nothing…

 “Lord, you keep interrupting me.  I’ve got this weird pain in my back.  I went to the doctor and he told me I need to cut down on the carbs and exercise.  Right.  How am I supposed to do that?  Most of the time I only have time to go through the drive-through at Chik-Fil-A.  Who has time to go to the gym?  Doc said if I would lose about thirty pounds the pain in my back would go away.  I try but it’s hard.”

 Be anxious for nothing…

 “Lord, are you a broken record today or what?  I’m telling you all my troubles and all you can say is ‘Be anxious for nothing…’  Where does that even come from? Oh right, from the Bible.  Yeah, I haven’t been reading my Bible.  I mean, I mean to.  I tried to get up early one morning and fell back asleep.  Then I tried to read it at night and feel asleep.  Seems like all I do is fall asleep.”

 Be anxious for nothing…

 “Lord, I can’t just turn it off.  How can anyone stop being anxious?  How do I stop letting my mind race around and around? Sure, I don’t like being this way, but what do you expect me to do?”

 Be anxious for nothing…

 “Okay Lord, I get the message.  You want me not to be anxious.  I guess I better find what the rest of that verse says.  Thank God – I mean – thank you for Google.  Here it is.  Philippians 4:6: ‘Be anxious for nothing, but in everything, with prayer and petition, with Thanksgiving, present your requests to God.’  Hmm.  So I’m supposed to pray my anxieties?  Is that it?  Wait.  Verse 7 looks interesting: ‘And the peace of God, which passes all understanding will guard your hearts and your minds in Christ Jesus.’  So if I pray, I will get peace?  Is that what I’m supposed to do?”

 Be anxious for nothing…

“Okay, I’ll try it.  Father, let’s start with the bills.  Please let me win the lottery.  No, that doesn’t sound right.  Lord, I’m struggling financially.  Give me wisdom.  Give us ideas for the kids that don’t cost too much.  Give me patience as I deal with my in-laws.  And God, I’m just not comfortable on stage.  Is it okay to turn down the church?  I feel more peace not doing it than doing it.  Give my wife some peace.  Give us laughter.  Help us count our blessings, not our stresses.  I’ll have to trust that Palmer deal to you Lord.  God give me strength not to eat when I’m anxious.  If you gave David power over Goliath, you can give me power over food.  Heal my back pain.  I know I need to spend more time with you – hey, Lord, it just dawned on me, I can read my Bible during my morning break at work.  And Lord, give me peace.  You know Lord, I feel better.  Thank you.  Maybe you’re teaching me something.  Put stuff in your hands and stop pretending I am you.  Wow.  Thanks for being a God big enough to hold me. Okay.  In Jesus name, Amen.” 

 “Be anxious for nothing…  I really need to remember that verse Lord.  Thanks.”

 You’re welcome.

What Will Thanksgiving Be?

Thanksgiving for me is our extended family gathering in the woods.  The tradition started in 1937.  My grandfather, Henry W. Smith, had died in that year of the Great Depression.  Granny Smith did not want to have the Thanksgiving meal in the house, so the family gathered outside on the banks of the Buckhorn Creek.  You can do that in November if you live in Florida.

After the creek flooded one year, they moved to a grove of black-jack oaks, where it has been every year since.  I was twenty-three days old when I went to my first Thanksgiving.  I’ve only missed one – when we lived in Kentucky and were awaiting the birth of our first child.

We’ll have a long table loaded with ribs, turkey, squash, brown rice casserole, broccoli casserole, and more.  For those of you not familiar with casseroles, add enough cheese and butter to anything and it will be good.  There are desserts that have so many calories and carbs that you will gain weight just by looking at them. 

 Two of my favorite delicacies will be served: swamp cabbage and guava cobbler.  You may not know it, but this is what you will eat in heaven.  I know this because Revelation promises there is no mourning or crying in heaven, which means there must be swamp cabbage and guava cobbler.

 We used to sit on hay bales, but recently upgraded to actual tables and chairs brought from the house.  The rumor that we made the switch because the hay bales no longer supported the weight of certain family members is a lie.

 We take pictures of each generation.  Since the death of my Aunt Ouida, I now find myself in the oldest generation.  I will hasten to point out I’m the youngest member of the oldest generation.

 After we have all eaten too much, after visiting with people we see only once a year but keep up with on Facebook, we slowly pack up the leftovers, and head back to what was my parent’s house, while other cousins scatter to other celebrations.  There are a few demented family members who walk the three miles back to the house, but I have never been tempted to join them.

 Everyone’s Thanksgiving will not be this way.  There will be a lonely widow in a nursing home, who will eat turkey provided by the staff.  They will be kind, but she will wonder why her children are not with her. 

 A solider in Syria who wishes he was settling in for a nap, is instead crouched behind a wall, dodging sniper fire.  ISIS, the Syrians, and whoever else is shooting over there do not celebrate Thanksgiving.

 A trooper somewhere will be standing beside a road, working an accident with fatalities.  He’s done it before, but it is more painful to watch a body being moved on a day when you are supposed to give thanks.

 A homeless man will stand in line for turkey and dressing.  He might wonder how his life came to this.  Someone will say to him, “Happy Thanksgiving,” but he finds it hard to count his blessings. 

 A surgical team will be in an operating room, doing a surgery that can’t wait. Somebody had to take call.  The surgery takes longer than they thought, and their Thanksgiving meal will come from a vending machine.

 A young couple, off at school, a long way from home, can’t afford to make the trip.  In their cramped apartment, they attempt to cook a turkey, but don’t know you have to thaw it first.  Their turkey turns to shreds, and they eat Chinese takeout for their first Thanksgiving together.  It makes their heart ache for home a little more.

 A child whose parents got in a violent fight the Wednesday night before Thanksgiving will be brought to a foster home.  He will sit down to Thanksgiving dinner with strange people, a little scared, not knowing how long he will be there.

 I don’t know what Thanksgiving will be for you.  But I know two things.  I know no matter where you are or what you are having to do, there will be something to give thanks for.  Find it.  Thank God. 

 And I know this: there will be someone you need to pray for this Thanksgiving.  Maybe you need to pray for their protection.  Maybe you need to pray for them to be encouraged.  Maybe you need to pray they will find hope. 

 No matter what Thanksgiving is for you, God will be there.  That, by itself, is reason enough to give thanks.

Should Women Go Home?

John MacArthur, a well-known preacher, was recently asked what he would say to Beth Moore, a well-known Bible Teacher.  His response: “Go home.”

What MacArthur implied was Beth Moore has no business teaching the Bible.  She needs to stay home and do whatever woman are supposed to do at home.

 My Momma read me Bible stories when I was little.  Momma read with expression.  She made you feel the fear in Moses’ voice, “Who am I to lead such a people?”  When she came to the parts of the story where God said, “Go!” the way Momma read, you knew you had to go.  She sounded just like God. 

 My Aunt Faye would tell my Sunday School Class stories at church.  In fact, I’m pretty sure all my Sunday School teachers were women until fifth grade.

 When I went to college, our campus minister, Esther Burroughs, taught an eight-week series on Love, Sex, and Marriage.  Those eight weeks introduced me to things I’d never thought of before, like the whole idea that sex in marriage could be joyous. 

 Esther would re-enter my life when I was in my thirties.  I heard her speak to a group of pastors.  I’ll never forget these sentences: “Pastors, the church is the bride of Christ.  Your bride is at home.”  I was beyond convicted. 

 At the Global Leadership Summit this year, I heard Liz Bohannon speak about taking a risk.  After college she went to Uganda to empower young women, ended up founding a company, and changing the lives of thousands.  I thought about the times my fears kept me home instead of boldly going where the real needs are.

 I was in a church meeting once when two men got into an argument.  There were nine of us present.   Six of us watching these men nearly come to blows.  Then Pat Hobbs, one of the wisest women I know, spoke up, calmed the waters, and got us back on track.

I’m glad these women did not stay home.

 Sometimes people aren’t sure if the Bible is for or against women.

 For.

 Okay, that might not be enough of an explanation.  The Bible is not anti-women, not by a long shot.   The Bible often describes events without approving of them.  It tells us that Eve first succumbed to temptation.  There was punishment.  But it also makes clear that Adam succumbed, and he was punished also.  In 1 Timothy 2:13-15 it does tell us about the order of creation (Adam first, then Eve) and the order of temptation (Eve first, then Adam).  But Paul was relating this Christian conduct, especially in worship – women should learn in quietness and in full submission.  Apparently, women were being loud and disruptive.  It’s the next verse that gives people trouble: “I do not permit a woman to teach or to have authority over a man; she must be silent.”  Do you notice what’s missing from this verse?  The statement that a man must teach woman and a man must have authority over a woman. 

