Failing Our Children…

We are failing our children.

The latest reminder of our failure happened in Uvalde, Texas. A troubled young man, Salvador Ramos, took two semi-automatic rifles he had purchased into Robb Elementary School. He proceeded to kill nineteen children, most of them nine to ten years old, and two teachers described as the “cornerstones of the school.” Prior to this act of violence, he shot his grandmother in the face and posted on Facebook his intentions.

People all over the world are offering “thoughts and prayers.” This is important. We should pray. But James, Jesus’ brother said, “Faith without works is dead.”

According to one news report, Salvador Ramos’ favorite video games were “Call of Duty” and “Fortnight.” While science has not proved a causal link between violent “shooter” games and gun violence, is this really what you want male adolescents to learn? It is one thing to take a child into the woods with a gun and hunt. Such lessons are valuable; a child learns about life and death. Blood is real. Death means no return. I learned those lessons as a child. It was hammered into me a gun is an effective but dangerous tool. But a video game creates a fuzzy reality, where death only lasts until the next game. If you have a point-of-view shooter game in the house and your children are under the age of eighteen, take a hammer and smash those games. Endure the whining and the fits that will follow. Your child’s mind is too precious to damage.

Salvador Ramos was known as a troubled soul. He was bullied in High School. His mother was a drug user. Though politicians claim there is mental health treatment available for kids like Salvador, those who have tried to access public mental health treatment know the long waits for appointments, the overloaded caseworkers, and the lack of follow-up care. No one wants higher taxes, but if we do not fund public mental health adequately, we can expect another kid like Salvador to fall through the cracks and kill people.

News stories have made no mention of Salvador Ramos’ father. So far, no youth group leader, no pastor has stepped forward to say, “Salvador attended our church.” I am not trying to blame the churches and pastors of Uvalde, or even his dad. But where, exactly, do we expect our children to learn to make moral decisions? In school? We flood our screens with violence in the name of entertainment and then expect children to know right and wrong. If you are a parent, and even if you are not sure there is a God, can I beg you to please take your children to church? We cannot undo the eight hours a day your kids spend in front of a screen, but we can teach them about moral decisions, about right and wrong. If you won’t take your kids to church, then figure out a moral framework you can teach them yourself. One thing the Uvalde shootings proved again: if right and wrong is not taught by someone, right and wrong will not be lived out by the one who needs to be taught.

There are now simple devices that can prevent entry into a classroom by an active shooter. Every classroom in America should have one. Every school in America should have a school resource officer for every 200 students. Will it cost more? Yes. Is the cost worth the lives of children? Yes. You cannot claim to be pro-life and stop protecting children as soon as they leave the safety of the womb.

Our teachers deserve to be protected. My daughter-in-law teaches school. She does not receive hazardous duty pay. No matter your opinion on public or private schools, can we agree that every child and every teacher in America deserves a safe school to attend. We cannot cut funding for education, place teachers in harmful environments, and then wonder why teachers are abandoning their profession in droves. Our children deserve teachers who can teach without fear of attack.

A few days after his eighteenth birthday, Salvador Ramos legally bought an AR-15 style semi-automatic weapon and 375 rounds of ammunition. I do not wish to argue second amendment rights, but can we agree an eighteen-year-old has no business owning a gun like that? Science tells us the male brain does not fully mature to the point of understanding long-term consequences until age twenty-five. The right to bear arms is matched with the responsibility to bear arms. If you are gun owner, like I am, make sure your guns are locked up and inaccessible to those who should not have them. If you buy and sell guns, foreswear a sale to someone who has no business owning a gun.

Some of you reading this may think a simple Baptist preacher has no business writing about such things. “Stick to the Bible,” you say. Okay, I will. Jesus said, “If anyone causes one of these little ones—those who believe in me—to stumble, it would be better for them to have a large millstone hung around their neck and to be drowned in the depths of the sea.” To theological nitpickers, I am aware that Jesus is talking about those who believe in him. But as the context of Matthew 18 makes clear, he is also talking about children. Killing a child, being complicit in helping someone kill a child, causes them to stumble, don’t you think? The thought of a millstone being hung around my neck and being cast in the sea is enough to make me stop and think about my actions, my words. I do not want to fail the children anymore.

There is much division in our country. I cannot pretend to fathom how to heal all the fault lines. But for God’s sake, let us stop failing the children. Whatever it costs, whatever we must do, let us stop failing the children. I know that is what Jesus wants us to do.

Head in the Sand or Prayer List?

I heard it again this week: “I don’t watch the news. It’s too depressing.”  I admit it can be downright depressing sometimes. In these overstressed times, the news sometimes brings another story of woe. These stories can be happening on the other side of the world or in the next county over. We feel powerless to stop a war, comfort victims, mourn with families outside our zip codes or stop political shenanigans in our own town. 

A variation of this is getting our news only from people we agree with. This leads to what is called “confirmation bias.”  We only read or watch viewpoints until they seem to be the only valid ones. We wind up in an information hall of mirrors, magnifying our opinions and tailoring the news to fit our preconceived ideas. 

When we tune out the news, or only tune into the news that supports our viewpoints, we are accused of putting our heads in the sand. This phrase comes from Roman times. The Romans observed ostriches in Africa and thought they put their heads in the sand when they were frightened or threatened.  

The Romans, however, had bad eyesight. Ostriches do not put their heads in the sand. When they feel threatened, they will check their eggs, which are buried in the sand. Or they will put their head on top of the sand to lower their profiles. Ostriches are smart enough to know you cannot hide from reality. 

I am sad to say some of my tribe of Christians still believe we can hide from reality by avoiding the news or pretending reality doesn’t exist by offering a false account of events (Whatever happened to “Thou shalt not bear false witness?”). Jesus, however, never ducked reality. He never created a false narrative. His followers believe he came to deal with the ultimate reality of humanity: the brokenness of human lives and the sinful cultures we build. Remember his clear words: “You shall know the truth, and the truth will set you free.” 

Karl Barth said, “Take your Bible and take your newspaper, and read both. But interpret newspapers from your Bible.”  I’ve thought a lot about this since I heard about another weekend of gun violence. A white supremacist takes guns into a grocery story and kills ten people. Another gunman opens fire in a California church, wounding five and killing a doctor, who heroically charged the gunman as he opened fire, enabling others to subdue him. This gunman, ironically born in Taiwan, hated Taiwanese people. When I hear about racially motivated shootings, I remember what the Bible says: “Yea, though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death, I will fear no evil, for thou are with me. Thy rod and thy staff, they comfort me.”  I pray for God to walk with people through tragedy, for God to comfort them. I pray for God to drive out the hate that inhabits troubled souls.

I read about the ongoing war between Russia and Ukraine. I remember to pray for peace: “Turn from evil and do good; seek peace and pursue it.”  Though it is hard, I pray to the enemies of my country that they might see the hopelessness of their path and turn toward the grace and forgiveness of Jesus.

A stock market alert comes across my phone. Bears and Bulls are wrestling on Wall Street. I know this means the next time I check my retirement fund, I will feel anxiety and wonder, “Do I have enough?”  Then I remember to pray: “What time I am afraid, I will trust in you.”  The words of Jesus come back to me: “Do not store up for yourselves treasures on earth…; rather, store up treasure in heaven.”  Every dip in the stock market is an invitation to trust my Heavenly Father, who knows my needs better than I do.

A leaked Supreme Court draft striking down Roe vs. Wade causes some people to rejoice and others to proclaim the end of a woman’s freedom. I hear Jesus’ words in my head, “This is my command, that you love one another. Love one another as I have loved you.”  I must confess to God my heart must grow before I can love all the people in the abortion debate. I am to love the unborn baby who carries the image of God. I am to love the mom who is considering abortion, because her pregnancy is not good news. I am to love the single mom who decides to keep her baby and depends on my tax dollars to buy her baby formula. I am to love people who spew judgment and hate on all sides of the issue. I pray harder for God to help me love everyone involved.

To have a prayer list of people who are sick or have lost loved ones is good. Pray too, for missionaries, for caregivers. Pray for pastors and churches and the lost. But lengthen your prayer list. Follow the news. Let the Bible guide your prayers. Then pray. Watch what God can do.

Somebody Thinks You Matter...

My wife and I went to a minor league baseball game a few weeks ago. Baseball is not my favorite sport, but it was a beautiful night, we had great seats, and the price was reasonable. 

We’ve had several players from our community get drafted and then play in the minors. They tell me it is not quite like Bull Durham, but it is not glamorous. You play before small crowds, against better players than you have ever faced, and there is pressure to perform. The minors, especially at the single “A” level, are up or out. 

It was the third inning when the catcher from the opposing team came up to bat. Though Columbia, SC stadium holds just a few thousand, they have a million-dollar scoreboard displaying all the players' stats. I don’t understand all the baseball stats, but I know batting average and on-base average. This guy had a batting average of .077 and an on-base average of .078. Even I know that’s not good. If you are below .100, it means you just joined the team and haven’t had many at-bats, or the organization values you for your position skills, or you will be soon riding the bus home. 

