Cheap Faith, Expensive Faith…

I was at a gathering of people who had lot of wealth.  Where and when is not important. Let me simply say that it would incorrect to speak about a Lexus in the parking lot; there were Lexi in the parking lot.  Women were dressed to nines; the men were thin.  Everyone looked perfect.  I felt out of place.

Most of the people in the gathering professed faith in Jesus.  They belonged to churches and attended when they could.  The conversation at the gathering made references to Jesus, to God’s blessings, and to the sorry state of the government.  

Jesus once said it was harder for a rich man to enter the Kingdom of Heaven than for a camel to go through the eye of a needle.  I get the analogy.  When you live in luxury it is hard to be humble.  Sometimes, in my cynicism, I wonder if the ultra-rich would still follow Jesus if said, “Go, sell your Lexus, give the money to the poor, and come and follow me.” 

It’s fun to be self-righteous.  It’s also dangerous.  Nothing attracts the attention of the God like the piety of a person who condemns someone else’s externals without first examining the forest of sin in his or her own life.  In that moment of spiritual pride, a thought from God entered my heart: “So Clay, if I ask you to give up your truck with heated leather seats and give the money to the poor, would you?”

Ouch.  The voice of God in my soul can bring troubling conviction.  If I am not walking with Jesus, I can begin to think I deserve all God lets me enjoy.  This is the temptation of blessing: believing God owes me something because I have been so good.

If you live this way, believe you deserve the blessings of God, Jesus said you will lose something.  You might gain the whole world, but you will lose your soul.  I don’t think Jesus was thinking just of heaven and hell when he said this; he meant you would lose yourself.  Think about it: have you ever heard a story about a person who made it big in their career and made a wreck of their home?  Or maybe they made a wreck of their lives with an addiction?  The track record of human beings staying healthy while successful is not good.

Caroline Mahendran was teaching children in the Sunday School of Zion Church on Easter Sunday.  If you have never taught children in Sunday School, you have no appreciation of the peace of heaven.  One of the tried and true methods of holding children’s attention is asking them a question that requires a mass response.  Simple “yes” or “no” questions are usually the best.

Since it was Easter, Caroline taught the children about the Cross of Jesus and the Resurrection of Jesus.  She spoke about Jesus’ great sacrifice for us and how he deserved our total loyalty.  She asked the class of twenty-four if they would die for Jesus, “Yes!” they shouted.

Fifteen minutes later, as these children were in the sanctuary, waiting for Easter worship services to begin, a suicide bomber entered, detonated his bomb, killing himself and twenty-eight other people.  Twelve of the dead were children, the same children who declared moments earlier they would die for Jesus.  Zion Church is in Batticaloa, Sri Lanka, where almost 300 people died in Easter Sunday bombings.

Arasaratnam Verl lost his only child, V. Jackson.  His oldest sister was also killed.  His younger sisters and his brother-in-law are in critical condition.  I can’t imagine what this man feels.  He is not counting his blessings.  His faith is under faith.  In the face of loss, he will face the toughest test, to believe God is still good while his heart hurts.  “Love your enemies, do good to those who persecute you” is not a quaint notion for him. 

When I read this story, I was brought low.  How can I claim any spiritual maturity when there are people who must live with this kind of threat?  How can I judge anyone when my faith has never faced this kind of test?  All my complaints about the difficulty of life seem trivial compared to the faith that is required to believe when a father sees the blood of his child spilled on the floor of the sanctuary.

King David once said, “I will not give God an offering that costs me nothing.”  Every kind of faith, Christian or not, will face this kind of test.  The test will be simple, though the circumstances seldom are.  The test is this: Is my faith cheap, an imitation of the real thing, a faith that breaks under pressure?  Or is my faith expensive, willing to sacrifice, willing to believe in the face of pain, present in times of trouble? 

Cheap faith or expensive faith.  Which faith do you have?

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.

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. 

A Wonderful World?

Louie Armstrong sang: 

I see trees of green, red roses too
I see them bloom for me and you
And I think to myself what a wonderful world…

Unless, of course, you live in a war zone where tanks are running over the trees and the red roses are destroyed by incoming bombs and missiles.  It doesn’t take human beings very long to destroy the signs of beauty in the world.

Louie croons on:

I see skies of blue and clouds of white
The bright blessed day, the dark sacred night
And I think to myself what a wonderful world…

Unless, of course, the skies of blue you see are because you are homeless, and you have no roof over your head.  Then I’m not so worried about how beautiful the sky is, but where am I going to spend the night?  The dark, sacred night can be frightening when you are on the streets.  There are people out there who want to hurt you; some people out there are crazy enough to want to kill you.