 Paul also wrote in Galatians 3:28: “There is neither Jew nor Greek, slave nor free, male nor female, for you are all one in Christ Jesus.”  The point in the New Testament is that all must first submit to the authority of Jesus – He is the head of the His church.  I believe the passages about women’s conduct in the New Testament are simple reminders for women not to abuse their new freedom in Christ.  The same would be true for men.

 Christian faith has done more than any world faith system to elevate the status of women.  Marriage was elevated from the idea of property and child-bearing to one of intimacy and love (see Song of Solomon).  In the Old Testament, women were accorded rights – for the first time in the ancient world.  If those rights are not what we would expect, we forget that all systems of liberty and rights begin with valuing the person – no matter the race, economic status, or gender.

 I think John MacArthur really missed it.  Beth Moore needs to use the gifts God gave her.  I don’t think the world needs fewer Bible teachers. 

 There is much more to say – but let’s be clear – the Bible teaches that man and woman need redemption – and it is offered to both.  That’s the greatest equality of all.

The Temptation of Moses

Imagine for a moment you are Moses.

You made a big mistake when you were young (who hasn’t) and skipped town.  You fall in love and end up working for your father-in-law because you have no other options.  For forty years you wonder the back side of nowhere, chasing sheep.  It’s a big step down for a palace prince.

One day, tending the sheep, minding your own business, going nowhere, you see a bush burning, but it doesn’t burn up.  You stop, look, and start listening to a voice that speaks to you.  God speaks to you.  Out loud.  He tells you he has a purpose for your life that is more than sheep.  Go back to Egypt, the voice commands, tell Pharaoh to let my people go.  You and God have a pretty major theological discussion.  Toward the end of the discussion you hear God’s anger rising and decide no one ever out argues God.  You decide it might be nice to see Egypt this time of year.

You go and see Pharaoh, who in an odd way is sort of a relative (all Southerners understand this). You tell him God’s plans and he is not impressed.  After nine plagues and a lot of hard-headedness on his part, you warn him something worse is coming.  Pharaoh still isn’t listening, and something worse does come and a lot of innocent people die because of him.  He decides to let God’s people go before his whole kingdom is gone.  Your people get paid to get out of town.  Before you go very far, Pharaoh changes his mind (again!), and comes after you.  God sends a hurricane wind, parts the Red Sea, and tells you to get moving.  Pharaoh follows, the wind stops, and a lot of soldiers die, because it’s hard to swim in armor.

That threat eliminated, you start toward Mt. Sinai, only to discover the people you lead are a big bunch of whiners (they were early Baptists).  They complain, God provides, but they aren’t picking up that they really can trust God.

When you finally get to Mt. Sinai, you and all the people hear the actual voice of God.  It freaks the people out, so they push you forward and say, “You talk to him and tell us what he said.”  When you go up to hear what God says, it takes a while.  After all, God is building a nation from scratch.  There are the basic laws, some discussions about holidays, talk about how to build a place of worship, and so on.  While you’re getting all this down, the people get restless, and hoodwink Aaron, your older brother, to make some idols.  This causes all kinds of trouble and the partying gets out of hand.

God tells you to step aside, he is going to make short work of these people and start over with you. 

Hit pause.  Would you be tempted by that offer?  I would.  No more children of Israel.  Now we start the children of Moses.  Has a nice ring to it.  No more dealing with these hard-headed people.  No more decision making. No more having my older brother and sister giving me that disapproving frown that says, “We could do better.”  It would be back to simple life.  Just you and the Missus, kicking back at the tent flap every evening, watching the grand-kids. 

Hit play.  In a moment of great humility, Moses prays for these aggravating people, that God will spare them and have mercy.  God does.  There are some clean up details, but before long, you and the people hit the trail, headed for Canaan, the promised land.

When you are at the doorstep of the land God promised, you send in spies.  They come back and tell you the land is better than you dreamed, but there is no way our army can beat their army.  The people believe these guys and start whining – again.  The ones at the front of the crowd pick up rocks to stone you and Aaron.  So much for loyalty.  God intervenes to save your neck and once again, declares his intention to wipe out this people and start over with you.

Hit pause.  Would you be tempted by this second offer?  I would.  Past performance is the best predictor of future behavior.  The road ahead looks like forty more years of aggravation, suffering for other people’s stupid choices. 

Hit play.  For a second time you ask God to spare his people.  Again, you plead for God to be merciful.  Again, God listens.  Again, God relents.  You realize God must trust you a lot.

Now, stop imagining yourself as Moses.  You are just you.  How many of your prayers are not for yourself, but for someone else?  Are you willing to load more aggravation onto your life so other people get a chance to follow God?  What kind of character does it take to ask God to change his plans?

Maybe the best question is not how much you trust God, but how much God trusts you?

Does Prayer Do Any Good?

I was visiting an old Kentucky farmer in the hospital.  He had “the cancer,” as the old timers said.  Not surprising since he had smoked since he was seven.  When he wasn’t smoking, he was chewing tobacco.  He had an addiction on steroids.  I was his twenty-six-year-old pastor, still a little unsure what to say to a man who was dying.   

We talked about the weather, about his farm, and about his “young-uns,” the youngest of whom was twenty years older than I.  Then the conversation turned serious.  He said his doctor came by and told him the cancer had spread and there was nothing more they could do.  He said, “Preacher, I’ve been praying, but it don’t seem like my prayers are doing much good.  How ‘bout you pray for me?” 

What do you say to that?  Here was a man who was dying, who was praying, but felt like his prayers weren’t escaping his hospital room.  Still, he was asking for prayer. 

I think we’ve all been where that man was, maybe not in a hospital room, but in a situation when you feel like prayer is your only hope and it doesn’t seem like it’s working.  We’ve faced financial darkness and prayed to win the lottery, but our number doesn’t come up.  We’ve faced an empty bedroom and prayed he or she would come back home, but there is no knock on the door.  We’ve faced our own addictions and begged God to take away our cravings, but before we know it, we’ve caved in again.   

Maybe you have prayed with all the faith you can muster that God would spare a life and the next day you’re planning a funeral.  Maybe you’ve prayed that God would open a door or even a window, but the door doesn’t swing and the window is stuck shut.  Maybe you’ve prayed for your child to do right, even claiming the scripture, “Train up a child in the way they should go and when he is old, he will not depart from it,” only to have them take the first exit ramp they could. 

You might agree with that old Kentucky farmer, that your prayers don’t seem to do much good.   

Part of our problem is we forget prayer at its best is a conversation with God.  You ask God what’s on his mind and tell him what’s on yours.  I think that’s what Jesus meant when he said, “Thy will be done…”  When you tell God your financial troubles, if you pause and listen, you might hear God saying, “Spend less.”  God is smart that way.  When you ask God to bring him or her back, God might say, “I’d like to, but I gave them free will, just like I gave you.  They are off making their own mistakes now.  Let’s talk about you building your life on me, not them.”  When you ask God to make the cravings go away, he might say, “I will, one minute at a time.  You have to walk with me every minute.” 

Prayer is not like Amazon or Wal-Mart.  You don’t put in your order.  You ask God for his wisdom and his provision.  The two go hand in hand. 

Moses once had a conversation with God that saved a nation.  The Israelites were being hard-headed as usual, once more refusing to do what God wanted them to do.  God told Moses, “I will destroy these people, start over, and make you into a great nation.”  If I had been Moses, I would have taken that deal in a skinny minute. 

But Moses didn’t.  He talked it over with God, reminding him how he would look to everyone if he brought his people out of slavery and then wiped them out.  His act of amazing grace would look like a cruel ploy.  God, amazingly, agreed with Moses.  Apparently, God is willing to hear our side of the story.   

In that Kentucky hospital room, fumbling for a prayer that was hopeful, I thought to ask that old Kentucky farmer what he wanted me to pray for.  I was expecting him to say, “Pray I’ll be healed, of course.”  

He said, “Preacher, pray it will be quick.  I don’t want to suffer.  I’m ready to meet Jesus; I believe.”  I was surprised.  I could tell he’d given this a lot of thought.  Maybe he’d even talked it over with God.  So, I took his hand and prayed.  I thanked God for his faith.  I ask God to be merciful and not make him suffer.  I told God we knew we weren’t in charge of the timing of such things, but if it worked out with his plans, it would be a good thing if death came sooner instead of later.  I said “Amen,” and the old farmer said, “Thank you, preacher.  That was just the prayer I needed.” 