A couple of rows behind me was a man who was on his fifth or sixth beer. When the catcher’s stats flashed up on the scoreboard, he hollered, “Swing at everything, buddy! You’re due.” I don’t think he was encouraging him. The catcher swung at the first pitch. Strike one. He looked the second pitch straight in. Strike two. He swung on the third pitch. Strike three. 

He trotted back to the dugout and quickly began to put his catcher gear back on. Other guys just have to get their gloves to go back on the field. The catcher has to put on a whole suit of protective gear. 

The catcher did make some great throws when someone tried to steal second base, and he tagged a guy out at home. But a couple of innings later, he was back up to bat. They flashed his statistics back up on the board, and the computer had already updated his batting average. He was down to .074. 

The guy two rows behind me was now on his eighth beer. I made a mental note to get out of the parking lot before him. I can’t write what he said next, because this is a family newspaper. He cast doubt on the catcher’s parents, compared his hitting to chicken litter, and shared with everyone he was a loser. We were close enough to home plate - I am sure the catcher heard every word. 

The count went to 3-1, then the catcher connected to the fifth pitch. Though he was playing for the away team, by this time, I was on his side. I cheered as the ball soared toward the outfield. Maybe, maybe, it would clear the fence. No such luck. The ball began to fall right on top of the centerfielder, who caught it easily. No hits for the catcher on this night. 

I could not help wondering what this would mean for the catcher. Would his baseball dreams be ending soon? Would they give him more time? Would he sleep tonight or berate himself over his dismal performance at the plate? 

The Columbia team rallied back to within one run before finally losing. The visiting team celebrated their win with high fives. Then I saw the kids. 

About a dozen kids with baseballs lined up by the dugout, hoping for an autograph. Most of the kids were too young to know about minor leagues versus major leagues. They wanted an autographed baseball from a real pro player. 

A few of the players scribbled an autograph, then headed for the clubhouse. Then I saw the catcher. Kids were thrusting baseballs at him left and right. He was signing them as fast as he could go. Finally, all the players had left, but the catcher was still there, signing for every kid who presented a ball. When all the kids were gone, only then did the catcher head in. 

I thought about those baseballs. In a few years, those kids may wonder who the player was that signed it. Some might remember a night of baseball with their families, but I thought most about the catcher. He made some great plays but had an awful night batting. Still, he stayed and signed autograph after autograph. I wondered if he enjoyed knowing someone thought he mattered no matter how bad he did at the plate. The kids might forget one day who he was, but I have a feeling he would always remember for one night that somebody thought he mattered.

When you fail, when the hecklers make fun of you, when you wonder if your luck will ever change, remember you matter to someone – your Heavenly Father. Instead of wanting your autograph, he puts his arm around you and says, “I want you to be my child.” Don’t listen to the heckler or that inner voice of doubt. Listen to your Heavenly Father’s voice that tells you, “You matter to me.” 

Gift for Mom...

My nephew was cleaning out a closet at the Ranch House and he found a coffee mug I made for my mother in third grade.  When I say “coffee mug,” what I am trying to describe is my intention, not the actual resemblance of the object to anything that actually holds coffee.

It began as a third-grade art project.  We were to make our mothers a gift for Mother’s Day.  I knew my mother drank a cup of coffee in the morning, so I thought she might like to have a custom-made cup.  I took the wet clay and tried to shape it to look like a store-bought mug.  It wound up looking more like a miniature volcano: wide at the base and narrow at the top.  I crafted a handle and attached it.  It fell off.  The teacher had to help me roll out another piece of clay and graft it into the cup. 

The bell rang, and our art teacher told us she would take this to be fired.  This process had not been adequately explained to me because I wondered what my cup had done to deserve termination.  It turned out the clay had to be put through the fire to harden, after which we would paint our creations.

The next week our clay creations were returned to us, ready for painting.  We had to share paint and brushes, which is difficult for third graders.  Other kids had painted their creations bright blue and fiery red.  When it came my turn to get the brush, the only color left was brown.  With no other choice, I slapped the brown paint onto the clay.  You can never describe the color brown as “colorful” or “brilliant.”

The next week, the teacher gave us back our creations.  She handed the cup back to me and I barely recognized it.  It was still the same volcanic shape, but someone had painted a sickly yellow color over the brown coat.  The end result looked like a bathroom disaster.  The teacher said, “See me after class.”

Had I done something wrong?  Had I used the wrong color paint and the heat of the second baking changed the colors?  Had my cup damaged the oven?  A third-grader’s imagination can go to dark places. 

After the bell rang, the teacher pulled aside and said, “I am sorry Clay.  When your cup came out of the furnace the brown paint had partially melted.  I tried to cover it up with this yellow paint, but it did not cover the surface well.  I know you wanted to give your Mom something pretty, but I hope she will like this anyway.”  This was not exactly an endorsement of my artistic skills. 

By this time, it was too late to think about any other project to give my mother for Mother’s Day.  It was the ugly cup or nothing.  I wrapped it in newspaper (because Mama knew better than to give us good wrapping paper), using almost a whole roll of tape. 

My brothers and sisters had done far better than me on their gifts – after all, they had jobs and money.  Mine was the last gift to be opened.  I remember the shock on Mama’s face when she saw the cup; ugliness can leave you speechless.  Then she looked at me and exclaimed, “I love it!  How beautiful!  Thank you, Clay.”  I beamed with eight-year-old pride as Mama showed off the cup to the older kids with a look in her eye that said, “Don’t you dare laugh, or you will incur my wrath.”  It must have worked because no one laughed, and I received several other compliments from my siblings. 

I never saw Mama drink coffee from that mug.  I can’t blame her.  In that cup the coffee would be hard to identify.  Instead, she put it on her nightstand, where collected change, straight pins, and other paraphernalia that accumulates over time.  By the time I went off to college, it had graduated to her dresser.  As an adult, I found it one day in her closet on a shelf, still holding little odds and ends. 

When the mug came back into my hands fifty years later, I wondered why Mama had not thrown it away.  It was not beautiful.  Its function of holding odds and ends could have been fulfilled by something more attractive.  But Mama held onto it all those years.  I guess what mattered to her was not the gift itself, but who gave her the gift. 

I did not have money to buy Mama a Mother’s Day gift, but what I had, I gave.  Paul wrote to the ancient church in Corinth these words: “12 For if the willingness is there, the gift is acceptable according to what one has, not according to what one does not have.”  What matters is your heart, your willingness. 

Stop and think about everything your Mama did for you.  I’m sure she wasn’t perfect.  But honor her.  Give her gifts of forgiveness, love, and grace.  If you get a chance, get her a coffee cup.  She might even drink coffee from it.

Weeping…

I am sure no one ever said to me, “Quit crying, boy, or I will give you something to cry about.”  Yet growing up in the rural South, somewhere I absorbed the message: “Men do not cry.”  Crying was seen as a sign of weakness.  I thought that men had to be tough.  The opposite of tough is weak; therefore, do not cry. 

I never saw my stepfather cry.  Not once.  He had lost one wife to cancer and experienced the painfully slow loss of my mother to Alzheimer’s.  No tears.  He was part of the greatest generation ever who got on with life and no emotion got in the way. 

The odd thing for me was though I absorbed these lessons and could be very stoic, tears would flow at the strangest of times.  A passage in a book describing a tragic death of a young adult would cause me to cry.  A wistful country song would cause my eyes to brim with tears.  A tear-jerk commercial would jerk tears from my reservoir of held-back sadness.  My children always made fun of me for crying at the end of “You’ve Got Mail,” when Meg Ryan finally realizes Tom Hanks is the true love of her life. 

When my brother died last year, I was by his bed.  A tear or two fell onto the floor, but that was all.  There was so much to do, so many things to organize.  My lack of emotion surprised the people who knew me best.  “We thought you would be distraught,” they said.   

My lack of tears surprised me.  My brother was my best friend, my loyal partner.  My lack of tears was not because I did not love my brother.  There was simply so much happening, so many details to chase, the ranch to keep running, my daughter’s wedding in four weeks, and major church decisions that had to be made in the next month.  A wise friend told me, “Make time to grieve.”  I knew I needed to, but the tyranny of the urgent led me to ignore my grief.  I ignored the wisdom of scripture: “There is a time to grieve…” 

Grief cannot be ignored.  It can be warehoused.  Like a blockage in an artery, it can block the flow of other emotions.  Emotions seem to operate on a master “On/Off” switch.  You turn them all off, or you can turn them all on.  Try to turn off grief, and you dim all the emotions of your soul. 

Last week I had a helpful conversation with a friend.  As the saying goes, I “got in touch” with some fear I held back.  Fear is another of those emotions I try to suppress because men are not supposed to be afraid either. 

When I got in touch with the fear, however, I noticed what felt like a breeze blowing through my soul.  There was movement, a thawing if you will.  The lights were coming on. 