Louie sings:

The colors of the rainbow so pretty in the sky
Are also on the faces of people going by
I see friends shaking hands saying how do you do
They're really saying I love you…

Unless, of course, the colors of the rainbow mean you have just experienced another rainstorm and your farm, or ranch, or orange groves are so flooded you can’t make a crop.  Then you are not really thinking about the rainbow; you are wondering if you will survive.  And sorry, Louie, but have you seen some people’s faces? They are like a rainbow because the corners of their mouths are always turned down in a frown.  I’ve known some people who shake my hand and say, “How do you do?” who are not saying “I love you.” Instead, they are saying, “I want to sell you something you don’t need.”

Louie’s final verse:

I hear babies crying, I watch them grow
They'll learn much more than I'll never know
And I think to myself what a wonderful world
Yes, I think to myself what a wonderful world.

Unless, of course, Louie, that baby woke you up at 3:00 am throwing up and crying.  Then I’m not thinking about watching them grow and how much they’ll know; I’m praying I can get the doctor on call and I’m praying its nothing major.

You might think I’m in a really bad mood as I write this.  Truly, I’m not.  Nor am I down on positive thinking.  We can use all the positive thinking on the planet we can get.  Nor am I saying Jesus followers are members of the “Ain’t it awful” club.  We, above all people, have reason to hope.  We are the Easter people and our Lord is the one who triumphed over death. 

Why, then, deconstruct such an optimistic, hopeful song with such a pessimistic outlook?  Lately God has been impressing on me that just because my life is going well doesn’t mean everyone’s life is going well.  God loves every person on this planet right now.  Things are terrific for some of them.  Things are okay for a lot of them.  For most of the people on the planet, however, life is a drudge.  To quote the great theologian, Elvis, they are caught in a trap, and they can’t walk out.  They are caught in traps of poverty, war, disease, depression, anxiety, and despair.  Pointing to trees, flowers, blue skies, smiles, and babies does not make the trap go away.

It’s not a wonderful world, not yet.  This is why Jesus not only died to forgive our sins and rose again, but why he promised he would return.  Christians debate the how, what, and when of his return, but that’s not the main point of his return.

When Jesus returns, the world will be judged.  That judgement will not be just about who goes to heaven and who goes to hell.  It will God coming to establish his Kingdom on this earth, where his values and his way of life will rule.  Those of us who follow Jesus will participate in that amazing re-creation.  Those who don’t want to participate?  Well, God makes a place for them that is hot and unpleasant.  The second coming of Jesus means the earth will return back to what it was created to be. 

Then, and only then, will it truly be, a wonderful world – the world of the Kingdom of God.

Be Prepared…

A long, long time ago, there was a different version of “The Bachelor.”   

A father decided it was time for his son to be married.  Unlike most parents, he had not arranged a marriage for his son when he was a toddler.  The father was just enough of a romantic that he wanted his son to have the opportunity to fall in love.  He wanted his son to have a choice.

Certain conventions, however, had to be observed.  The bride would be selected from the family’s ancestral home.  Ten of the most attractive unmarried girls would be presented to his son, the future groom, and he would pick one to marry.

Word was sent to the old hometown.  Entertainment options were limited in those days, so the whole town was excited to see how this story would unfold.  The parents of the unmarried women were excited, for the father was rich and could be expected to pay a large dowry – perhaps as much as 30 or 40 cows!  The unmarried women were excited, because they knew all the eligible men in town – and had known them for years.  The idea of a new man in town, from a rich family, was like a dream come true.

There were ten unmarried women total and they began their preparations.  New clothes were sown.  Expensive perfume, some costing a year’s wages, was purchased.  Tips on how to be attractive were whispered among the women.  Advice was given by mothers and fathers, grandmothers, aunts, and cousins. 

A new message came: expect the groom-to-be to arrive on the evening of the next new moon. He would make his selection that night.  There would be an elaborate banquet.  Negotiations on dowry would follow and the wedding would held as soon as possible.

Once it was known the groom-to-be would arrive at night, every family realized the lighting was critical.  Some of the women used small lamps, so their less attractive features could be hidden in the shadows.  A few families gambled on their daughter’s charms and bought larger lamps so beautiful faces could be seen.

The day of the new moon arrived and the whole town seemed to spruce up for the arrival of the groom.  The ten unmarried women spent the day bathing, dressing, rearranging their hair, getting last minute advice from their Moms and Dads, and trying to remain calm.  In the late afternoon, the women gathered up their beauty paraphernalia and their lamps and made their way to the town square. 