I did the man’s funeral six days later. 

Did my prayer make a difference?  Only God knows.  But I can tell you what I know: that prayer made a difference in me.  Maybe that’s why you should start your conversation with God. 

Go Through the Gate...



Cows like wide open spaces, with lots of grass.  They do not like to be penned, unless they are dairy cows that need to be milked.  Then they will fight to get into the milk parlor, because they need some relief.  Beef cattle, however, must be penned ever so often so they can be doctored and wormed.  Before you can get them to the pens, you must get through the gates. 

You and your crew spread out across a pasture and start to move the cows toward the gate that leads to where you want them to go - to the pens.  Four tools are at your disposal to motivate cows to go through the gate.   

The first is your horse.  Horses are superior to four-wheelers when it comes to working cows, because horses have a brain of their own.  If a bull charges you, the horse thinks faster than you do and gets out of the way.  A four-wheeler just idles while your brain runs through options.  Many-a-time I have ridden up on a cow and she would just stare at you.  I’d ease my horse around and holler at her.  If she didn’t move, I’d spur my horse to go right up against her to get her to move toward the gate.  Most of the time, it works.  When it doesn’t, you go to the next tool. 

The second tool available to you is your bull-whip.  Though called a bull-whip, it was used for any reluctant animal.  A bull whip is made of leather straps, woven together.  When swung properly, it makes a loud “crack.”  The noise is what scares the cattle and they move away from it.  If your brother ever offers to practice how close his bull-whip can get to you without hitting you, decline quickly and run decisively in the other direction. 

The third tool available to the cow-hand is the rope.  My grandfather Oscar, my uncles Pete and Bud were great ropers (Uncle Bud still competes on the senior rodeo circuit at age 83).  None of this genetic gift passed to me.  My only success in roping a cow is when the cow is down and I can loop the rope over her head.  I’ve done this a few times.  You ease your horse off and put tension on the rope.  The cow will either: get up and start to follow; lay there as you drag her a few feet; or suddenly spring to life and run out ahead of you until the rope jerks her back.  Inevitably the cow you must rope is furthest from the pens.  It’s hard to drag a cow half-a-mile.  This is when the fourth tool comes into play. 

The final tool available is a good cow dog.  A good cow dog will bark at the cow and the cow will move in the direction you want her to go.  A good cow dog will nip, not bite.  A good cow dog will save time, move cattle well, and make your work easy.  The problem is there aren’t many good cow dogs.  We’ve had several hands that have brought their dogs to “help.” The dogs did help; they helped scatter the cows from here to kingdom come.  I’ll never forget one dog who successfully chased a bunch of cows through two fences all the way into a cousin’s pasture.  He was very proud of himself.  We spent the rest of the day chasing cows and fixing fence while the dog took a nice nap in the shade. 

There is a great line from the movie, Cool Hand Luke: “What we have here is a failure to communicate.”  Life would be much easier for a cow-hand if we could simply communicate with the cows: “Would you mind ambling over through that gate over there? We’re going to make you uncomfortably crowded, then squeeze you and give you a shot.  And if you are a male and under a year-old, we are going to remove your ability to reproduce.   If you are the right size, we are going to load you on a trailer and take you off to get fatter, then turn you into hamburger. Thank you for your cooperation.”   Maybe we’re communicating better than we think and that’s why the cows refuse to go through the gate. 

I’ve heard my father plead for cattle to go through a gate: “Please, please, please go through the gate.”  I myself have prayed for divine intervention, for the cows to see the logic of going through the gate to get where I want them to go. 

Jesus said there is a wide gate that is inviting, but it leads to the slaughterhouse.  There is also a narrow gate, he said, that leads to life.  Go through the narrow gate.  God will not push you to go through.  He will not crack a whip over you or rope you and drag you through it.  Nor will God sic the dogs on you.  He will tell you of his love, his gift of grace, and his eternal home.  He invites you to share all these good things with him, if you will just go through the gate. 

Twisted Journey…

I flew to Florida last week to speak at my home church’s 140th anniversary.  For this trip, I flew out of Florence, SC.  When I walked in the airport, I sensed something was amiss.  The metal gate was pulled down over security and there was a line at the ticket counter.  I decided I’d better get in the line and soon discovered the plane had overheated in Charlotte (I’d never heard of plane overheating; maybe they needed to check the radiator).

It was my turn in front of harried ticket clerk.  He told me the plane might be there in an hour, or it might not be.  They were, however, getting a bus to take passengers to Charlotte for their connecting flights.  After consulting the schedules, we realized I’d miss my flight to Sarasota, but I could make a flight to Tampa.  Not a problem; I’d just call my brother and tell him to pick me up in Tampa.  I told him to save me a seat on the bus.

After a five-minute wait, they called for those of us riding the bus to go outside.  When I hear the word “bus,” I think about a 60-foot-long bus with a bathroom and comfortable chairs.  Their idea of a bus was fifteen-passenger van. 

Our van driver was most conscientious.  He drove the speed limit all the way to Charlotte.  When a sign said, “35,” he drove 34.  He stopped at every yellow light.  Several of us were worried about making our connections.  We got to Charlotte in time for rush hours (from 3PM to 7PM; not as bad as Atlanta, but close).  I looked at my phone.  Red lines were all over the map. I saw that we could go downtown and loop back to the airport. I suggested this to driver.  His reply: “I gotta stick to the route.”

After creeping along in traffic for an hour, we arrived at the airport.  My flight would leave in fifty minutes.  All I had to do was get through security. 

I got in a line that was moving fast.  They had an Irish Wolfhound sniffing all the passengers.  I was afraid he would smell my dogs and go crazy, which would then entitle me to a strip search.  Just as I got to the sniffing point, the line stopped.  The dog had to go on break.  Must be union rules.

Everyone else in security had to clear through, they had to change the procedure, and then let us non-sniffed people through.  Now I’m down to thirty minutes before my plane leaves.

I get through security and hurry to my gate, C-15.  The sign says the flight is going to Seattle/Tacoma. I’ve always wanted to go to Seattle, but not today.  Turns out my departure gate has changed to B-4.  I hustled to B-4 as boarding begins.  I made it in the nick of time.

Then they stop boarding.  They have not finished cleaning the plane.  We wait ten minutes, and then hear an announcement that the heater on the plane is broken.  The flight will be delayed 15 minutes.  I’m thinking they should swap out for the plane that was overheating and call it even.

Then comes the announcement that this plane will be pulled from service.  Stand-by for further announcements.  After twenty minutes and a stale turkey sandwich, a new announcement comes: a plane has been located (I can imagine some mechanic in a hangar saying “Now where is that spare plane?  I know I left it somewhere in here”) and we will now depart out of gate C-5.  Back to C concourse.  This starts to feel like airport Bingo.

In the logic of these things, it turns out there was another flight to Tampa scheduled to go out of gate C-5.  Because of our flight, the other flight to Tampa was now departing out of – wait for it – B-4. I saw half-a-dozen people attempting to get to Tampa trying to get on the wrong flight.  A ticket agent said to one passenger, “You’re at the wrong gate.  You want to go to Tampa out of B-4.  This is the flight to Tampa.”

A plane ride, a bus trip, a different airport, and ten hours later, I met my brother at the Tampa airport.  He promptly informed me I owed him $250.  When I asked “why,” he told me he had to kill time in Tampa, went to Bass Pro Shop where he spent $250 he hadn’t planned to spend.  I told him to put it on my tab.  I finally arrived at my ultimate destination, the ranch, at midnight.

I don’t think anyone gets a smooth journey through life.  There are lots of twists and turns.  The most important thing is getting to your destination.  That is why Jesus did not say, “Meet me at the gates of heaven.”  He did, however, say to many, and to you, “Follow me.” 

No matter how twisted your journey is, or how many different legs of the trip you have, if you follow Jesus, he will get you home.

Forgiveness is…

Forgiveness is:

·        Going to sleep at night without guilt.

·        Being released from the debt your sin made between you and God.

·        Rebuking the old memories that taunt you about failures from the past.

·        A paralyzed man hearing he is forgiven and realizing forgiveness is more important than walking.

·        Having the old sin habits sanded out of your soul and new channels of grace forming.

·        Seeing the world differently because you no longer think everyone is better than you.