Then on Saturday, I was putting out pine straw in my yard.  I had my airbuds in, listening to old country songs from the ‘90’s.  A song by Patty Loveless came on: “How Can I Help You Say Goodbye.”  The chorus goes like this: “Mama whispered softly, time will ease your pain; Life's about changing; nothing ever stays the same; And she said, how can I help you to say goodbye; it's okay to hurt, and it's okay to cry;
Come let me hold you, and I will try.  How can I help you to say goodbye?” 

I had heard the song before, being a devotee of great music.  But this time, through the first chorus, the dam of my grief cracked, then busted open.  I cried.  I sobbed for my brother.  I cried for my sister, also gone too soon.  For my mother robbed of delighting in her grandchildren.  For my Dad, who died far too young, when I was in diapers.  But most of all, for my brother.  My tears finally came.  The flood of grief would not be held back. 

For a moment, I was afraid the neighbors would hear me and think I had lost my mind.  Then I did not care.  My soul needed to weep, and I did, for the entire three minutes of the song.  When it ended, my nose was running, and tear tracks were etched onto my dirty face.  My soul could still feel the grief, but it was out of the warehouse now.  The grief no longer blocked the flow of feelings that needed to be felt. 

The wisest man who ever lived, Solomon, wrote these inspired words, “There is a time to laugh and a time to cry.”  It was finally my time to cry.  And my weeping was a gift from God. 

It might be a gift for you, too.

Grown Up Faith…

In college, one of my religion professors shared his faith story with us.  I have never forgotten it.  He said, “When I was five, God was five.  He was beside me when I buried my puppy that was run over by a truck in the backyard.  He understood my grief and sorrow.  When I was thirteen and awkward, God was thirteen.  He assured me I was loved even when I was rejected by the in-crowd.  When I was twenty and a newlywed, God was twenty, guiding me in the ways of love, serving, and giving.” 

He continued this vein up to his present age.  I will never forget his closing lines: “God is always ready to meet me wherever I am in life.  And when I am old and can no longer walk or stand, God will be there as well.” 

His testimony has stuck with me for a long time.  For any relationship to be healthy, it must grow in understanding and change to adapt to new life circumstances.  The same is true with our relationship with God.  Now, I believe the character of God does not change, but our understanding of him does.  When I grew up, Jesus was a white male with a beard and flowing hair.  I was in college before I realized Jesus’ skin was probably brown and his hair, whatever its color, was not flowing in the wind.   

I talk to people who have given up on church.  If we talk long enough, I hear the God of their childhood did not grow up.  Sometimes I think we do not want God to grow up.  It is safe to think of Jesus as the kind man with children sitting on his lap.  If Jesus is instead a risen King, that means he has authority over us.  Most of us, especially if you are an American, do not like to be told what to do.   

But eventually, a grown-up crisis presents itself, and we need a grown-up faith.  Grown up faith is honest.  We tell God our anger, our fears, our hopes.  We do so knowing he hears us.  Grown up faith accepts there are answers we do not know, and perhaps we will never know.  Grown up faith comes to our Heavenly Father with humility.  We understand that our experience with God is real, but we honor other people and their experience with God.  We will not all like the same music or the same preachers, and that is okay.  We recognize there is no point in arguing about things that really do not matter, like which Bible translation is best. 

If you are a person of grown-up faith, you take the Bible seriously.  You do not twist its meaning to fit your agenda or to fit your politics.  A friend once told me, “The error of the liberal is to take what is black and white in the Bible and make it gray.  The error of the fundamentalist is to take what is gray in the Bible and make it black and white.”   

I think about my own faith journey.  There are sermons from thirty years ago that I wish I could take back.  I was young and pompous and had not lived enough life to coat my words with love and grace.  I would like to think I have matured, but the truth is I still struggle to divide my agenda from God’s agenda.  One of the marks of grown-up faith is humility and willingness to be open to what God is doing next. 

I also wish I had not presumed to understand people before hearing their story.  I remember the story of the woman caught in adultery.  When the religious leaders brought her before Jesus, they thought they knew her story.  Jesus’ classic response – after giving them a chance to present their case – was to tell them, “Let he who is among you without sin cast the first stone.”  Those who wanted to kill her, faded away and Jesus told the woman to go and sin no more.  The story reminds me that my own sin clouds how I see people.  I project onto people all kinds of garbage that originates within me.  Grown up faith does not do that.  Instead, grown up faith tries to see my own log in my eye before I try to remove the speck in someone else’s eye. 

I have followed Jesus since childhood, very imperfectly.  In so many ways, I am still a child in my faith.  But Jesus still beckons me to follow him and to grow a little more. 

The Tree that Became the Cross…

It began as a seed, falling out of a cone, carried by the wind.  When the wind died down, the seed fell to the forest floor and touched the soil.  A passing deer stepped on it, driving it deeper into the ground.  In that seed a tiny root seeks out moisture.  Another tendril begins to push up toward the warmth and the light, until it pushes through the crevices and finds sunlight.  In the space of a few weeks, the unseen roots multiply, and leaves sprout.  The miracle of photosynthesis begins to fuel a chemical factory that converts Co2 into oxygen, moisture into growth, and soil minerals into energy.  A complex plumbing system of phloem and xylem transports everything where it needs to go, with no brain or nervous system to direct it. 

The seedling becomes a small tree.  It survives drought, fire, being trampled by animals, and birds bending its still pliable branches.  In five years, it is as tall as an adult; in ten years, its trunk has thickened, and its limbs have strengthened.  Woodpeckers visit and poke holes, looking for bugs.  Rings are added each year as the tree lives and thrives.   

After forty years, the tree has spread its limbs and seeds.  It is the tall tree of the forest, towering majestically.  Then comes the day when a group of men enters the forest.  One yells, “This is a good one.”  Crude axes swing.  In less than half-an-hour, the mighty tree has fallen.  It is limbed, with the branches placed into a small cart.  They will become firewood.  The tree is tied off to a team of oxen, who drag it out of the forest, into a clearing.  Axes swing again.  The thickest part of the tree is cut off, to be split into rough lumber.  It will be sold to carpenters and used for furniture and doors and enclosures for windows.  The next section is about twenty feet long.  The bottom fifteen is cut, and then a notch is placed about two feet from the top.  The fifteen-foot section and the five-foot section are placed on a cart with some other lumber, a delivery to Jerusalem. 

The two pieces of the tree are sold to a Roman centurion after some intense haggling.  The vertical piece, the heavy piece, will be dropped off at Skull Place, where crucifixions are held.  The cross beam, about two hundred pounds, is delivered to Fortress Antonia.  It will be shuttled back and forth from the Fortress to Skull Place on the backs of condemned men.  There it is joined again with its brother, fitted into the notch chopped out in the forest, and lashed together.  A condemned man is placed on it, with nails driven into his palms, and one nail is driven into his overlapping feet.  Then the cross is lifted up by straining soldiers and dropped into the pre-dug hole.  Wedges of wood are driven between the vertical pole and the hardened side of the hole to keep the cross from swaying. 

No one keeps count of how many crucifixions these old pieces of a tree witness.  Sometimes the victims stay on the crosses for hours, sometimes days.  Death comes slow.  Rome intends to send a message: “Cross us, and we will cross you.”   

One day the cross beam is brought out from its storage place.  The wood is no longer yellow; it is stained brown by all the blood it has absorbed through the years.  There are multiple holes where nails have been driven.  It is time for another crucifixion.   

The cross beam, all two hundred pounds of it, is laid on a bloody back of a beaten man.  Ironically, he was a carpenter before he became a rabbi.  He once carried weight like this easily, but after a few hundred yards, he stumbles.  A passer-by is compelled to carry the cross beam to Skull Place. 

The familiar ritual begins again: the lashing of the cross beam to the vertical beam; the stretching out of the victim, the cries of pain as the nails pierce the skin and split the cartilage.  Then the victim and wood, joined together, are dropped into the hole.   

If wood could speak, it would say this crucifixion is like none before.  There is darkness, an earthquake, words of forgiveness, and words of abandonment.  More quickly than the norm, the man on the cross dies.  The wedges are removed, the cross is lifted, and once more laid on the ground.  The nails are driven out, and the body is rolled off, with fresh blood pooling on the wood.  Knots are undone, and the cross beam is thrown onto a cart to be taken back to the Fortress to be used again. 

The blood that is absorbed by the wood from this crucifixion is no ordinary blood.  It is the blood of the perfect one, the blood of the Son of God, who has come to take away the sin of the world.   

The dead wood, which used to be a living tree, is the first to make contact with the life-giving blood of Jesus.  Have you?

What is Worth Saving?

Every so often, I take a Sunday and do “Ministry by Wandering Around” while someone else brings the message.  On Sundays like this, I get to walk slowly through the halls, popping into different LIFE Groups, coloring pictures with the preschoolers (I can stay between the lines better than any of them), and thanking volunteers. 

On a recent Ministry by Wandering Around Sunday, I made my way over to the Student Ministry building to check things out.  I popped into one class of eighth-graders and plopped down on an empty spot on the couch.  The young lady to my right leaned as far as possible away from me.  I asked her if my being there made her uncomfortable.  She said, “No, it’s just that I have never been this close to you before.”  I assured her I was a real person just like her.  I told her, “I even have BO.”  She replied, “I know.”  