People milled around waiting for the town watchman to cry, “Here comes the groom.”  With no moon, the stars sparkled like diamonds.  In the darkness, lanterns were burning, but as time went on, people let the lanterns die out, saving their extra fuel for the wedding banquet.

Nine o’clock came and went.  By ten-thirty, everyone was yawning.  A few people gave up and went home to bed.  People were laying on the grass of the town square, catching a few winks.  One by one, the ten unmarried women dozed off.

It was midnight when the watchman finally cried out, “The groom is here!  Everybody up!  The groom is here.”

Everyone startled awake.  The ten unmarried women grabbed their lanterns to light them, so they could see their last-minute beauty adjustments.  Five of the unmarried women had packed some extra oil, just in case.  Five of the unmarried women only brought the oil in the lamps.

The five unmarried women without oil said to the five unmarried women with oil, “Give us some oil!  We don’t have enough to relight our lamps.”  The five unmarried women with oil replied, “No way.  If we give you some, we won’t have enough! Get your own oil!”  They might have added, “We want the groom-to-be to see us!  You are on your own!”

The five unmarried women without oil groaned.  They knew this meant they would have to go to the oil dealer’s house, wake him up, plead for him to get them some more oil, pay extra, and hope they could make it back in time for the groom-to-be to pick them.  Off they scurried.

Before they could make it back, however, the groom did arrive.  The crowd gave him a great cheer.  He looked at the unmarried women, grinned, and said, “This is going to be a hard decision!  Come on, let’s go in to the banquet.  I’m starved and I want to eat something as I make my decision.”  In they went.

Five minutes after the door to the banquet room was closed, the five unmarried women came back with their extra oil.  They banged on the door: “Let us in!”  The groom-to-be was closest to the door.  He went over and hollered back, “Who are you?”  The reply came, “We are unmarried women who want to be in the contest!  We want to marry you!”  The groom-to-be looked at the crowd, rolled his eyes, and said, “I don’t think so!  I didn’t see you when I arrived.”

The five unmarried women went away, devastated.  Of the other group, one was picked to be the bride.  The other four were depressed at not being chosen, but at least, they told themselves, they had a chance.

Jesus told a story a lot like this one.  You might say the story sounds unfair.  But Jesus told us the uncomfortable truth we all want to deny but we all know is true: Some opportunities are really once in a lifetime.  So be prepared.  Be prepared for Jesus to come and work in your life.  Be prepared for his coming.  Be prepared for the opportunities God gives you.  No one knows when the opportunities will come.  We only know they will come.  Are you prepared?

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.

Things You Think You Know…

Everyone knows that Adam and Eve ate the apple and got thrown out of the garden – right?  Actually, nowhere in the Bible is a specific fruit named.  John Milton in 1644 said it was an apple after French and German artists had depicted apples on the Forbidden Tree (personally, I think it was a guava).

Everyone knows that “God helps those who help themselves” is a verse in the Bible – right?  Actually, those words never appear in scripture.  In fact, the whole thought is contrary to the message of Jesus.  Other “verses” not in the Bible:  “God helps those who help themselves,” “Charity begins at home,” “Cleanliness is next to godliness,” “God works in mysterious ways,” and “This too shall pass.”

Everyone knows that Jesus was born on December 25th – right?  Actually, the Bible never tells us a specific date.  December 25th was decreed the official day to celebrate Jesus’ birth by Pope Julius I in 350 AD. 

Everyone knows that Jonah was swallowed by a whale – right?  Actually, the Book of Jonah tells us he was swallowed by a “great fish.”  If this sounds like fish tale, I’ve read stories about fish big enough to swallow other fish the size of man.  This is one reason why I think noodling for catfish is not a good idea.

Everyone knows there were three wise men – right?  Actually, the Bible never tells us how many wise men there were, or their names.  It only tells us they brought three gifts:  gold, frankincense, and myrrh. 

Everyone knows the Bible says “Money is root of all evil” – right?  Actually, that’s not what the Bible says.  1 Timothy 6:10 says, “For the love of money is the root of all kinds of evil.”  Money is amoral – meaning it is neither right or wrong.  It’s what we do with money and the meaning we attach to money that counts.  One man can save his money and sin, because he’s greedy; another man can save his money and be right with God, because he is being wise.  This requires some serious self- examination.

Everyone knows that Satan has red skin, a tail, horns, and a pitchfork – right?  Actually, there is no physical description of Satan anywhere in the Bible.  We do know he was an angel, and we know angels have an impressive physical presence, but that’s about it.  Our common image of Satan doesn’t rise until the Dark Ages, when it was assumed the old Roman gods were evil spirits.  Satan began to be portrayed as a darker depiction of these gods.