·        Feeling God’s embrace.

·        God deciding to let you be born even though he knows you will sin, and deciding to pay for your failures anyway so you could have eternal life.

·        Closing your eyes for the last time on earth and opening them for the first time in heaven.

·        Being set free from shame that twists your behavior into something unnatural.

·        Hearing God’s laughter.

·        A dying reprobate asking Jesus for mercy and hearing “Today you will be with me in Paradise.”

·        Extending grace to people who hurt you, because you had grace extended to you.

·        Feeling clean in the presence of God.

·        A bath of grace.

·        No longer bracing against God for fear He will torment you with your stupidity; but instead finding no condemnation in His eyes.

·        The number one hater of Christians being turned into the number one missionary for Jesus.

·        Knowing your sins have been hurled past the borders of the universe.

·        A lifting of depression because you know the old heaviness of shame has left.

·        Better than paying off all your debt.

·        Hearing the Judge declaring you “guilty” and then telling you that His son will pay your fine.

·        A fresh, cool breeze blowing grace over your soul wounds.

·        Knowing God’s power to forgive is greater than the power of the evil that controls you.

·        Jesus forgiving the soldiers who beat him, the Governor who sentenced him to die, and the religious leaders who falsely accused him.

·        God telling you that you have nothing to prove to him.

·        The promise that God will cover you with layer after layer of grace, so your sin is buried under the weight of His love.

·        Good News.

·        Jesus hunting Peter down on the day of his resurrection to tell him his betrayal is forgiven.

·        Feeling grateful to the One who forgives you.

·        Jesus taking your burden of the past from you and putting it on Himself.

·        Your soul dancing because God has done for you what you could not do for yourself.

·        Jesus looking into the eyes of woman barely clothed, fresh from a bed of adultery and telling her, “Neither do I condemn you.  God and sin no more.”

·        Feeling a deep peace because your soul no longer wars within itself.

·        Agreeing with God about the truth of your life, the mess you’ve made of it, and how much you need Him. 

·        Being set free from being the victim.

·        Not bought with trinkets you bring to God hoping to buy it, but a gift extended to you.

·        A forever change in your life.

·        Jesus summoning his last bit of strength to say “Father, forgive them, for they know not what they do.”

·        What you need.

Notre Dame, Good Friday, and Easter…

When I was fourteen our High School Band, the Largo Band of Gold, went to Europe to compete in the World Music Festival (we won two gold medals with distinction). After the competition, we toured continental Europe.  Our first stop was Paris.

Nothing in my Southern boyhood prepared me for Paris.  The first thing that caught my eye were the billboards with nude female models.  I knew I was not supposed to lust, but no Sunday School lesson prepared me for that.  We went to the Louvre.  I saw the Mona Lisa but more amazing to me were whole rooms covered with one work of art.  The artist painted the walls and the ceilings.  I’d never seen anything like it.

We played a concert underneath the Eiffel Tower and then went up to see the city in all it’s splendor.  I did get lost on the Paris subway, where a kindly stranger speaking Portuguese responded to my ninth grade Spanish enough to get back to the hotel.

But it was Notre Dame I remembered most.  At fourteen, I already knew I was supposed to be a pastor, a “preacher” in our Southern Baptist lingo.  I had seen my share of churches, of course, but nothing in Wauchula, Okeechobee, Kissimmee, or Largo prepared me for Notre Dame. 

Rural Baptists had a distrust of Catholics, probably because there weren’t very many of them in our neck of the woods.  Then again, we didn’t even trust Methodists because they didn’t have church on Sunday night (heathens!).  Seeing the Cathedral of Notre Dame on the schedule made me apprehensive.  Would I have to become Catholic to enter?  Would they kidnap me and force me to be a priest instead of a preacher?  Would I have to kiss a statue of the Pope?  I had been warned about false prophets in many sermons, but I had no instructions about entering a strange house of worship.

The tour bus rounded the corner, and I saw Notre Dame up close.  My eyes drifted up, my breathing stopped.  I had never seen anything so massive.  We walked off the bus and made our way to the cathedral.  It loomed larger and larger; I felt smaller and smaller.  Only much later in life would I learn this was intentional.  A cathedral was supposed to make you realize the grandeur of God and make you aware of your own smallness in the world.

Since my offshoot of the Protestant Reformation has a distant kinship to the Puritans, our sanctuaries (this was before we called them “worship centers”) are plain.  At Notre Dame, there was not one inch of undecorated space.  The entrances, the outside walls, and the interior were covered with carvings.  The stain glass sparkled colors throughout the interior.  I couldn’t read Latin, but I recognized enough to know some of the stories being told.  I saw Jesus crucified and resurrected in the stone and in the glass.  It began to slowly dawn on me that the people who built this worshipped the same Jesus I did.

It was not until I was in the middle of the cathedral that someone said, “Look behind you.”  Then I saw the famous South Rose Window.  It was the most amazing thing I had ever seen, more amazing than the billboards.  I was held in a spell of awe.  In the vast cavern of the cathedral, I had a sense of something holy, someone bigger than myself.  In that moment, a fourteen-year-old Southern Baptist boy felt the beauty of God.

Like you, I saw the picture of the Notre Dame Cathedral burning this week. Memories poured out of the deep corners of my brain.  I could feel once more the majesty of the moment from forty decades earlier.  My first thought was “I pray the windows can be saved.”

I’m not someone who thinks God caused the fire in the Cathedral.  God is much bigger than any building, no matter how beautiful.  I do believe, however, that God invites me to look at the news and find where he is at work.  There are more signs of the gospel in the world than you or I can see.

I saw the picture the next day, the picture of a beam of light shining into Notre Dame, showing the altar, showing the bright bronze cross still in place.  That picture is the story of Good Friday and of Easter.  It is the story of an evil world doing its best to burn down the work of God.  It is the story of the fire of my sin, which burns within, causing me to do that which I know I should not do.  It is the story of grace, the grace that rains down upon the fires of sin, grace inexhaustible, extinguishing the penalty and power of my sin.  It is the story of resurrection, that nothing – not the power of the darkness, nor the fires of sin, nor the pitiful human efforts to make God small – nothing can take away God love for me.  Grace is a beautiful thing.

This is the story of Good Friday and of Easter – the light has come into the world and nothing can put it out. 

I hear they saved the South Window, the window that so long ago gifted me with a holy moment.  It is just another sign of the gospel, that God can save anything, anyone.  Even you.  Even me. 

Speeding, Tickets, and Grace…

I was traveling to Charleston for a wedding rehearsal.  Traffic was heavy on the Interstate, which slowed no one down.  I was going faster than the speed limit, mostly to keep from being run over by the Friday afternoon traffic, but also because I was a little concerned I would be late for the rehearsal. Knowing the streets around my hotel would be clogged, I decided to loop around and come in from the Ashley River side of the city.

Ever notice when you get off the Interstate, your body’s sense of motion doesn’t slow down?  Your body is still tense from rapid movement, and your foot still wants to depress the accelerator.  I slowed down to what I thought was a reasonable speed as I merged into traffic.  I came over the top of the Highway 7 bridge and I saw a Charleston Policeman sitting at the bottom.  Of course, I slammed on the brakes – isn’t that what everyone does? 

The policeman pulled out into traffic.   He was ahead of me, so I figured as long as I stayed behind him, I was safe.  Then he motioned through his rolled down window to pass him.  I was determined to stay under the speed limit, as soon as I could find out what it was.  Thirty-five seemed safe.

The police car changed lanes and fell in behind me.  Not a good sign.  Still, no lights, no siren.  We traveled another mile to get off the causeway.  He was still back there.  The highway widened to accommodate a middle turn lane; then he cut on the siren and his lights. 

The familiar sinking feeling in my stomach hit.  I know the drill all too well.  Get out your driver’s license, registration and proof of insurance.   I pulled over.  The officer approached, cautious, though I didn’t think I looked particularly dangerous.  He asked for my items, looked them over, and then came the familiar question, “Mr. Smith, did you know you were doing 63 in a 50 mile-an-hour zone?”  One thing I’ve learned through the years: never argue with a policeman who has a radar gun.

I answered honestly, “Officer, I did not know I was going that fast.”  Officer: “Mr. Smith, do you have any reason for going that fast?” 

This is always the embarrassing moment.  I would have to tell the man I was a pastor, on my way to a wedding rehearsal, and I thought I was late.  I told him the story and he said, “Okay, Mr. Smith, I’ll be right back.”  I knew what that meant: a moving violation, two to four points, and a hefty fine.