In another middle school group, I came in just as the lesson started.  The group leader asked a great question: “If your house was on fire, and all the people and the animals were already outside, and you could only get one object out of the house, what would you get?” 

It was a heavy question for middle schoolers and for adults.  I was thinking about my answer when the group leader shared his.  “I would grab the long rifle that belonged to my grandfather,” he said.  “He gave it to me, and I want my son to have it.” 

A girl spoke up and said she would rescue her posterboard.  An odd choice, but I guess it would depend on the pictures you had on it.  A boy shared he would get his glass-encased CD of Star Wars: A New Hope.  A classic collectible, to be sure.  One girl shared at length that she saw a show about being prepared for emergencies and she had an emergency backpack already prepared.  She would grab that.  I was impressed by her preparation. 

Another adult talked about grabbing all her pictures.  A couple of boys said they would get their gaming systems.  One girl shared she would take her bead-making supplies. 

Finally, it was my turn.  I told them I would grab my iPhone.  I would want to be able to call my family and friends and tell them I was okay. 

The best answer came from a young man with a beanie pulled down low.  He said, “I would grab my shoes.” Smart.  Have you run out of the house without your shoes?  There are rocks and sand spurs out in the yard. 

I had to excuse myself at this point to make my way around to other groups.  I thought about some adults I know and how they would answer that question.  I am sure some women would talk about grabbing their purse.  From what I have seen, some women could live out of their purses for a week if need be.  My cousins in Florida would surely say they would grab their pocketknives; “A good man can survive with his wits and his pocketknife.”  Other friends would pull their bass boat out of the garage or their perfectly restored ’65 Mustang convertible. 

I know the question posed to the middle schoolers was different; it assumed the people we loved were already safe.  But that question was theoretical.  God faces a real situation.  The world is on fire.  Not literally, perhaps, but there is a spiritual fire that threatens every human soul.  The name for that fire is “sin.”  Its destructive power reaches out and consumes people.  Sin fire destroys families, communities, and nations.  It has been here a long time. 

The only thing powerful enough to vanquish that fire is the pure love of Jesus, poured out on the cross, and roaring out of the tomb on Resurrection Day.  His love envelopes sin like a water curtain and puts it out.  That is what Jesus followers mean when they talk about the Good News. 

In this world on fire, there is not one possession God wants, not one physical thing.  He would want every person to be saved, even if they were the ones that started the fire.  Isn’t that why Paul wrote, “While we were yet sinners, Christ died for us.”  We lit the fire of sin.  We keep it stoked.  Yet Jesus offers us his forgiveness, his peace, his love.  He delivers us from our own smokey mess.  

Remember, all the stuff on earth is just temporary.  It’s nice to have, but the stuff in your life is not the most important thing.  The most important thing is your relationship with God.  Thank God he deemed you important enough to save.  That’s why Jesus went to the cross: to put out your fire and save you.

Ford Vs. Ferrari? No, Ford Vs. Chevy…

You made have heard about the movie “Ford vs. Ferrari.”  It details the rivalry between Ford and Ferrari, between the Americans and the Europeans in the World Sportscar Championship series in the 1960’s. Where I grew up, we knew about NASCAR and even a little bit about Sportscar racing, but our rivalry was never about Ford vs. Ferrari. Our rivalry was about Ford vs. Chevy.   

The rivalry was not about which car was faster; it was about which truck was better. I remember old men talking about Fords rusting out faster than Chevys. This was usually followed by some retort about Chevys spending most of their time in the shop.   The only people we knew that drove Dodge trucks worked for the government. Dodge was the perennial low-bidder, I guess. 

By the time I was ready to buy a truck of my own, I had heard all the insults. “What does F.O.R.D. stand for? Fix or repair daily.”  “What do you call five Chevys and a Ford? A junkyard and a way home.”  “Give a man a Chevy, and he won’t walk a single day. Give a man a Ford, and he will walk for a lifetime.”  “How do you fix a Chevy truck with a blown engine? Put a Ford engine in it.”  I could go on and on. 

My people were Ford people. This might be because the Ford dealer in our hometown also owned the bank. That made it easier, I suppose, to buy a truck, borrow the money, and pay it off.  One-stop shopping. When it came my time to buy a truck, I bought Fords for two reasons: One, my daddy always drove a Ford; and two, I was living in Louisville, KY, at the time, where Ford had two factories and I had deacons that worked at both plants. Buying Fords and keeping my job seemed to be a good strategy. 

My current truck pulls double duty. It cleans up good enough to be the preacher’s car for funeral processions, but it is also my farm truck. I have a seeder that attaches to my hitch receiver, and I was putting out some seed in my pasture. We had a good rain a week earlier, and I thought everything had dried out. Not so. There is one low, boggy spot in my pasture. Before I realized it, I was off in that low spot, bogging down. 

I felt my tires spinning and thought of words I cannot write in a family newspaper. I stopped, shifted into four-wheel drive, and started forward again. I made it two feet, and my tires were spinning again. I put the truck in reverse to rock it out. No movement at all. I got out to look at the situation. My tires were coated with mud, and my truck was about six inches lower than it should be. If I know how to do anything, I know how to get stuck.  

I called my young friend Jackson, who came as quick as he could. We hooked up the chains, and then he started the pull me out. Except he couldn’t get traction either. He backed up and tried a different angle. I was still spinning my tires. He was about to get stuck, and we figured he needed to get unstuck before he got me unstuck. We were about to call for a tractor when we found another chain. This gave Jackson more length, and he went out at a different angle. He said, “Now, I think I am going to paint your truck,” which translated means, “Your truck is about to be covered with mud.” 

Jackson got a good start and jerked me out of the bog. Mud was flying everywhere. I forgot and had a couple of windows down. The inside of the truck and everything I was wearing got covered with dirt clods. Finally, we made it to higher ground. 

I got out, thanked Jackson, and we started unhooking the chains. Then he said it. I know he couldn’t help it. If I had been in his place, I would have said it too. “Mr. Clay, it looks like it takes a Chevy to pull out a Ford every time.”   

I wanted to respond that technically, Jackson was driving a GMC, which is a Chevy with a different nameplate. Still, he had me.   

Jesus told a story about a man who was stuck in the ditch on the side of the road after he had been robbed and beaten. A Priest and a Levite passed the man by; a Samaritan stopped and helped the man out of the ditch, onto his donkey, and into an inn. There are lots of applications of that story, but at least one is the man in the ditch didn’t care who helped him as long as somebody did.   

In the end, it wasn’t important if it was a Ford or a Chevy that pulled me out of the mud. The important thing was somebody, Jackson came. The main thing is to get unstuck. The name on the truck doesn’t matter as long as you get out of the ditch.

Hard to Admit You are Wrong…

I have a very good sense of direction.  I seldom get lost.  When I do get lost, however, I get really, really lost.  Once I was convinced I knew a shortcut to a movie theater in Columbia.  What should have been a simple fifteen-minute drive turned into an hour-and-half odyssey in the wilds of rural South Carolina.  My wife kept asking me, “Should we stop and ask for direction?”  I, being male, said, “No!  I know where I am!”  It turned out we were thirty miles from the movie theater.  So much for my shortcut.  I should have admitted I was wrong, stopped, and asked for directions. 

Men are not the only people who have a hard time admitting they are wrong.  I have tangled with more than a few women in Baptist business meetings who were as wrong as they could be but were determined to argue me down in front of the church.  No amount of logic or understanding reached these women.  

Why is it so hard to admit you are wrong?  I remember getting a math problem wrong in second grade (it was something hard, like division).  The teacher, I am sure, did not mean to shame me, but when she told me I was wrong, I remember my face turning red, and wanting to slide under my desk.  Funny, years later, in graduate school, the same thing happened in a graduate seminar.  My face turned red, and I wanted to slide under the desk again.  To this day, I feel ashamed if I don’t know the answer. 

One of the hardest things to admit you were wrong about is your belief system.  Everyone has a belief system.  You believe the world works in a certain way so you can predict outcomes.  Your belief system may or may not include your belief in a God.  Just as important as your belief in God is what kind of God you believe in. 

George Buttrick, famed preacher, and professor of a previous generation, was the chaplain at Harvard.  Every semester students would march into his office boldly declaring they no longer believed in God.  Buttrick, with gentle wisdom, would surprise them by asking them to sit down and tell him about the god they no longer believed in.  He would say, “This god you don’t believe in, I probably don’t believe in him either.” 

I grew up among people who were fond of saying, “God said it, that settles it, and that’s good enough for me.”  In one sense, that is a positive statement; these people took God and what he said seriously.  In another sense, however, it can mean we accept things we were taught that wind up not being true. 

I remember being told black people bear the mark of Cain.  The color of their skin was a mark of God’s punishment.  That never sounded right to me.  It was only years later in college, a professor pointed out to me that the mark of Cain was a mark of protection, a warning not to harm Cain.  Furthermore, we are only told Cain’s mark was a mark.  No mention is made about his skin or the color of his skin.  But the real kicker is all of Cain’s descendants died in the flood.  The whole idea of people with black skin bearing the mark of Cain doesn’t hold water.  A whole generation of people who heard and accepted such nonsense must admit they were wrong.  Many do.  Some do not.  Those that admit they were wrong are people of courage. 