Everyone knows that Sodom and Gomorrah were destroyed because people there were gay – right?  Actually, there’s a lot more to the story.  It is true that the men of Sodom demanded Lot hand over the angels who were visiting him, and it is true that they wanted to rape these men.  it is also true that God had decided long before this incident to destroy these cities.  Why?  Genesis tells us they were wicked, which meant they no longer cared about right or wrong.  All they cared about was their own agenda.  This might make us pause just a moment to ask if our own country cares about right and wrong…

Everyone knows that Mary Magdalene was a prostitute – right?  Actually, we are only told that seven demons were cast out of her.  There is no mention at all of her being a prostitute.  Pope Gregory I in the 6th century assumed that seven demons would be the equivalent to the seven deadly sins and made the leap of imagination.  Preachers have been doing this ever since.

Everyone knows that when a person dies, they become an angel – right? Actually, there is nothing in the Bible that even hints that people become angels.  Angels are a different order of being than humans.  It sounds like a comforting thought, but God already has all the angels he needs.

Just because everyone “knows” something doesn’t mean it’s true.  Depending on someone else to tell you what is true is like depending on someone else to take your medicine for you.  Life just doesn’t work that way.  You are responsible for your own spiritual journey, for your own understanding of truth.

So, dig in.Read.Reflect.Ask questions.You may find out that what you know is not worth knowing.Maybe, just maybe, you will find the truth.If you know the truth, Jesus said, it will set you free.That’s something everyone needs to know

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.

Jesus Meets Donald Trump and Kim Jong-Un…

When Donald Trump and Kim Jong-Un meet at The Metropole Hotel in Hanoi, they could not come to an agreement.  Kim would not unilaterally give up his nuclear weapons and Trump would not unilaterally lift sanctions on North Korea.  I could not help but imagine what would happen if Jesus had made himself visible at the moment the talks were breaking down.

Kim Jong-Un would have been surprised.  He lives in a rarefied atmosphere where his word is law and no one tells him “no.”  I can imagine Jesus telling Kim that he isn’t God and he really should stop acting like one.  Jesus might even tell Kim that one day he will die, and despite the big propaganda machine of his government, after his death he would have an eternal destiny controlled by God, not by himself.  He will be held accountable for his actions; as a leader, his accountability will be higher. 

Probably Jesus would also tell Kim that his nuclear weapons were no match for the power of God.  Would Jesus quote the Old Testament to Kim? “Some trust in chariots and others in horses, but we trust in the name of the LORD our God.”  Maybe.

I am sure of this: Jesus would tell Kim that he loved him.  He would tell Kim, “You have manipulated people into declaring love for you, but their words are driven by fear.  You have never known a love like mine, a love given not based on your commands, but based on my heart for you.  I can and will forgive everything you have done.  Follow me.”

What would Donald Trump’s reaction be?  I can imagine President Trump knowing immediately who Jesus is, and perhaps being glad that Jesus is there.  He might even hope Jesus will show Kim Jong-un a thing or two.

But I can also imagine President Trump being surprised when Jesus turns to him and reminds him of a story from the book of Joshua, when Joshua sees a man standing with a sword in his hands, right before the battle of Jericho.  Joshua asked him whose side he is on.  The man answers, “I’m not on either side.  I am the commander of the Army of Lord, and I am on the scene.”  God follows his own plan, not ours.

Jesus might also go on and say to President Trump, “Don’t overestimate the art of making a deal.  Make sure you are asking where I am at work and join me there.  Donald, try a little humility.  Remember I am not on your side or Kim’s side.  I am on my side and your job is to be with me.”

Jesus probably would say to President Trump, “Look Donald, while I’ve got your attention, it’s time for you to repent of some sins.  You’ve tried to hide them and that’s not working very well.  You can’t hide any sin from me.  You say you believe in me.  Show the world your faith and confess your sins.  Ask for forgiveness.  Make amends to those who have been hurt.”

The truth is I think Jesus was at that Summit.  God is interested in things like nuclear war, peace, and his creation.  I’ll bet through the Holy Spirit God was speaking to Kim Jong-un and Donald Trump.  The real question is: were they listening?  Only God knows.

Unlike Kim Jong-un, who will force people to listen and declare their love, God allows people the weighty responsibility of choice.  God allows people to choose to obey, choose to love, and choose to follow.  God will not even make world leaders obey (but he will use their disobedience to accomplish his will.  Exhibit A: Pharaoh in the book of Exodus).  Nothing of long term good happens when you do not do God’s will.