The officer came back after a couple of minutes with my ticket printed out.  He reduced my ticket to two points, and a $76 fine, which was gracious of him.  I thanked him, signaled carefully, and pulled back out into traffic, now really late.

I admit I was a little bitter.  It was a Friday.  Everyone was going faster than 50.  Why me?  Why did he have to write me a ticket for going 13 miles over the speed limit?  Sure, I deserved it, but how about a break?  Funny how we trivialize breaking the law.

The next day, I had to run out to nearest grocery story to get some allergy medicine.  I talked to my brother as I drove.  There are no short conversations with my brother.  After we get passed the five minutes or so of brotherly insults, he spends another five minutes filling me on all the news of home and trying to remember why he called me.  It finally hit him why he called; he needed to ask me a question our wives had already processed and made a decision about.  He simply wasn’t in the loop yet.

 By now, I’m parked at the grocery store, ready to wind up this conversation.  We trade another brotherly insult or two, then hang up.  Now I’m out of the truck, walking up to the store.

Out of the corner of my eye, I see a Charleston policeman walking into the store.  He looks vaguely familiar, and then it hits me: it’s the same officer who wrote me a ticket the day before. 

“Hello Mr. Smith.  How was the wedding rehearsal yesterday?,” he asked.  “It went really well,” I stammered.  “I can’t believe you remember me and remembered I was going to a wedding rehearsal!” 

“Well,” he said, “you were the last person I dealt with before I called it a day and I guess you stuck in my mind.”  He paused, and then he said, “I tell you what Mr. Smith, don’t worry about that ticket.  I’ll tear it up.” 

I was shocked.  “Thank you, but you really don’t have to do that.”  I meant the thanks and didn’t mean the part about not doing that.  “Don’t worry about it, Mr. Smith, I’ll take care of it,” he said.  “Enjoy Charleston.”  Then he walked away.

There was no doubt I deserved the ticket; I broke the law, even though I never saw a speed limit sign.  There was also no doubt the officer showed me great grace.  He took away the punishment I deserved.  What I can’t get over is the timing.  One more minute on the phone with my brother and I would have missed the officer.  One less minute on the phone (highly unlikely) with my brother and I would have missed the officer.   The timing was perfect.

It was small act of grace, a micro-miracle.  I don’t believe in luck; I believe in grace.  I think God sent this small act of grace from a Charleston police officer to remind me of his big act of grace.  I’m not just guilty of exceeding the speed limit; I’m guilty of every sin I’ve ever committed.  I deserve punishment.  I should have to pay the fine.  Jesus did not tear up the ticket, the fine for my sin.  He died on a cross to pay my debt.  I will not have to appear before the judge and declare my spiritual bankruptcy.  God has taken care of my ticket for me.  He’ll take care of yours too, if you accept his gift of grace.

Conversation with the Lyft Driver…

I flew into Tampa for a conference and for the first time, got a ride from a Lyft driver.  Where I live, there isn’t much use for Lyft.  If you need a ride, you just stand on the side of the road; in minute or two, someone you know will come by, stop, and holler, “Hey, you need a ride?”  It’s a pretty efficient system and it’s free.  I know quite a few people in Tampa, but I thought it might take a while for one of them to come by, so Lyft seemed the better option.

I wasn’t sure how much I was supposed to talk to the driver.  To be honest, I was having trouble breathing, since I am allergic to cats and there was cat hair everywhere in the backseat.  It made me wonder if his last passenger was a cat lady. 

My driver, however, was in the mood to talk.  It was basic stuff at first; weather, how long he had driven for Lyft (two weeks), what I was doing in town and where we were from.  He began to tell me about his college experiences at Southeastern University in Lakeland, a Christian school and how he studied to be a worship leader. 

At this point, I knew if I didn’t identify myself as a pastor, I would have to start lying, so I fessed up to my profession.  He chuckled and said, “So you’re a survivor of the church wars.”  I hadn’t heard my profession described in those terms before.  I asked my driver if he still served a church.  He told me no.  He had served as worship leader in three churches for nine years, but he had discovered most people in church weren’t Christians. 

He went on to share a story about two men who came to blows one night during a church business meeting over the color of the carpet in the new church building and how that pretty much ruined church for him.  He followed that story with a tale or two about church power plays and preachers getting fired. 

Most church members, he said, didn’t even know the Bible.  They didn’t know that Jesus was about love.  It seemed to him that church people just wanted to judge other people and feel superior to everyone else.  So, he declared, he got tired of it and left church behind, again telling me that, in his opinion, ninety percent of all church people weren’t Christians.

I admit at this point I was feeling a little defensive, since I happened to believe there are many people who do follow Jesus and go to church.  Very few of us, however, follow Jesus very well.  But he was driving in rush hour traffic and I thought starting an argument with him wasn’t a good idea.

I asked him if he had a church home.  He told me no, that he was right with Jesus and that’s all that mattered.  He knew the Bible, he said, because his education at Southeastern had prepared him well.  The Old Testament didn’t matter because no one kept all the laws; if we did, we’d be stoning people all the time.  He knew Jesus was all about love and that’s all that mattered. 

It struck me that he was just as condemning as the church people he was condemning.  He opted out of church and made up his own standard of conduct, choosing to do his faith life on his own. 

I’m not sure if this is true, but I think he had a lot of hurt from his days on the church staff.  I don’t think he had forgiven the people who had hurt him, or even really faced his pain. He talked about his days in ministry in a detached way, as though they were a sealed tomb.  It was clear he felt justified to walk away. 

We arrived at the hotel.  I shook his hand, thanking him for the ride.  I wanted to say some word of healing and hope, but I knew he had to hustle for his next ride.  So I told him “God bless you,”  which seemed so weak, got out, and got my bags out of the trunk.  Off he drove, ready to give someone else a Lyft. 

As he drove off, I thought: “There goes a man who was called, who was hurt, and who walked away.”  Who was to blame?  The people in church that hurt him?  Him, because he walked away?  Someone else he didn’t tell me about, who might have encouraged him?

It made me sad.  What a waste.

Hard Ground …

Digging in the ground is as natural to me as breathing.  When I was a little boy, nothing made me happier than having a pile of dirt, a spade, and hours to dig.  If I could have a hose to fill up the lakes and rivers I dug, so much the better.  I once had a garden that I killed by over-watering.  Three inches of water a day is really good only for rice.

 I have spent full days setting small bareroot-orange trees in the ground and weeks digging fence posts.  In the two houses I have owned, almost all the bushes and plants in my yards started with my own boot pushing a shovel point into the ground.  Sometimes I see big Cat backhoes and think about the holes I could dig with those.

 Our first home was on a cul-de-sac, which is a fancy French word for “dead end.”   I was tired of looking at the dirt and weeds that flourished there.  Once we had a sand pile in the circle that drew in the neighborhood children, but the children grew up and the sand went away.  I called the city a time or two to see if they would put something there, but it never happened.  One Saturday, I decided to take matters into my own hands.  I made trip to the nursery, bought the plants I thought would look good (and I could afford), and came home ready to dig.  With great confidence, I grabbed my shovel, picked what I thought was a good spot in the center of the cul-de-sac, and pushed. 

 Nothing happened.  I mean nothing happened.  The dirt gave not an inch and the shovel blade began to bend under my weight.  I tipped the shovel up a little and stood on it.  The blade went in a quarter of an inch, and I flicked a feeble sliver of dirt out the intended hole.  I tried softening the ground with water (an old trick).  The water ran off.  It seemed as though I had discovered a weird strand of impervious dirt.  Then I remembered my post-hole diggers. 

 When I was 18, I once dug a quarter mile’s worth of post holes out of the soft Florida sand in a single morning.  A few minutes after hurling my post-hole diggers against the compacted clay taught me I wasn’t 18 anymore and this soil wasn’t soft Florida sand.  This was South Carolina clay, stubborn and unyielding as John Calhoun.  Dirt came out of the hole grain by grain. 

 After an hour, five holes were ready to receive the plants.  I dropped them in, covered the roots, and turned the water on.  The freshly created blisters stung whenever I moved my hands.  New fissures had opened up in my palms.  It was hard work through hard soil

 In my soul and in yours, there is hard soil.  It needs to be dug out so God can put something beautiful there. But digging is not a passive process, because God respects His order of creation.  He tells us we must resist temptation, do the hard work of submission, and dig out the old patterns.  We have to start digging.