It takes courage to admit you are wrong, especially around your belief system.  It usually means you need to change not just your thinking but also your behavior and your values.  This week in the United States, eighty churches will close their doors for the final time.  Most die because they would not change their belief system.  Ironically, their theology was probably fine.  They simply believed that everybody who needs the Good News needs to like the music they like, the style of preaching they like, and the kind of ministry they like.  The courageous people who were telling them the ’80s were never coming back left the church long ago.  The dwindling few held on, hoping one day, time would reverse, and their building would refill with people just like them, but younger.  If you never admit you are wrong, you can hasten death. 

The people who killed Jesus could not unbend their theology enough to understand that God was not about power, knowledge, and wealth.  The Messiah was not going to be a conquering king, but a suffering servant, laying down his life for the sins of the world and then conquering death by his resurrection.  The most godly people of the time (supposedly) missed the Messiah because they could not admit they were wrong.  They would not change their beliefs to fit what God was doing it. 

If you are one of those people who say, “God said it, I believe it, and that settles it,” good for you.  Just remember it is what God says, not what you say, that matters.

Rain…

It rained today where I live. We need it. We are in a moderate drought, which does not mean much to people who never lived on a farm. I am hoping it will give the grass in my pasture a boost and fill the creeks with water. 

You don’t know how valuable rain is until it is not there. I remember as a child my mother praying for rain. In those days we had no well to pump water to the orange groves. Mama knew that no rain meant no oranges, and no oranges meant no money. She was a widow, trying to hang on. God sending rain was her only hope. 

The best sleep I ever knew as a child was when rain would beat on the tin roof of the Old House. The steady rhythm of drops was a lullaby that made you snuggle up under the covers and sleep soundly. When I was older, I remember fixing a fence and getting caught in a shower. I dashed for cover up under the hay barn. It was the regular Florida summer afternoon thunderstorm. This rain set in for a while, so I climbed up on the hay and caught a nap. That was the best nap I ever had too. 

Once, we had a long dry spell. Our neighbor, Judie, was over talking to my stepfather about something. A clap of thunder sent us under the barn, and a steady rain began to fall. The rain had just about settled the dust when Judie said, “Watch out, boys, it’s about to get too wet.”  Some folks can find the dark lining in any rain cloud. 

I always agreed with Mack, who worked for us. While Judie was worried about it getting too wet, Mack leaned over to me and said, “I’d rather it be too wet than too dry. It’s always easier to take the water off than put the water on.”   

I know sometimes it seems like the rain will never stop. It was not that long ago my town had seventeen inches of rain in about twenty-four hours. Homes were flooded, businesses were destroyed. Too much of any good thing can be bad. 

Most of the time, however, rain reminds me of God’s grace. Jesus said, “He (God) makes it rain on the just and the unjust.”  I’ve seen it myself. I’ve seen the rain fall on the deacon’s land and fall on the scoundrel’s land. Rain blesses without discrimination.   

One of my favorite stories in the Bible about rain involves the prophet, Elijah. He had a showdown with the prophets of Baal. Baal, among other things, was the pagan god of rain. The prophets of Baal prayed, danced, and even cut themselves, but no rain fell. Elijah, on the other hand, laid out an offering, doused it with water, prayed, and fire fell from heaven. Then he told the King to eat while he went and prayed for rain. He prayed, and finally, a little cloud came up. He told the King he better head down the mountain, or he would get stuck in the mud. The King started down the mountain, but that little cloud turned into a gully-washer. The King got stuck, but Elijah ran all the way to the city, probably laughing in the rain at God’s amazing grace.

There is a passage in 2 Chronicles 7 where God speaks to Solomon after he built the Temple. He told Solomon that if there was a time when he shut up the heavens, and there was no rain, then his people should humble themselves and pray, and turn from their wicked ways. Then, God promised he would hear from heaven and heal the land. Rain is a sign of God’s healing.

Our moderate drought is nothing compared to what is happening out west. I read this morning that Lake Powell, the impoundment of Hoover Dam, is down to twenty-four percent of its capacity. Millions depend on the water and on the power produced. I have a hunch some of those people are praying for rain. 

I do not pretend to know God’s ways or thoughts. Why do some areas get too much rain and others not enough? I do know rain (or the lack of it) is a call to think about how much we depend on God, how much we need the things that only he can provide. Rain is one more sign we cannot live without him.   

Maybe that is why my Aunt Jean says, “Whenever it rains, I always give thanks.”

War and Evil…

The pictures from Ukraine tell an old story: war is never clean, civilians are never spared, and people die. War is an ancient story of a nation deciding to take by force something that is not theirs. It violates the old commandment, “Thou shalt not covet.”   

Mr. Putin, of course, served up a package of lies to justify his actions. The most dangerous leader is the one who begins to believe the lies he tells. Maybe he thought his army would roll into a quick victory, that his words would be strong enough weapons to win a battle.   

I admire the courage of the Ukrainian people. Having once been dominated by the old Soviet Union, they do not want to go back to living under Russian control. I saw a picture of a young Ukrainian woman with an automatic weapon in her hands and a determination on her face standing guard. She was obviously not a professional soldier, but she was ready to defend her country. 

War is evil written in large print. This war is the sin of neighbor rising up against neighbor. Children are dying, hospitals are being bombed, innocent people lose everything because a bomb, a shell, or a missile crashes into their homes.   

I live in a city with a large Air Force and Army installation. I know men and women who have deployed into combat, who have taken life because it was necessary. I have also sat with these men and women when they return home and suffer from flashbacks, stress, and depression. This is also part of the evil of war. 

I will never forget a pilot from the Vietnam era who came up to me one Sunday after worship and asked with all sincerity, “Can God forgive me? I did some terrible things when I flew over Vietnam.”  I assured him that God forgives and set up a time to talk later. We talked over many weeks, and his guilt level receded, but I don’t think it ever went away. The price for fighting evil is high. 

I am not a pacifist. There are times when nations must rise up and fight evil, lest it spread and contaminate more and more people. But never do I think war is God’s first desire to solve the problem of evil. 

You might protest, “But didn’t God order people in the Old Testament to go to war?”   The answer is “yes.”  But in every war God ordered, his people were attacking evil: evil kings, evil countries, and evil cultures. God has been fighting against evil since Adam and Eve first tasted the fruit in the garden. 

Jesus dying on the cross is God’s ultimate battle against evil. In that one act, the power of the perfect Savior unleashed a force of good that conquers evil. One day, that good will conquer evil once and for all. That’s why Isaiah 2:4 paints this great picture: “They will beat their swords into plowshares,   and their spears into pruning hooks. Nation will not take up sword against nation,   nor will they train for war anymore.” 

Meanwhile, we live in a world where evil is not yet contained. Evil must be fought, lest its greed takes over the world. Whatever else he is, Mr. Putin is a greedy, covetous man. 

Like you, this war is costing me something. Even though our country is not fighting directly, whenever I fill up with gas, the war is impacting me. But then I remember that I am just paying more for gas; my wife, my children, and my grandson are still alive, still thriving. That thought makes me humble.   

Remember to thank God that war has not destroyed your home. Your family is not torn apart by this war. But it is not enough to thank God for your blessings; also, pray for peace. Pray for the people of Ukraine. Ask God for mercy, for his intercession to stop this war. Pray that evil that has been set loose will be caged once more.   

Jesus also said to pray for our enemies. Pray for Mr. Putin. Pray God will change his heart. Pray for a mindset change. 

What good will prayer do? Will Willimon, a Methodist pastor, told a story about a small prayer group of older ladies in his church in Greenville, SC. He dropped in on their weekly prayer circle one day and was surprised at the breadth of their prayers. They did not just pray for the sick; they prayed over world events. At that time, they prayed for the Soviet Union to collapse.   

Several years later, when the Soviet Union did collapse, commentators hailed the policies of Ronald Reagan and George H. W. Bush as major factors. Willimon said, “I could not help but remember those ladies faithfully praying against the darkness, praying for evil to fall. Maybe their prayers had a bigger impact than I ever thought possible.” 

Pray.

Brahman Bulls…

You may have seen a Brahman bull or cow grazing in a pasture.  They are usually red or gray, with a large hump behind their heads.  Originating in India, this sub-species is noted for its tolerance of heat, its exceptional ability to thrive in tough environments, its strong maternal instincts, and a willingness to stand their ground.   Brahman cattle were brought to the United States in the late 1800’s, and a few years later, were introduced to Florida.  Crossbred to English cattle, they produce great calves for the feedlots. 

The biggest challenge with Brahman cattle is they can be temperamental.  If raised with a lot of human interaction, they can be very gentle.  My cousin Marcus Shackelford is Brahman pure-blood breeder, and he has bulls that are so gentle you can walk right up to them and pet them. 