This is also the truth: Jesus, through the Holy Spirit, is with you.  If you are a child of God, he wants to guide your decisions and choices.  If you are not follower of Jesus, I believe the Spirit is still at work, trying to help you see that you are not God, you need help in your life, and you need to discover what real love is, the real love of God.  God wants to speak to you about your self-centeredness, your sin, and your repentance.

Like Donald Trump and Kim Jong-un, the real question is: Are you listening?

A Real Man…

A Real Man…

I grew up with people who had definite ideas about what a real man did:

• A real man always unsaddled his horse after a day’s work, fed the horse, and brush out the horse’s coat before he went to the house for supper.  Of course, all the women who had ridden that day did the same thing.

• A real man could shoot a gun.  Of course, every one of my aunts could shoot a gun too.  Don’t mess around with Smith women.

• A real man got up early, worked till past sundown, ate supper and went to bed.  Of course, the women got up even earlier to cook breakfast, clean the house, get the kids off to school, go help with whatever needed to be done around the ranch, get home, cook supper, clean up after supper, get the kids to bed, and try to sleep while her husband snored next to her (all Smith men, and some Smith women, snore.  It’s genetic).

• A real man killed the snakes.  Of course, there was that one time we were riding in my grandfather Clemons’ pasture and we saw a rattle snake.  My grandfather got out his pistol and shot at the snake three times.  He missed every time.  My step-father, Lawrence, took his turn and shot three times.  He missed every time.  My mother got a hoe from the back of the truck and cut the snake’s head off, thus fulfilling Genesis 3:15 –“I will put enmity between you (the serpent) and the woman.”  Mamma always was a Bible-believing woman.

• A real man had a good collection of tools to fix whatever was broken.  Of course, most of the time he was hollering at his wife, “Honey, where is my three-quarter inch socket?”

• A real man was expected to open doors for ladies.  Of course, this rule was suspended when riding in the pasture and coming up to a gate.  The rule then became whoever was driving (always the man) was to drive the truck through the gate and the woman was to get out and open the gate until the truck passed through.  This rule change usually was implemented after marriage and usually resulted in the death of romance.

Some of what I learned in childhood was helpful.  Over the years, however, I’ve added a few more items to list of what makes a real man.

• A real man listens to his wife.  Even when he’s tired.  Even when her words don’t make sense to him. He listens not because he is trying to fix her, but because he is trying to understand her.

• A real man plays Barbies with his daughter.  He knows he needs to enter her world and value her for being female.

• A real man does not make his son his rival or his legacy.  He helps his son find his own path.

• A real man confesses his hurts, hang ups, and habits.  He realizes every knows them anyway.

• A real man is never cruel for the sake of cruelty.

• A real man doesn’t act like he knows everything because he knows you never learn anything that way.

• A real man stands up for the downtrodden, fights for justice, and never is a bully.  He knows all bullies are insecure.

• A real man defends the weak.

• A real man keeps the small stuff small and makes the main thing the main thing.

• A real man does the dishes.

• A real man is willing to lay down his life for people he loves.

• A real man knows his mission and passionately pursues it.

The realest man who ever lived?  Jesus.  He worked with his hands.  He loved his Mother.  He spoke the truth.  He never abused his power.  He laid down his life for people he loved – you and me.

More to Life…

Once upon a time, there was a man who set out to be happy. 

First, he had to figure out what it meant to be happy.  His parents told him the best way to be happy was to get ahead.  “Get an education,” they said.  So he went to one of the finest colleges in the land, got a graduate degree, and became an expert in an area of knowledge.  People wrote him from all over the world to find out what he thought.  He was famous – but it didn’t really make him happy.

He was talking this over with a colleague one night.  His friend said, “You need to get off this academic treadmill and go make some real money.”  So he left the university and went off to parlay his academic expertise into something lucrative.  He formed a company, got some customers, hired some people, and soon had the cash rolling in.  Before long he was buying another house, upgrading his transportation, having clothes custom made.  He enjoyed the money, but it took a lot of his time.  Business meetings, getting with his accountant, doing lunch with his broker – all took hours out of his schedule.  The money and the means to make it crowded out the rest of life.  He wasn’t really happy.

Someone told him he needed a family.  He never swam in dating pool before, but being rich increased his physical attractiveness.  He had plenty of opportunities.  It wasn’t long before he met someone and things clicked.  She was beautiful, smart, and seemed to really love him, not just for his money (she said).  It wasn’t long before a couple of little ones were running around.  The kids did bring him some smiles, but still, he wasn’t really happy.

He was a moral man.  He didn’t cheat on his wife; he was straight forward in his business; he didn’t cheat on his taxes.  People thought of him as a man of character. He had heard “Virtue is its own reward, but still, he wasn’t really happy. 