 We tire of working on our “stuff.”  Our sin is more comfortable than spiritual labor.  But unless we are willing to get our faith blistered by work, we endure a barren patch of weedy dirt, instead of the beauty God wants to plant in your life.  There is something sacred in fighting the stubborn resistance in our selves.

 Maybe you have to upgrade your tools.  Your old shovel isn’t making a dent in the compacted compartments of your life.  Get out your post hole diggers.  Your post hole diggers may be going to a twelve-step group; or getting around people serious in their faith.  You might need to see a counselor or talk to a pastor.  Maybe for you, it means looking in the mirror and saying to yourself, “I have a problem.”  Admitting you have an issue and you are the only one who can do anything about it is the first tiny sliver of progress.

 If you are follower Jesus, the good news is God is ready to give you strength in your digging.  He may even soften up the soil.  He will help you create the spiritual space for you he wants you to be.

 Do you need to dig out space in your soul?  Have you been afraid of the blisters?  Dig.  Sweat a little.  Join God in making room for Him to do something new.

God’s View…

Like you, I spend way too much time in the weeds of life.  I let frustrations about slow drivers in left lanes occupy my soul.  I worry about my next meal (one look at me and you’d know how silly that is).  I get down about the news – the shootings, the shutdowns, and the foolishness of people who should know better.  My parents only had to worry about the news in the morning when the paper came.  I get news alerts on my phone I didn’t even sign up for, telling me about the latest Kardashian baby.

I totally get why people want to check out; it’s easier than dealing with all the heaviness in the world.  It’s appealing to lose yourself in a video reality or in the drama someone is creating on Facebook.  I wonder if binge-watching the latest Netflix series is another way not to feel.

My emotional capacity is pretty small.  I can handle about fifteen minutes of emotional intensity and then I get antsy.  I want to fix the problems so I don’t feel feel anymore.  If the problem can’t be fixed, I have a hard time letting it go.  So I eat something.  Or I get depressed.  Or both.

Sometimes I wonder how God deals with all this.  This is his world, after all, and there is a lot going on down in the weeds.  He must weep over a shooting in Sebring.  He feels the hunger pains of the children in Somalia.  I think his heart breaks when a bullet cuts down an innocent child on the southside of Chicago. 

God must be incredibly frustrated at politicians.  Does Kim Jun Il make you mad?  Imagine how God feels about the President of a country who demands to be worshipped.  Do you wish Republicans and Democrats would quit posturing for the cameras and get down to business?  I’ll bet God occasionally considers sending personal lighting bolts addressed to Washington, D.C. 

How does God stand it?  When we talk about God being infinite, it means he has infinite emotional capacity.  God never needs to shut down, check out, or binge.  No flood of emotion ever overwhelms him.

God also can see the whole picture.  I think about this (I know, I think about strange things).  God sees my crisis of today as his opportunity for tomorrow.  God knows that Kim Jun Il will pass from scene one day.  God knows the government shutdown will end.  God is at work in life of the little brother whose sister was shot.  There has never been a human being who has been able to block or thwart the will of God. 

This is why I need to praise God.  Praising God is not just about singing or lifting hands.  Praising God is realizing who God is and how he is at work.  When I praise God, I remind myself to look at my life from his perspective.  Blocked by that slow car in the left lane?  God sees the fear in that driver’s soul.  Maybe God is slowing me down to pray for that driver.  When food thoughts take control of my mind, I remember the words of Jesus: “My food is to do the will of him who sent me, and to finish his work.”  You’d think I would remember that doing God’s will fills my soul better than any Little Debbie snack cake. 

When I praise God and remember his view, I make my news feed my prayer list.  I pray for Republicans and Democrats.  I ask God to bring me peace when the tragedy happens too close to home.  I even pray for the next little Kardashian.  I make my requests known to God, and this peace from God stands guard duty over my heart and mind.  I make different and better decisions when I have peace from God.  I understand my feeling and thoughts and how they combine when God’s peace is upon me.  I get that peace from seeing things from God’s viewpoint.  I see that viewpoint when I praise God.

When I get down, the hardest thing to do is to praise God.  Maybe first I have to lay out all my troubles to him.  But as I lay out all those troubles, I will hear the Spirit whisper to me: “Praise me.  Praise the Father and the Son.  Get out of the weeds.  See things from my view.  Let your soul be open.  Let my peace, that passes all understanding, calm all the anxieties, depressions, and frustrations of your soul.”

Praise God.

One Hundred Years Ago…

One hundred years ago, January 2, 1919, my Dad was born. 

Think about it.  Woodrow Wilson was still President.  The War to End All Wars was over.  Though automobiles were becoming widespread, his parents still drove a horse and buggy to church.  There was a muddy wagon trail that went to Wauchula one way and to Avon Park the other. 

My father’s father was a rancher, a farmer, a citrus grower, and a preacher.  He either drove his buggy to his country churches or took the train from Avon Park.  There was no electricity in his house (and wouldn’t be until my Dad was an adult).  There was no tractor.  There were no fences, only open range.  You rounded up cattle and sorted them out in the pens, or you roped a calf and branded it in the pasture.  It took a lot of saddle time to be a cattleman in those days.          

Somehow, I never discovered if my father was born at home or if he was born in town.  I imagine he was born at home.  Ten miles of bumpy dirt roads in a buggy would result in a fast delivery.

In his short forty-two years, my father saw electricity come to ranch, as well as the first indoor bathroom.  A telephone line was put in about that same time, a party line where your neighbors could eavesdrop on your conversations. 

The family switched from horses and buggies to Model T Fords and then to Model A Fords.  They stopped driving cattle to Punta Gorda or Fort Myers to ship, and instead began to haul cattle in trucks to the local market.  The fence law was passed and every one had to fence their cattle in. The Wauchula to Avon Park road was moved north and paved.  It no longer took couple of hours to get to town; now they could reach town in about fifteen minutes.

My father saw another World War, and then a Police Action in Korea.  The Atomic Age began when he was 26.  Television made it to the ranch in the 1950’s. 

In his forty-two years, my father would be an All-State Football player, All-Around State Rodeo Champion, producer and announcer of rodeos, a Sunday School teacher, and a friend to many. 

The first Russian flew in space April 12, 1961.  Daddy would die fifteen days later, before the first American would ever go into space.  He missed the Beatles, color television, Vietnam, the mini-skirt, the moon landing, Disney World, Watergate, Reganomics, Gulf Wars I and II, “I did not have sex with that woman,” home computers, 9-11, smart phones, Google, and Netflix.  The heart attack that killed him would probably be averted now by a catherization and a few stents.   

A hundred years is not that long really, not in the long span of time.  How could so much happen so fast?

Then I think about my own life.  I came along just as the space age began and television shifted from black and white to color.  On the hundredth anniversary of my birth, will my grandchildren (hope I have some by then) be amazed that we had to drive our own cars?  Will they be shocked that we did not have in-home robots to clean, cook, and do laundry?  Will they be surprised that one great grandfather died of cancer, since they have been vaccinated at birth to prevent it? 

Will my grandchildren even understand what it means to “go to the store” since a drone from Amazon Target Mart makes daily deliveries?  Will they think the idea of cellphone is quaint since everyone is now implanted at birth with technological uplinks?  Will they be amazed that we had relative peace for sixty years, until a massive three-way war between China, Russia and India broke out and engulfed every other nation?

I think about my dad being dropped into 2019 and coming to see me preach.  What would he think about the contemporary music, the lights, me not wearing a tie on Sunday?

Then I think about my grandchildren and wonder if they will go to church at all?  Will it all church turn into an online experience?  Or will Christian faith dwindle to just a few folks who stay faithful to Jesus? 

Solomon, the wisest man who ever lived, said, “Remember your creator in the days of your youth, before the evil days come…”  This is not just a verse for people under 30.  It tells us to live each day mindful of God.  Change is constant.  God is stable.  No matter what the future holds, there is a God who holds us.  When you know you are in his hand, you are ready for whatever comes.

The Second Hardest Conversation…

Mary:  Mamma, Poppa, I need to talk to you.

Anne (her mother): Joachim, come here.  Your daughter wants to talk.

Joachim (her father): What does she want to talk about?

Anne:  She didn’t say.  Probably something about the wedding. (To Mary) It is about the wedding, isn’t it dear?

Mary:  Sort of.

(Joachim comes into the room).

Joachim: Alright, Alright, what is it?

Mary:  There’s no easy way to tell you this and it won’t be easy for you to understand.  I’m pregnant.