On the other hand, a Brahman cow with a calf out in an open pasture can be very protective.  She will charge you if she thinks you are a threat.  Having run from these cows more than once, I can tell you they will charge in the blink of an eye, and they are faster than you. 

Brahman bulls can be very aggressive.  If you are in a pen with a Brahman bull, the best counsel is to move slowly and keep one hand on the fence.  My Uncle Bedford turned his back on a Brahman bull once, and in a flash, it charged him.  Before Uncle Bedford could react, the bull lowered his head and knocked Uncle Bedford down, face first, in a muddy puddle of water.  I can still see him, just raising his head out of the mud, then saying, “Load him on the trailer boys.  He needs to go.” 

I had a Brahman bull chase me across a pen once.  I ran for my life, grabbed the top board on the fence, and IT CAME OFF IN MY HAND (Pop would always rather fix something than replace it).  I swirled around just as the bull got to me and swung the board down on his nose.  He stopped, shook his head, and trotted off through the gate.   

Down at the ranch, we had a Brahman bull we could not pen.  He was old and not really doing his job.  It was time he and we parted ways.  But how do you load a bull who won’t cooperate?  When we worked cows, the crew went down into the bull pasture, and there at the edge of a thick tangle of woods we call Monkey Island was the bull.  Sid got a rope on him, and we decided rather than drag him to the trailer, we would bring the trailer to him. 

John hauled the trailer down to the pasture, and I followed in my truck.  After a couple of tries, Tim got a second rope on him.  We had to turn him around.  Rather than wear out the horses, we decided to untie one of the ropes from the horse and put it around the trailer hitch of my truck.  I backed my truck into position.  Tim threaded the rope up through the back end of the trailer, through the side panel, and tied it off to my hitch.  Sid got him in position, and I eased up my truck to put some tension on the rope.  Then I heard Tim yell, “Go Clay, go!”  I eased forward, and Tim yelled again, “Go Clay, go!!”  I went faster.  Tim kept yelling, and I kept going.  After what seemed like 50 yards (more like 30 feet), I heard, “Stop Clay, stop.”  I hit the brakes and heard the back gate crash.  The Brahman bull was loaded onto the trailer, ready for his next location: the livestock market.  Even the baddest Brahman Bull is no match for the power of a V-8.   

Everyone needs to remember there is someone bigger than you who will put you in your place.  I thought about Vladimir Putin.  I do not know how the war in Ukraine will turn out, but I sense that even now, Mr. Putin is learning he does not have unlimited power.  I thought about other despots in history.  They think they control their lives, but death still comes for them, as it comes for us all. 

Then I think about myself.  How often do I think I control my own destiny?  How often do I make decisions without thinking about others?  God usually sends me a message that I am not in control; He is.  Things do not work out according to my plans.  People do not react the way I thought.  My thoughtlessness catches up with me.  I know there have been times in my life when God has tied me off to his hitch and said, “You are going to go where I want you to be.”   

Here's the difference.  Unlike the Brahman bull who was going to the market, when I get where God wants me to be, it is better than where I was.  I should have gone willingly instead of making God drag me.   

Are you where God wants you to be?

Wow…

Somewhere back in time, I decided I wanted to see the Grand Canyon.  Some people have Paris on their bucket list; the Grand Canyon made mine.  I looked at the canyon with Google Earth, and that was impressive, but it is not the same.  I have read Wikipedia articles and looked at beautiful photos, but information and pictures do not give you the scale. 

A recent conference scheduled in Phoenix finally gave me a shot at seeing the Grand Canyon.  Despite the setback of a flat tire on the rental car and the threat of a foot of snow, we made the trip.  We pulled up to the Visitor’s Center, walked out to Mather’s Point, and I caught my first glimpse of the Grand Canyon. 

My first word was “Wow.”  My second word was “Wow.”  “Wow” became the operative word of the day.  There are no adequate words to describe what I saw: the reds, yellows, and grays of the rock; the grandeur of the buttes and peaks; the shadows of the canyons; glimpses of the Colorado River a mile below; and above all, the Grand Canyon stretching from horizon to horizon.  Wow. 

Have you ever had your mind filled with so many thoughts they jumbled up into one word?  Wow.  One of the first thoughts I sorted out was if I was an early explorer in these parts.  I would be riding my horse through the trees (yes, there are trees at the Grand Canyon) and then all of a sudden fall off into the canyon.  The explorer’s first word may not have been “Wow” but “Whoa!”   

I thought about Native Americans who lived in the Canyon.  How did they balance living in such beauty and eking out a living among the rocks?  I read the tribe would move seasonally from the bottom of the canyon to the top of the canyon and then back down again.  I bet they packed light for those moves. 

I know people hike down into the canyon and hike back again.  I admire these people.  They have an amazing experience and see things you cannot see from the rim.  My left knee tells me I will never be one of these people.  

You can also ride a mule down into the canyon as well, but there is a weight limit the mules can carry.  Let me just say if I want to do that in the future, serious dieting will have to occur.   

There is a story that may or may not be true about my grandfather visiting the Grand Canyon.  Grandpa would go to Vegas several times a year to gamble.  My parents went on a couple of these trips with him and, on one occasion, managed to tear him away from the poker tables to go see the Grand Canyon.  In addition to being a rancher and owner of the livestock market, Grandpa also owned a construction company that moved dirt.  His company cleared land for many of the developments in South Florida and dug canals for drainage and flood control. 

When Grandpa saw the Grand Canyon, he didn’t say much.  Momma asked him, “Daddy, what do you think of the Grand Canyon?”  Grandpa replied, “I sure would like to have had the contract to dig this thing.”   

My reaction was different: “Wow” in my vocabulary is short for “wonder.” I told my wife, “I think when God finished the Grand Canyon, he must have thought, “I did good.”  There is a sign at an overlook called “Hermit’s Rest” that reads “Sing to God, Sing praises to his name.  Lift up a song to him who rides upon the clouds; His name is the LORD, exult before him – Psalm 68:4.”  I was tempted to burst out in song, but there were people around. 

I heard one Dad tell his five-year-old son, “See the river down there?  The Colorado River made this.”  I understand what he was trying to tell his son.  Geologists explain the formation of the canyon this way (although I was surprised to learn there is an “old” canyon theory of formation and a “young” canyon theory of formation.  Who knew?).  It is perfectly okay with me to explain the formation of the Grand Canyon as multi-million-year process. 

No matter how it was done, I know it was not the river alone that carved the Grand Canyon.  It was the finger of my Heavenly Father, to whom a thousand years are but a day, and a day a thousand years.  The beauty of the Grand Canyon is a reminder that our God is good, so good to make something so beautiful.  Then I ask, “Why would God makes something so beautiful for us to see?”  Maybe just to remind us he loves us; he loves us enough to give us things to provoke wonder.  We can wonder at the beauty of his world and the depth of his love.   

“Wow” is saying, “Heavenly Father, I see how amazing you are. 

“Wow.”

Bullies…

When I was in elementary school, a boy I will call “Joe” was the playground bully.  I learned early on to steer clear of Joe.  Cross him, and he was liable to beat you up.  He was not quite to the level of stealing your lunch money, but I never wanted to give him the chance.   

It seemed like every grade created a bully.  They were usually the tough guys, not book smart, but ready to assert their power to get their way, especially when the teacher’s back was turned.  As we progressed through middle school and high school, some of the bullies got left behind; others got more sophisticated in their bullying.  High school was the age of cliques and put-downs.   

I regret to say I was not innocent in this regard.  I obtained some leadership roles in high school that required me to enforce discipline with other students.  Because I had the backing of the teacher, I could yell at other students, make them run laps, even make them cut their hair.  I am sure that some of my fellow students look back at their high school days and remember me as the bully. 

Long removed from those days, I ponder what made me abuse my positions of power.  Part of it was my own insecurity.  I was afraid people would not do what I wanted them to do, so I yelled.  I thought the force of voice and personality could bluff people into backing down.  It worked most of the time.  I think I bullied people in part because I felt in control.  To be in control is a feeling of power, and power can go to your head.  I liked being in charge.  It was validating. 

As I matured, I realized bullying was not the way of Jesus.  Jesus never bullied people into believing; he never used his unlimited power to get his way.  He invited people to follow him; he did not intimidate people to be his disciples.   

When I began to work in church, I was surprised to find bullies.  In my second church, a couple of bullies were deacons.  They had a way of putting you on the spot with comments like, “I only see you working one hour a week, preacher.  I thought we were paying you for forty hours of work.”  In church, I also discovered women could be bullies, too.  I remember a sweet older woman who informed me that she would teach Vacation Bible School the way she had done it for fifty years.  If I made her follow the book, she would leave the church and let everyone know I was the reason she left.  One bully I remember informed me in front of his class that he worked harder preparing his Sunday School lesson than I did preparing my sermon. 

One day, when I was reading the Sermon on the Mount, I was struck by Jesus’ words: “Love your enemies; do good to those who persecute you.”  It dawned on me Jesus was talking about the bullies.  Since that truth convicted me, I have tried, not always successfully, to love the bullies in my life.  I listen to them, try to understand them.  I pray for them.  Some days loving my enemies is the hardest thing Jesus asks me to do. 