One day he heard about a teacher – someone who had it all together.  The restlessness stirred his heart one more time and off he went in search of the answer to emptiness.  He thought about how he would phrase his question and decided he didn’t want to be too vulnerable.  Since this particular teacher was religious, he’d frame his question in religious terms:  How could he find eternal life?

When the man arrived at the teaching venue, it was already packed – a positive sign.  Using his charm, and occasionally offering money to someone, he worked his way to the front of the crowd. 

The teacher noticed his arrival and gave him a head nod.  Maybe, the man thought, he recognizes me from the university, or maybe from my company. 

The teacher paused for Q and A.  Before anyone else could start a sentence, the man launched into his question: “Good teacher, what must I do to inherit eternal life?”  The teacher looked surprised.  “Why are you calling me good?,” said the teacher.  “Only God is good.  You know the right things to do – its obvious.”

The man smiled and said, “Yes, I’ve been doing the right thing as long as I can remember.”  He wasn’t smug when he said it, but wistful. 

The teacher recognized what was behind the wistfulness, and he knew that something was off balance.  And he knew what it was.  The teacher did not say, “Your emptiness is because you have done the right things, but you don’t have the right heart.”   Instead, the teacher went right to what needed to change: “Go, sell what you have, give it to the poor.  Then come and follow me.”

In the man’s soul, there was a flicker of hope in the dark emptiness.  In that moment he knew this was the way to filling full.  It would take this radical step to drive the emptiness out of his heart.  For three beats of his heart, he could see a different life.  He could see life not based on more, but filled with peace.

Then the hope was snuffed out by other voices: “What will your parents think?  How will you liquidate your company?  The market is down right now; you’ll never get what’s it’s worth.  What about your wife?  Would she be willing to stay married to you if you’re poor and off on some religious calling?  What about the kids?  Don’t they deserve the best your money can buy?”

Hope was driven out by fear.

The man looked at the teacher, shook his head three times, and walked away, head down, heart still empty.

Over the years, he kept hearing about the teacher.  People said he didn’t just teach, but he also did miracles.  The man heard the teacher was killed by the Romans one Passover, crucified.  Some of his followers came through town and said he had been raised from the dead, and the teacher was really the Messiah, the chosen one of God.

Most days, however, he seldom thought about the teacher.  It was easier to push down the thoughts of “What if…”  Decades later, he was on his deathbed, in his beautiful house.  His wife was there, still beautiful in old age. His sons and their wives, his grandchildren, were all gathered.  He had everything a man could want.  He had achieved everything a man could achieve. 

Still the emptiness remained.  The peace that could fill the emptiness never came.  He died.  After a few decades, no one remembered his name.  People just remembered that he loved his money, his success, more than he wanted to follow Jesus.

Healing the Hurt …

Right after the NCAA National Championship game, the whole Crimson Tide fan base hurt.  Why?  They lost, and they were accustomed to winning. 

What happens when a whole group of people are hurt? They look for someone to blame.  For the first time, I saw people questioning Nick Saban’s coaching genius.  They withdraw.  My friends who are ‘Bama fans were strangely missing from social media the day after the game.  They vow revenge.  “Wait ‘til next year,” they say, naturally assuming a return to the National Championship.  They trumpet their past accomplishments.  Alabama fans reminded us they had more national championships than anyone else (which always has to be qualified by saying “in the poll era,” since technically, that amazing football power, Yale, has the most).   Oddly, they start to fight among themselves.  This is the strangest phenomena of all.  The Roll Tide fan sites were filled with debates about recruiting, quarterbacks, coaching, and play-calling.  They started calling each other names, even though they were on the same side!

What happens when a church feels like it is losing?  They look for someone to blame, usually the pastor.  “If we just had the right pastor (my wife’s cousin’s brother-in-law), we’d be growing.”  One of the reasons pastors get fired so often is people believe the pastor/coach is the reason the church isn’t doing well.  One pastor told me with frustration, “I can tell them what God wants, but I can’t do it for them.” 

What happens when a church feels like it is losing?  They withdraw.  Outreach isn’t a priority.  “Let’s take care of our own,” is the unspoken priority.  Preservation of the building receives the attention and the funding, not doing ministry.  “We want a pastor who is good at visiting,” not, “we want a pastor who will lead us.”  Everything the church does must be “safe.”  Real issues are not addressed.

What happens when a church feels like it is losing?  They worship the past.  “Remember when we filled up this sanctuary?”   They have history rooms, not mission rooms.  Old programs that worked in the 1950’s are perpetuated because they worked in the old days, not because they meet needs today.  Old nursery furniture is kept because “It was good enough for my children (who are now 45 and 38).”