(Anne looks shocked.  Joachim arches his eyebrows).

Joachim: Well, well.  You and Joseph got a little ahead of yourselves, did you?  Well, it’s not the first time and it won’t be the last.  The rabbis allow for it if you are betrothed.  We’ll just move the wedding day up a bit and…  (Joachim stops as he sees the troubled look on Mary’s face).  What is it child? (he hesitates) Joseph is the father, isn’t he?

Mary: No, Poppa, the father isn’t Joseph…

Joachim (interrupting): Who then?  Who did this to you?  Did someone take advantage of you?  Was it a Roman solider?  Did they violate you?  Why didn’t you scream?  Oh, the #@&! scum!

Mary: No, Poppa, calm down.  It wasn’t like that at all.  No one took advantage of me.  I… I was willing.

Joachim (shocked, as Anne softly weeps): You mean you willingly… You betrayed Joseph?  How could you?  Don’t you know he could have you put to death!  What’s gotten into you girl?  Are you possessed of an unclean spirit?  We tried to raise you right, took you to synagogue every Sabbath…  How could you do this to your mother?  (Joachim starts to rip his sleeves as a sign of grief).

Mary: Poppa, no, no!  I haven’t betrayed Joseph at all.  I… I saw an angel. He said his name was Gabriel and he told me to rejoice, that I was covered with the grace of God.  He said I would have a son, who would be the Messiah.  I asked him how this could happen, since I was still … you know, a virgin.  He told me the Holy Spirit would overshadow me and I would be pregnant in a way no one ever became pregnant before.  Then he said, “The child to be born is the Son of God.”  Then he looked at me, to see my response.  Poppa, I told him I was the Lord’s servant.  Whatever God said, I would do.  Poppa, don’t you see?  God choose me!  Isn’t that what you tried to teach me all these years?  Say “yes” to God?

Joachim (sputters): You?  How could he choose you?  We are poor people.  We are not elite.  We have no status except for our family connections to King David and to the priestly line.  We do not even live in Bethlehem where the Messiah is to be born.  Are you sure it wasn’t a nightmare?

Mary:  Yes, I am sure Poppa.  Then the angel told me Cousin Elizabeth was pregnant, six months along!  He said it was a sign.

Anne (shocked): But, but… how could you know that Mary?  I just heard it this morning and I haven’t had time to tell you yet.  (To Joachim) I haven’t even told you yet!

(pause)

Joachim: Could it be?  Could God choose our family for the Messiah?  Could it be my little girl is going to be the Mother of the one who will deliver us?

Mary: Mamma, Poppa, it is true. I’m going to have a baby who will save us all. Now, will you pray for me?I need to go see Joseph.It will be the hardest conversation I’ll ever have

Famous Town, Forgotten Town…

Ever heard of Sepphoris?  No, it’s not a disease, it’s a town.  In its day, it was a pretty important place.  Just off the main road between two important cities, it was full of government offices.  There was a military base there, which made everyone feel a little more secure.  Plus, it helped that more money flowed into Sepphoris than out. 

Sepphoris had a boom time.  Builders were busy trying to build enough housing to accommodate all the newcomers.  The houses were upscale, with extra features you wouldn’t expect in a typical home.  Naturally, there was some competition between the neighbors, a sort of comparison of your hot tub to my pool.

There was enough bustle in the town to make you feel like something was going on.  One of the finest theater companies in the region was located there.  The art scene was vibrant.  Everyone wanted to have an original work in their home.

Oddly for such a prosperous town, Sepphoris had a strong religious vibe.  There was strong attendance at religious gatherings to hear very educated people explain the ways of God to the crowd.

The city fathers of Sepphoris wanted to have an impressive main street, so they paved the road with material that would hold up over time and lined the street with an impressive colonnade.  One guide book called Sepphoris “the gem of the region.”  It was the kind of town that made all the “Best Places to Live” lists.

Ever noticed how every nice place to live has dumpy place to live nearby?  Sepphoris had a neighboring village, about four miles away, that was that dumpy place.  It wasn’t on the main road.  Directions to this town included, “when the pavement runs out, go on two more miles…” 

Nothing much ever happened in the dumpy town.  There was no art community, no theater, no steady flow of travelers through town.  Whoever founded the town forgot to investigate the water supply.  There was only one well.  Cisterns all over town had to catch every drop of rain and every trickle of dew.  Water was always in short supply.

This dumpy town was located on the side of a hill, so farming was tough.  Nobody made it big in agriculture.  A significant number of workers left town every day, commuting to Sepphoris.  They would do the jobs the Sepphorians didn’t want to do, and then would take their meager wages home. 

If you grew up in the dumpy town you knew everyone.  There were only about 500 people there.  It was the kind of place people got stuck in.  Some people were stuck there because it was their family home.  As their parents aged, they had to stick around to make sure they were cared for.  Other people came to work in Sepphoris and couldn’t afford the housing there.  They had to move to the dumpy town and commute.  Trapped in low wage jobs, they were stuck on the side of a mountain, dreaming of a better life.

It was tough to be young in the dumpy town.  There was nothing to do.  If you looked around and dreamed about marrying someone in town, there wasn’t much of a selection.  There might be ten people in your age range.  Five of those were off the table because they were first cousins.  Second cousins were fair game.  You chose a marriage partner less out of love and more out of availability.

There was one religious gathering place, but it was the kind of place you went to because you had to go, not because it all that interesting.

So, if you are God, and you need to do something, which place do you choose to work?  Sepphoris, right?  Best place to live, good religious environment, good economy, good roads for travel. 

So why have you never heard of Sepphoris?  God didn’t not show up there.  Instead, God showed up in the dumpy town.  You’ve heard of it – Nazareth.  God appears to a young woman in a dumpy forgotten town, and says “You will give birth to a son.  Call him Jesus, and he will be called the Son of the Most High.”  Nazareth is where Jesus grows up, where he learns to do the work of a carpenter.  He may have even worked in Sepphoris.

Interesting, Sepphoris is never mentioned in the New Testament.  It had everything going for it, except God didn’t work there. 

Maybe people who say “yes” to God are from the forgotten towns.  Maybe it’s because God is all they have. 

Before the Big Bang, There Was Christmas…

Before the Big Bang, there was Christmas.

Confused?  Hang with me.  This will be soul yoga, a stretching of your mind.

A kindergartener once asked me, “Who made God?”  Her simple question betrays our limitations: on this earth, we only know created things.  We assume everything that exists must have a creator.  But simple logic also dictates that there must one being who begins the chain of creation.  There must be one being who creates, who was not created.

We call that non-created being “God.”  He is a different order of being.  He is not like us.  He was never created, because he is the creator. His existence, his knowledge, his power, is different than ours, because we are created and he is not.

Are you with me so far?

Time exists because of gravity.  We measure years by our rotation around the sun.  We measure days by spin of earth on its axis.  All are results of gravitation forces (I’d explain further, but there is a lot of math involved).  If you believe God created the universe, it means God created time.  Because God created time, he governs time, it does not govern him.  Because God is a different order of being, he can exist simultaneously in the past, present, and future.  The verse in Revelation that declares God is “the Alpha and Omega, the beginning and the end,” tells us God is able to move through time, unlike human beings, who are bound by time.  He is not a time traveler, but he is present in all times.

What’s all this have to do with Christmas?  Hang on, I’m coming to that.  

As a result of God being present in all time, he is aware of what is happening in our past, present and future. The theological word for this is God’s foreknowledge.  God knows what is going to happen because he is already present as it happens.  God is simultaneously present at the building of the pyramids, the battle of Gettysburg, and the election of the President of the United States in 2032. 

This, by the way, is why you should really do what God says.  He knows outcomes you don’t.

Before God created the world, he knew what would happen.  He knew what he made would be good.  He knew Adam and Eve would defy him.  He knew their descendants would keep making the same poor choices.  He knew the best way to fix what he didn’t break would be for his son, Jesus Christ, to enter the world, become flesh, die on a cross, and be resurrected.  He knew a movement, a church, would be the best imperfect vessel to spread the message of redemption.  And he knew that one day, you would have to make a decision: to receive his gift of redemption so your own broken life could be repaired, or to fix your life on your own.

Does this sound like a lot of trouble?

This is what amazes me: knowing what it would cost him, knowing how much trouble it would it be, knowing that dealing with human beings would be the most frustrating thing in his existence, God went ahead.  He created the universe.  He created us.  Then, when we broke his creation, he sent Jesus to save us, to bring it all back to its original design.  Now, he offers you a gift, a Savior, so you can be restored to his original design.