What Jesus invites me to do is stop competing.  Healthy relationships are not based on who finishes first.  He reminds me, “’Vengeance is mine,’ says the LORD.”  God gets the final say about a person’s life, not me. 

This reminds me to be grateful because I have been a bully, too.  But because I decided long ago to ask for forgiveness of all my sins, past and present, and committed to follow Jesus, the word over my life is “Forgiven.”  Every bully can be forgiven; every bully can have a new life.  All that is required is the hardest thing for a bully to do: Admit they are powerless over sin, they need forgiveness and change, and give their life to Jesus. 

Part of what convinces me that we are now in a post-Christian culture is the rise of the bullies.  Twitter makes it easy to take a swipe at someone.  From politicians to media personalities, it seems easier for bullies to emerge, ignore the truth, tell lies, and try to control people.  This is why I believe the world needs the way of Jesus: Love your enemies.  Do good to those who persecute you.  Leave vengeance up to God.  Embrace forgiveness.  It is the better way to live.

Downhill…

I have been watching the Winter Olympic Games, especially the skiing.  I admit I am fascinated by the bravery of those skiers, hurling themselves down the mountain, making sharp turns at speeds up to ninety-five miles an hour.  Last night I noticed for the first time the barriers on either side of course.  They looked like a fence at a NASCAR race.  I would hate to hit one of those doing ninety-five miles an hour.   

The long jumpers amaze me.  It is one thing to ski down a mountain when you know you have snow underneath you all the way.  It is another thing to willing go done a steep slope to hurl yourself into the air and fly as far as you can.  When I watch those folks land, my knees hurt from sympathy pains. 

The acrobatic skiers ski down the hill, then up a little hill, fly up into the air, and then twist their bodies around in weird contortions.  The last time I bent my body like that, a bee had gone down my shirt. 

My people’s long tenure in Florida meant we evolved into non-winter people.  We skied on water, not snow.  I tried skiing for the first time when I was twenty-five.  How hard could it be?  Much harder than I imagined.  First, there were the clunky boots.  How do you walk in those things?  Then you get the skis on.  Once I was clamped on, I found I could go backwards, not forwards. 

Getting to the top of the bunny slope was the hardest.  There was a moving carpet I was supposed to step onto.   I put my skis on the carpet and promptly fell down.  I couldn’t get up.  I was drug along, up the slope.  A small girl had fallen at the end of the moving carpet, and she looked in horror as this large man got closer and closer.  It didn’t help that her father was yelling, “Get up, get up, before that man crushes you and you die.” 

By the time I got to the end of the carpet, the little girl had rolled out of the way, one of my skis had come off, and I was wallowing like a beached whale on a white sand beach.  At the top of the Bunny slope, I finally was able to get to my feet, found my ski, put it back on, and was ready for my descent.   

I pushed off confidently with the assurance I could not go very fast on the bunny slope.  Soon, however, I was rushing past other skiers, past the trees, picking up speed.  I discovered I could not steer.  Every effort to slow myself or to turn seemed to have no effect.   

Bunny slopes are not that long, and I was approaching the end.  I knew how to stop: put the tips of the skis together and form a plow.  I did that, and nothing happened.  Everything they had taught me in beginners’ class was turning out to be a lie.  I widened my stance to make a bigger plow; I accelerated.  I seemed to be the exception to everything I had been taught about skiing. 

There was one more option when it came to stopping:  I could fall down.  Since I had already done so, I knew I could pull off this maneuver.  The orange netting was fast approaching, so I fell backwards.  One ski flew off to the right, the other to the left.  One of my sticks flew up in the air – I never did find it.   

I assessed my body condition.  Nothing broken.  I was wearing a camo bodysuit (definitely not ski attire), so no bruising had occurred.  The only thing wounded was my pride.   

My little jaunt up and down the bunny slope had taken over an hour.  I was losing feeling in my fingers, and I realized this was God’s sign to me that I was done for the day.  I returned my gear, and the man behind the counter looked surprised.  “Back so soon?” he inquired.  “Yep,” I replied, “I got my money’s worth.” 

The great lesson of that day was simple: God made some people to ski, and some people to sit in the lodge and admire the skiers.  I found great peace in discovering who God made me to be as I sipped hot chocolate in the lodge. 

It is good to try new things.  Sometimes God will lead you to a door and invite you to go through it just so you can learn it is not for you.

One Dumb Heifer, Part 2…

If you work with cattle, one day, you will get the call: “I was riding by your place, and one of your cows is out.”  I have done my fair share of trying to get cows back in that got out.   

One memorable night, my brother Steve and I pulled up to the house and saw a pair of eyes shining back at us.  In the light of the headlights, we could just make out a black cow, far from where she was supposed to be.  We were in our stepfather’s ’73 Buick Electra.  It hung low to the ground but was packed with power – a 455 V-8 with a four-barrel carburetor.  Steve was driving; he floored it, trying to chase a black cow on a moonless night through an orange grove, back to the pasture.  We roared up the middles and would catch a glimpse of the cow running.  Steve would sling that Buick around, and we could feel the frame hitting the dirt.  I was leaning out the window, getting hit by orange limbs, trying to get a better view.  We never did find her.  In the morning, we went looking again, and she was back in the pasture, apparently having decided it was safer behind the fence than being chased by a Buick through an orange grove. 

One thing I love about the pasture I lease is it has strong fences: hog wire all across the outside with a “hot” electric wire attached.  It would be hard for a cow to get out.  So I was surprised when Tommy, my landlord, called me to tell me I had a cow out.  Surely, he was mistaken.  How could a cow get out of my place? 

Still, when the call comes, you go.  I dropped everything and rushed out to the pasture.  Sure enough, standing on the wrong side of the fence was one of my heifers.  She was looking forlorn through the fence at her herd-mates.  They were sticking with her, and no one could figure out why the fence was in the way.  I looked a little closer, and it was my same dumb heifer who will not go through gates when I move the herd.   

I pulled my truck over and climbed up the embankment, and tried to get her to go along the fence.  She started in the right direction, and I thought I could keep her moving with my truck.  As soon as I went back to get in my truck, she turned back. 

I drove down and opened the gate she would need to go through, then came back up to the road.  I got out and began to chase her again down the fence line.  This time, she jumped the road and went into the woods on the other side.   

A kind man (I later found his name was Walt) had stopped, gotten out of his truck, and said, “I’ll go around and try to push toward the road.”  I went into the woods, got behind her, and gently steered her toward the road.  Another car stopped, and a young woman (I later learned her name was Savannah) instinctively went to stop this heifer from going further down the road. 

With Walt and I behind her, we got her out on the road, and she started down the fence line in the right direction.  Making the next turn was critical; if she went on, there was no fence to help.  Savannah standing there made a difference.  The heifer turned like magic.  She went into the woods on the dirt road but soon came out and followed the fence line all the way to the gate.  I moved as fast as I could to slam the gate behind her, thankful she was safe in the fold again. 

As we walked back to our vehicles, I thanked my new friends Walt and Savannah.  I could not have gotten her back into the pasture without them.  

How did she get out?  The day before, I was in a hurry, and I left a gate open as I was hauling hay.  No cow had ever gotten out before; why would one get out now?  Leave it to my one dumb heifer to lag behind, get out, and have an adventure.   

Why would a heifer leave the place where is she is safe, has plenty of grass, and gets fed?  There is an old hymn that explains: “Prone to wander, Lord I feel it; prone to leave the one I love…”  Why do we run away from our Heavenly Father who loves us, provides for us, who works good in our lives?  We still believe the old lies of Satan, who tells us life out on the road is more exciting and fun, who whispers to us that God is unfair.   Yet Jesus comes for us.  Whenever one of his cows are out, he comes to find us to guide us back home.  If you are far from your Heavenly Father’s pasture, Jesus is inviting you to come home.

One Dumb Heifer…

I move my small herd of cattle every other day. It’s called rotational grazing, though this time of year, there isn’t much to graze. The idea is for the cows to not over-graze any one spot. 

It takes the heifers a little while to catch on to this pattern. I had one bunch that never quite got the hang of it. I would open the gate to the pasture, put out the feed, and wait. And wait. They were a jittery bunch. Finally, I would have to get in the truck, get behind them, and push them toward the gate. If I went too fast, they would scatter. If I went too slow, they would stop and graze. As the old-timers used to say, “You have to have a cowboy’s eye.” 

This bunch of heifers I have now caught on pretty quickly. I would loop the chain attached to the feed trough over my trailer hitch and pull it to the new pasture. They would docilely follow along, then break into a run at the gate to beat me through it. When they saw that trough moving, they knew something good was coming (I feel the same way when I see an “Outback Steakhouse sign).   

The way my pasture is laid out, there is one rotation that requires the heifers to go from the far end of the pasture to the other end. We are not talking miles but yards. Seventeen of the heifers act as they always act. They follow the truck, they run ahead, they watch me get out of the truck and tell me with their eyes to hurry up and feed them. But there is one heifer, when it comes to making that long move, that just doesn’t get it. 