What happens when a church feels like it is losing?  They start to fight among themselves.  They fight over spending money.  They fight over decisions to update the building.  They fight over staff.  They fight over control.  They do not fight, however, over the future, because it is too scary.

When churches fight, people get hurt.   Staff are expected to make bricks without straw and are fired when they do not recreate the “good old days.”  People on the fringe are overlooked, because they don’t “belong.”  Grace is not given to people who threaten status quo.  The fights in church conference or in committee meeting get more vicious.  Labels are applied.  Sides are chosen.  “Us vs. Them” becomes “Righteous vs. Evil.” 

Hurt churches hurt people.  When a church feels like it is losing, it is hurting.  Toxicity sets in.  Healthier people will leave.  Some will stay out of loyalty to the past.  No one is asking, “How do I love the people in this church like Jesus?” 

How do you heal church hurt?  It’s simple, really.  The people in the church must decide they want to follow Jesus more than they want to blame, more than they want to withdraw, more than they want to remember the past, and more than they want to fight.  They beg God for his power to overtake them.  They commit themselves to discover God’s mission.  The only way a church heals its hurt is to love her Lord more than they love their hurt.

This is hard work.  It requires the leadership to seek the wisdom of God.  It requires the people of the church to be humble and broken before the Lord, asking forgiveness as a church and desiring more than anything, the wisdom and power of God.  It requires the people of God to live in grace, being filled with his love and being grateful for his mercy.

Is this possible?  Yes.  I’ve seen churches do this hard work.  The wounds heal.  The divisions close.  Health is returned.  People are helped, not hurt.

Sometimes churches do not want to do this hard work.  They choose the easier path of dysfunction.  People in these churches must decide if they need to find a healthier church or if they are called to be part of the faithful remnant that is to reclaim God’s power and wisdom for that church.  Unfortunately, many decide to stay unhealthy in the unhealthy church.  More people are hurt.

Churches are not meant to hurt people by their own hurt.  Churches are meant to be places of grace, telling the good news of Jesus.  Imagine the world if churches were healthy places of hope.

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.

Please Pray for Me. Okay, What?

It’s an occupational hazard: “Pastor, please pray for me.”  When I first began as a pastor, I said “Okay,” and went on my way.  No one told me people actually expected me to pray with them.  Right then.  About whatever their need was.  I was corrected by some older women at Southside Baptist Church in my hometown, where I was the twenty-two-year-old pastor (Twenty-five brave people who called me when I was young, single, and didn’t know a thing).  Over the years, I learned to do two things: ask people what they wanted me to pray for; and pray right then.

Over the years I’ve heard the usual litany of requests: pray for an upcoming doctor’s appointment, someone who lost a loved one, a troubled teenager, and a fractured marriage.  People have cried on my shoulder, asking me to pray for someone they love that is destroying his or her life and needs Jesus.  I pray hard when that request is made.

I’ve also been asked to pray for dogs that aren’t acting right, irritable cats, and even for a lost cow (I wasn’t sure if I should pray for the cow to be found or to be saved).  One adorable four-year-old girl looked at me with big blue eyes and asked me to pray for her goldfish who was upside down in his water.  How do you pray for the resurrection of a goldfish?

I don’t know if this story is true, but I once heard about a pastor who was asked to pray for a young woman named Nikki.  When he asked about Nikki’s condition, he was told that Nikki was a young mother whose husband had left her for his ex-wife.  She had cancer that required an operation, and now as a result of the surgery, she had lost her memory.  The pastor was moved by the plight of this poor woman.  He asked which hospital she was in.  The reply came that she was on the soap opera “The Young and the Restless.”  He prayed for “Nikki” with gritted teeth.

People seldom ask for my opinion about their prayer requests.  The longer I study scripture, the more I am convinced we pray for the wrong things.  Most of our prayers are for God to solve our problems.  Don’t get me wrong, I think we ought to pray those prayers.  We might need to add a few items to our list, however.

Pray that people will be wise.  Wisdom is understanding reality and living life according to that knowledge.  For example, a woman came to me whose husband had left her.  She was in tears, understandably.  As we talked, however, it was apparent there had been problems in the marriage for many years, including multiple affairs on his part.  I asked her if she really wanted him back.  She paused, as if it was the first time she had considered the question, and then softly replied, “No.  I do not want him back.  He is toxic to me and to our kids.  Honestly, I feel sorry for the woman in this latest affair.  He’s going to wreck her life, like he wrecked mine.”  That woman was experiencing the birth of wisdom.  I pray more people are wise.