Wow.

Before the first matter was ever created by God’s will, he knew there would have to be a Christmas.  And he went ahead anyway.

Thanks be to God.

Clarity

My cousin, Ross Hendry, was working cows at my Aunt Ouida’s place.  The humidity was 100% and the temperature was about 98 degrees – a typical Florida summer day.  It was the kind of day that makes a cowboy pray for shade.  At Aunt Ouida’s pens, there wasn’t any.  They stood out in the middle of the pasture, in the brutal Florida heat.

Black Angus bulls are especially prone to heatstroke.  Bulls are bigger than cows and their black hides draw in heat from the sunshine and hold it.  Three of the Angus bulls were standing in the corner of a pen, laboring for breath.  Ross, a veterinarian, recognized the warning signs: the bulls needed to be cooled off, right away.

Cooling off three two-ton bulls is not the easiest thing in the world.  You can’t exactly load them up in the truck and turn the A/C on full blast.  Nor can you take them home and let them cool off in your living room (“Oh give me a home, where the Angus bulls roam…”).  The only way to get the bulls cool was to get them to a waterhole as soon as possible.

Ross told his son Dane, who is my age, to put those bulls on the trailer and get them to the waterhole.  Dane was about sixteen at the time, an age when the pre-frontal cortex (where decisions are made) is not yet mature. 

Whoops, hollers, and hot-shots got the bulls moving and Dane got them on the trailer.  The bulls had moved all they wanted so they did something unusual: they laid down in the trailer as Dane hauled them to the waterhole.

Dane backed the trailer down to the waterhole, went back and opened the trailer gate.  Under normal circumstances, the bulls would have bolted for the opening and splashed into the waterhole.  This, however, was not a normal day. 

Instead the bulls stayed in the trailer.  They were still hot and panting, but at least they had a bit of shade.  Dane hollered.  The bulls didn’t move.  Dane whooped.  No movement.  Dane applied the hot-shot to the bull’s backside.  Even electricity didn’t move the bulls.  They just bellowed and resumed panting.

Dane had been on enough vet calls with his Dad to know the bulls were still in danger.  He knew the bulls needed to get in that water and cool off.  He also could tell the bulls weren’t moving any time soon.

As information was assimilating in Dane’s brain, a thought made its way to his frontal cortex: if the bulls wouldn’t go to the water, he would make the water come to the bulls.  With confidence only a sixteen-year-old can muster, Dane got back into the truck and backed the cattle trailer down into the water.

It’s tricky to know how deep you should back a trailer with six thousand pounds of live beef on it.  Dane had to make an allowance for the bull in the back of the trailer and the bull in the front of the trailer.  When he got the wheels of the trailer about three feet under water, he felt that was sufficient.  Dane got out to look, and found his plan had worked: The two bulls in the back of the trailer had stood up (to avoid drowning).  The bull in the front of the trailer was still happily laying down, now up to his neck in water.  All the bulls seemed relieved.

Waterholes tend to have muddy bottoms.  Aunt Ouida’s was no exception.  Not only had Dane sunk the bulls in the water, he had sunk the trailer tires in a foot of gooey mud.  Dane, the trailer, and the bulls were stuck.

In those pre-cell phone days, there was nothing to do but wait until someone came looking for him.  Sure enough, in about 30 minutes, Dane’s dad, Ross, and Tom, one of the hands, came riding out.

Ross could see the bulls in the water and his cattle trailer buried in the mud.  Hendrys’, a special offshoot of our family, have a number of unique vocabulary words to express their feelings at times like these.  Ross had started to access his vocabulary when Tom stopped him and said, “Ross, now stop and think.  The boy did what he was told to do.  You told him to get those bulls cooled off and they are.  You didn’t tell him they had to be out of the trailer.” 

Ross bit his tongue and Dane was eternally grateful to Tom. 

It did take two tractors to haul out the truck and trailer.  The bulls seemed upset to be leaving their personal pool.  But the bulls lived to breed another day.

God knew the greatest clarity comes not from a list of instructions.  The greatest clarity comes from being with someone.  That is why God sent Jesus – to be with us.  There is a great phrase in Galatians: “I no longer live, but Christ lives in me.”  When you know Jesus, he lives in you.  He whispers to you in the moment.  The clarity is not from his words, but from his presence.

Someday you may be faced with a situation and not know exactly how to deal with it.  Access Jesus inside of you.  His presence, his peace, will give you all the clarity you need.  And yes, it may mean you have to back a load of bulls into the waterhole, even if it is not exactly the way someone else would solve the problem.

Socks, as Good as Dead, but Not Quite

We have three dogs.  We acquired Moo when my son Abram went off to grad school.  Sadie was my father-in-law’s dog.  When he passed away, Sadie came to us as part of the estate.  Then there is Socks.

When my oldest daughter turned eight, she wanted a dog.  We bought her a beagle, named Jewel, who wouldn’t stay home.  Jewel had a romantic encounter with a Labrador Retriever, and before we knew it, puppies were on the way.  I put my foot down and said we could not keep any puppies.  My children whined and pleaded.  We negotiated down to keeping one puppy.  Then the puppies were born. 

There were six.  I grew up where dogs were often given the name “Dog.”  The children gave every puppy a first and middle name.  Pleas were entered 10 minutes after the last one was born to keep all the puppies.  Negotiations continued for the next six weeks.  We finally settled on keeping two: Nickel and Socks, the runt of the litter.

Socks and Nickel inherited their mother’s wandering blood.  Socks learned how to climb the chain link fence and then open the gate for her sister.  They would then room the woods, tracking deer, crossing roads.  Because the church was near my house, I would often look out my office window and see my dogs hot on the trail of some critter.  I received about three calls a week: “Do you know your dogs are out preacher?”  “Yep.  They’ll come home when they get hungry.”

Her sister Nickel died about ten years ago and without her running buddy, Socks became a homebody.  She aged gracefully, never demanding attention, but content to sleep, eat, and pass gas.  Sounds like retirement for some folks I know.

About a year ago, when Socks was fifteen, we found her staring blankly at a wall.  We took her to the vet and found out she’d had a stroke.  Her heart was weak, so she was given medicine to strengthen her heart and an anti-depressant to keep her alert (who knew dogs could take anti-depressants?).  She perked up and was doing pretty well for someone 105 in dog years.

Then last week, she crashed.  Socks wouldn’t eat or drink.  She seemed crippled in her back legs.  Off to the vet we went. 

You know you are getting older when the vet turns out to be someone your kids went to high school with.  The vet took some blood samples and did an echo-cardiogram.  She came in to tell me that Sock’s heart was worse and the blood tests showed her kidneys were shutting down.  The outlook wasn’t good.  The vet kindly offered to euthanize Socks, but I wanted the family to have a chance to say good-bye.

I brought her home and we all loved on her, knowing her time was short.  She wasn’t eating or drinking.  For two days, I checked on her every hour to make sure she was still breathing.

Then on the third day, Socks drank a little water.  In the night, she had a horrific bowel movement (I slept through it, so my wife caught the worst of it).  We were sure the third day would be her last. 

I can’t stand to see anyone or anything hungry, a trait I get from my father.  I offered Socks some peanut butter and she nibbled it.  Later, Gina fed her a spoon of canned dog food.  The next day she ate some dry dog food and chicken.  By the fifth day, she cleaned her bowl and looked at me expectantly wanting more.  The other dogs, after avoiding her for days the way well people avoid sick people, began to interact with her.  By the sixth day, it was clear Socks was not going to die, she was going to live.

Twice in the New Testament (Romans 4 and Hebrews 11) Abraham is referred to as a man “as good as dead.”  He was, after all, 100 years old in people years.  But God had other plans.  God enabled him to father a son, Isaac.  A few years later, after his wife Sarah died, he married a younger woman and had whole clan of children.  Apparently, being “as good as dead” is not the same as “dead.”

Before you give up on your life, before you give up on God’s promises, before you give up on your future, before you decide you are “as good as dead,” check with God.  “As good as dead” is not the same as “dead.”  Just because someone else has given up on you, or just because you have given up on yourself, doesn’t mean God is done with you.

I’ve been tempted to go back to the vet.  I don’t really think I need to pay $50 for the vet to tell me, “Well, she’s not dead.”  I can see that for myself. 

Open your eyes.  Open your soul.  See that our good God is not done with you yet.