Every time we make this move (and we have been doing this for months now), she hangs back. She always stops in the same place, three gates back from the pasture she needs to be in. She stands on the other side of the fence, looking at her herd eating, paces back and forth, as if to say, “Hey, how do I get over there?”   

I keep thinking she will get it. If she will just go forward through two gates, make two left turns, and go through the last gate, she will be back with her herd, eating happily. Something in her brain, however, does not connect. She will pace at that fence, wanting to be somewhere else, but can’t figure out how she can get there. 

I know people just like my dumb heifer. I am not calling these people dumb heifers; I am just saying I see people act just like her. They see where they want to be. They are not happy where they are. There is a path that is open to them, but they will not take it. Sometimes it is fear that locks them up. They are afraid of what will happen if they actually make a move beyond where they are.   

It is not always fear that stops people. Sometimes they simply cannot see the way. Even if they have been that way before, their memory has not held it. Something in their brain does not connect.

I am tempted to leave my one dumb heifer where she is. I can be very judgmental about her: “If she wants to stay there, that’s her business.”  Or “I’ll just leave the gates open, and she will figure it out.”  Or even, “Should I just load her up and sell her?” 

Then I remember a story Jesus told, about a shepherd who had ninety-nine sheep and was missing one. He was not satisfied with a one percent loss. Instead, he went back, found that one dumb sheep, and brought it back to the herd. Funny how the stories of Jesus can convict me even about how I care for my cows.

I get in my truck, drive over three pastures to where my one dumb heifer awaits. She looks nervous, unsure what I am going to do, even though we have done this a half-a-dozen times. I circle behind her, honk the horn, and she begins to trot through the first gate. I keep a slow, steady pace behind her. She goes through the second gate. Then, she breaks into a trot, makes the two left turns, and goes through the last gate. She runs to the feed trough, muscles her way in, and starts to eat. 

I get out and close the gate behind her. The Spirit whispers to me, “How many times Clay, have you seen where you need to be, but you have been afraid to move? Or you just didn’t see the way? How many times have I come for you?”  Once again, I get lessons. I get a lesson in gratitude: My Good Shepherd comes for me when my life is off track, thanks be to God. I get a lesson in love: What a good, good Heavenly Father I have, that he values me. How he must love me. And I get a lesson in humility:  I can be a dumb heifer too.

Givers, Takers, and Matchers…

This is from the archives.

Do you want to be a giver or a taker?

Part of our souls leap to say, “I want to be a giver.”  But another part of our souls says, “Wait a minute. What if I give too much? What if I get taken advantage of?”  So we hesitate. According to Adam Grant in his book Give and Take, every human gathering has givers, takers, and matchers.

The attitude of a giver: “What can I do for you?”  The attitude of a taker: “What can you do for me?”  The attitude of a matcher: “I will do for you what you do for me.”

Takers can start out as givers who get burned. They gave, and someone took too much from them. If the wound is big enough, the giver will switch teams, vowing never to be taken advantage of again. Or, takers can be people who simply decide to let greed rule their lives. They believe, “He who dies with the most toys wins.”

Most of us, I think, would like to be givers. What stops us? Fear. We’re afraid we will be taken advantage of, or we will not have enough to take care of ourselves, or what we give will make no difference. As a result, we slide down to be a matcher. We watch to see what others do, and we decide we will match this. If we see Bob put $40 in the offering plate, we will too. If Mary volunteers, I will too. If Tom stays late at work, I will too. 

Matchers occupy the middle ground. I’ve seen many couples who have a “matching” marriage. Family is a series of verbal contracts: “I will if you will.”  The problem with matchers is someone else has to go first. If two matchers get disappointed with each other, the marriage freezes. 

A true giver gives from an internal source. His or her joy is found in helping someone else win. A true giver doesn’t give to be recognized. For a true giver, life is not a competition. The joy is not in the size of a financial gift or the number of hours they serve; the joy comes from seeing tomorrow being different than today. 

So who are you? 

God wanted his people Israel to be givers, but they were takers. They wanted God to bless them, protect them, and serve them. If they had time, they would try to do a little something for him. Funny, they denied they were takers, even while they robbed God of respect, resources, and reign. If you are quick to deny you are a taker, chances are good you are one. 

When Peter asked Jesus if he was to forgive his brother seven times, he was thinking like a matcher. Matchers keep score. In God’s kindness, he recognizes many of us start here. That’s why Jesus said, “Give, and it will be given to you.”  Being a matcher is better than being a taker, but Jesus also made it clear that we could do better. “If you do good to those who are good to you, what credit is that to you? Even sinners do that.” 

God’s goal for you is to be a giver, but not to be a giver who gives out. It only makes sense to give if you believe in an infinite God who has infinite resources to give you. I believe God showed us he is an infinitely giving God when he sent Jesus, the infinitely pure one, to forgive us with infinite grace. When you truly live in His grace, giving is joy. 

Imagine a family of givers! Wouldn’t you love to have a family like that? Imagine a church filled with givers! What could be done? Imagine a city filled with givers! Wouldn’t you love to live there?   

It starts with you. Will you trust that God will pour into you, so you can pour into others?

Source of Hope…

A man puts his hope in a politician.  This politician promises to make everything better for everyone.  He will put an end to crime, get rid of “those people,” balance the budget, make Congress get in line, and get America back on track.  The politician wins the election.  He does some good things.  He does some stupid things too, because, after all, politicians are human beings.  But the man is disappointed.  He wanted everything to be made right.  At the end of four years, everything is not made right.  Was a politician the right source of hope? 

A woman puts her hope in a doctor.  He has the best reputation and practices at the best facility.  The doctor outlines a course of treatment; it works at first.  The woman has a few good months.  Then a setback.  Another treatment is prescribed.  This buys the woman weeks, not months.  Bad test results come back.  The next treatment has horrific side effects.  The woman goes ahead.  She grows weaker.  Her hair falls out.  Her appetite is gone.  One day the doctor comes in and says, “I am so sorry.  We have done all we can do.”  Was a doctor the right source of hope? 

A man dreams of success.  If he can only climb the career ladder, he knows he can take care of his family.  But underneath that noble reason, he hungers for the validation that promotion will bring.  He works long hours.  He gets promotion after promotion.  The promotions, however, never seem to satisfy him.  He tells himself the next one will finally give him the sense he has arrived.  That promotion comes, but the hollow feeling remains.  His family has everything they need, but they are distant and lack appreciation for his provision.  Then news comes of a merger.  In the inevitable reorganization that follows, his job is eliminated.  He wonders not only what he will do next, but what was the point?  Was a career the right source of hope?

A woman dreams of her soulmate.  The only problem is, she is married to someone she thought was her soulmate but has turned out to be a flawed person.  In the early days of their courtship, he seemed so attentive, so thoughtful.  But something is missing.  She cannot articulate what is wrong, but she wonders if she married the wrong person.  She sees an old flame on Facebook and wonders if he was the one.  One night, she impulsively messages the old flame.  A conversation starts, one that she keeps from her husband.  She and the old flame arrange to meet, just to talk, but talking gives way to something more.  She leaves her husband, moves in with her new-old flame.  As soon as the divorce is final, they marry.  Three years later, her new soulmate has turned into another flawed man.  Did she make a mistake?  Was a soulmate the right source of hope? 

A couple dreams of children.  They have been to every fertility specialist within two hundred miles, but they cannot conceive.  They adopt, knowing a child will make them happy.  This child brings joy and chaos to their lives.  They center their lives around the child, so adorable, so sweet.  Then the child becomes a teenager and starts to rebel.  The child is right on schedule, but the parents are not.  When the teenager pushes back on small things, they react – strongly.  The rebellions get bigger, the parental reactions stronger.  Finally, the teenager runs away.  The parents search and search.  They are devasted.  Their hopes and dreams, their image of themselves as parents, all crash down.  Was it right for them to make a child their source of hope? 

I ask these questions because I think we must think about the source of our hope.  As Dallas Willard said, “Hope is the anticipation of something good that is not yet reality.”  The great temptation is to put our hope in something that appeals to us but something we have no control over.  No politician can solve all our problems.  No doctor can promise tomorrow.  No career fills your deepest hopes and dreams.  There is no perfect soulmate to fix your emptiness.  Looking to your child to meet your needs ends badly for parent and child.  Why put your hope in things that cannot bring hope? 

Paul wrote to the Jesus followers in Rome and blessed them: “May the God of hope fill you with all joy and peace as you trust in him, that you may overflow with hope by the power of the Holy Spirit.”  Among other things, this means the Christian God – our Heavenly Father – is a God of hope.  Hope comes because Jesus brings us joy and peace.  We know we are profoundly loved, and we are in the grip of God’s grace.  Hope flows out of us because the God of hope is at work in us.  The God of hope delivers what he promises. 

Pause for a moment.  What is the source of your hope?  Make sure your source can deliver the hope you need for life.  Jesus says, “I can deliver the hope you need.”