Pray that people open their eyes to what God is doing.  Often we expect God to deliver answers to our prayers like Amazon Prime delivers packages: anything more than two days makes us wonder if the answer has been lost in transit.  But if you pause, you can see God has not forgotten you or your needs.  No matter how hopeless you feel, God’s hand can still be seen in your life.  When Job cries out that God has not answered him, God reminds Job in a not-so-subtle way that he is still making the universe spin, controlling the weather, and generally thinking about things Job has never thought about.  I pray more people open their eyes to God’s activity.

Pray that people will have hope.  Hope is more powerful than anxiety, more powerful than despair.  Hope pulls us forward.  I want to pray for people to have hope, not that things will work out, but with the assurance that God is in control.  I want people to have hope for their child in rebellion, knowing that God loves their child more than they do.  I want people who are picking themselves up after their latest fall back into addiction to have hope that God’s power will pick them up and help them start again.  I pray more people will live with God’s hope.

Pray for all the other burdens of your heart.  Pray for the sick, the grieving, the lost.  Pray that lost cows will be found and pray cute four-year-old girls will understand the death of their goldfish.  But add other things to your prayer requests.  Wisdom.  Seeing God’s activity.  Hope.  Pray for these things.  For yourself.  For your children.  For your spouse.  For each other.  For our leaders.  Our Heavenly Father is longing to answer prayers like these.

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?

Washed New…

My college Spanish teacher, Marilyn Allgood, was one of the most persuasive people I’ve ever known.  She was passionate about missions in the Rio Grande River area.  To incentivize college students to go during summer break, she offered college credits to go  and translated for a mission team doing work in the rural Mexican desert.  I was persuaded and signed up.

We went in with team from Arkansas and I learned that my college Spanish had not prepared me for construction terminology.  No one had taught me the word for rafter or welding or soffit or concrete.  By the end of my first week, I was dreaming in Spanish.

The team from Arkansas left after a week, and my partner, Brian, and I were left behind to work with children and lead Bible Studies. 

The people in the village were trying to scratch out a living in the desert.  They had small vegetable gardens, watered by buckets carried from a windmill pump.  Their scrawny cows and goats survived out in the bush. 

I was enough of a norte americano that after a week, I wanted a bath.  With water so precious, bathing was not a regular activity in the village.  After a day or two, you no longer noticed the smell of others; you simply hoped they didn’t notice you.  The only bathing option was the pond by the windmill, where the cows and goats drank and cooled off.  The water was muddy and, shall we say, had little islands of cow residue floating on top of the water. 

Desperate men do desperate things.  I took my bar of soap down to the cow pond and waded out into the filthy water.  My soap touched the water, squealed, rolled over and sank. I tried to remove the top layer of dirt, but new dirt was clinging to me faster than the old dirt was coming off.  I gave up, filthier than before.

Our Mexican liaison must have noticed our discomfort, because the next day he rattled into the village with a pickup and told us we were going for a ride.  We hopped on, Brian and I, and he headed out of the village, headed toward the distant mountains.  He stopped in another village to pick up another team of students, Molly and Susan.  They had been doing literacy training.  Off we went again.

After hundreds of twists and turns, he stopped.  Then we heard it: the sound of rushing water. 

We jumped off the truck and headed toward the sound.  Gushing over rocks was the cleanest, purest water I had ever seen, flowing down from the mountains.  Brian needed no encouragement.  He waded right in, fully clothed.  I was right after him.  The water was cold but refreshing.  Molly and Susan were hesitant, but soon their desire for clean overcame their modesty. 

I found a deep spot and squatted down.  I could feel the water peeling away the layers of dirt and grime.  I dunked my head underwater, and felt the oil stripped from my hair.  I was being washed clean.

It was a moment of deep joy, sanitized by the force of the water, refreshed by it’s cool temperature, and restored to something we once knew – cleanness.  It meant even more, because the four of us were sharing it together.  This was gift, a renewal.  It was like a baptism. 

The shadows had begun to fall and our Mexican guide told us it was time to go back.  Darkness fell quickly.  We rode in the back of the truck, shivering in our wet clothes, but clean, marveling at the stars, bright in an unpolluted sky.  Despite having no preacher, no music, and no Bible, it was one of the best of worship I ever had.

How often do you try to clean your soul in dirty water?  It never works.  Jesus tried to tell us this.  He told us that hate, lust, self-centeredness, salesmanship, making sure things are even – none of this works.  None of these behaviors make us feel cleaner.

You and I need an encounter with God’s grace.  We need to be plunged into God’s blessings and be cleaned by his power, the power of a pure Savior who died for our sins and was raised to give us new life. 

Visit God’s gushing stream of grace.  Be loved.  Marvel.  Get clean.

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.