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"It must be exciting," my Mom said Monday morning. I had called her on the Alabama farm from Charlotte, NC, for our daily visit and in the conversation, I reported on my Sunday night adventure in my former church. Friends of Milton and JoAnne LeDoux--he's the minister of music at the First Baptist Church of Charlotte--threw him a party to celebrate his 20th anniversary, and I had flown up for the occasion. I told Mom I would fly back home Monday afternoon. She thought that had to be an adventure.
Milton LeDoux's coming to the Charlotte church was what we call a "God-thing," something that no one could have anticipated, an event that could never have been planned. Back in 1987, a mutual friend, Joe Joslin, had moved to Charlotte from the FBC of Deridder, Louisiana, to become our minister of music. Before long, he told us of this young couple who had grown up in his church and were students at our seminary in Fort Worth, Texas. He had some vacant slots on the church music team in Charlotte and wanted to invite them to move from Texas, and let Milton finish his masters degree at the seminary in Wake Forest, NC. That's how we got them. Milton was 27 years old. The only church he had served as worship leader had run 100 in attendance. Ours ran from 1200 to 1500.
About the time they settled into place, Joe Joslin announced that he was resigning to move back to Deridder. My precise words to him were, "You dirty dog." He was out of his element in that urban setting, he explained, and should never have left southwestern Louisiana. He remained at FBC Deridder for another 15 years or more, and is now part-time at New Life Baptist Church there, a congregation he and Lynn Clayton founded. Joe's main weekday work, however, is conducting fishing tours in the Toledo Bend area. It's a tough life.
Anyway--long story short--we turned to Milton and said, "You're our interim minister of music. We're counting on you. But you need to know that you will not be a candidate for this position. We need someone older and more experienced." He agreed and went to work.
Immediately, church members came to me raving at his musicianship, his leadership, and his wonderful spirit. JoAnne was our organist and is as fine a Christian lady as there comes. At Christmastime, members exclaimed over the seasonal music, that it was the best ever. We all agreed that the Lord had sent us Milton and JoAnne LeDoux and gave him the position permanently. The years since have borne out that this was the Father's plan.
The banquet Sunday night was a masterpiece of spiritual blessings and hilarious moments, as well done as any I've ever seen. Everyone laughed and some cried. Old friends and family members showed up. The biggest blessing was probably mine though, and the banquet was only one part of it.
My friend said, "Our church was having a business conference last Sunday night to vote on our new interim pastor."
The personnel committee is charged with finding and recommending a minister for this purpose, and they had done their work. In the business meeting, the congregation was discussing the choice and asking many questions. My friend wanted me to know of one little thing that had transpired.
"Suddenly, in the midst of all the discussion, this long tall man unfolded and walked up in front of the church. He said, 'People, there's a better way than all of this. You chose a committee and entrusted them with the duty of finding this person and interviewing him and bringing him before you. You do not have time enough to get every question answered in this meeting. Ultimately, you're going to have to trust your leaders."
My friend said, "I laughed to myself, 'He sure has learned from his dad.'" He said, "I don't know how many times I've heard you say that over the years you were our pastor.
I believe it strongly. In recent months, I preached that at West St. Charles Church in Boutte and the First Baptist Church of Belle Chasse. "One day soon, your search committee is going to bring their recommendation for your next pastor. The man and his family will spend the weekend visiting your church and the community. You'll have several opportunities to meet him and ask some questions. But you need to realize up front that in three days you will not be able to know him well enough or to get all your questions answered. What it all comes down to is that you're going to have to trust your leaders."
Elect the very best your church has. Then trust them. In finances, in business decisions, in personnel matters. The extent to which your church does this tells volumes about the congregation.
I admit that to our shame, untold numbers of Baptists who are strong participants in every phase of church life have a hard time doing that. They trust no one except themselves, and sometimes not even that. The result is a constant murmur of bickering and debating, a low level of distrust and a high level of dissatisfaction, which tires out the leaders, slows down the work of the Lord, brings disgust to the hearts of new believers, and doubtless frustrates the Lord of the Church who loves it and gave Himself for it.
But I digress. I started to write something here about family, having had my wonderful son "outed" by his remembering something his father often said.
A billboard across the street from the New Orleans Baptist Theological Seminary on Gentilly Boulevard shouts, "You're Not Crazy." Underneath is a phone number, with the last four digits spelling "TALK." What is this, I wondered. In small letters at the base is the name of the organization sponsoring the ad, something about Hurricane Recovery. It made sense then.
Outsiders unacquainted with the kind of regional trauma we've experienced over the last two years might think the worst would be over by now, that the initial response to lost friends and flooded houses, destroyed neighborhoods and disappearing shopping centers would be the crazy part. But we've learned as bad as that all was, for many, it keeps getting worse.
As the zany disk jockey used to call out through the radio, "And the hits just keep on coming!"
Factor in lost loved ones, departed friends, shuttered houses, streets untouched by repairs and yards that haven't seen a lawn mower in two years, deserted strip malls and politicians who don't have a clue--and it's enough to make anyone a little crazy. Do not leave out the government run-arounds in the various helping programs, do not forget the heavy construction trucks speeding up and down residential streets bringing help, yes, but feeling this gives them carte blanche to ignore traffic laws and intimidate slower drivers, and be sure to include the long lines at the doctor's office and restaurants. Don't forget the higher utility bills.
And that's just for starters.
My friend Barry is a Jew. We connected almost by accident many years ago, and he has taught me a number of lessons about relating to someone different from me.
In the early 1970s Barry--a native of Southern California--took it upon himself to see the Deep South. I'm not sure of the details, but believe he flew into Mississippi and rented a car. He drove to Oxford just to see for himself the university where James Meredith had been forcibly installed as the first black student, an incident much in the news back then.
In Jackson, Barry drove around, found the Capitol, and walked into the governor's office. Everyone was gracious--he had not been sure what to expect--and next thing you know, he showed up in the office of the First Baptist Church across the street. The receptionist, Mickey Brunson, stepped across the hall to my cubbyhole of an office, and said, "Joe, we have a gentleman here who would like a brief tour of the church. Can you do it?"
That's how we met. And started corresponding. In 1981, when the Southern Baptist Convention met in Los Angeles, Barry picked me up at the hotel and gave me the grand tour. We attended a baseball game in Anaheim and checked out the campuses of UCLA and USC. And I embarrassed him.
Today, District Attorney Eddie Jordan announced that the grand jury found insufficient reasons to charge Dr. Anna Pou with murder in the deaths of four patients at Memorial Baptist Hospital in the days following Katrina. Dr. Pou spoke to the media, expressing her relief. DA Jordan expressed his confidence that this is the right decision. Attorney General Foti called his own conference in Baton Rouge to express his disbelief and said Jordan never called all the witnesses his office had recommended.
A collective sigh of relief went up from the community. None but a few insiders know beyond any doubt what happened at Memorial, but almost everyone is ready to put this business behind us. I say "almost," because there are the family members of the deceased and then there are the members of Mr. Foti's staff. Everyone else, though, has had enough.
It's not over though. Dr. Pou has two lawsuits in progress, one against the State of Louisiana and one against the AG's office. And I believe the family members of the deceased have their own lawsuits.
The one-day-of-the-month when everyone involved in the Unlimited Partnerships gathers for a day long meeting in the Leavell Center of our seminary was Monday. I audited the morning part of the meeting and took notes, but in reading the report from our leader, Dr. Bill Taylor, decided just to let you read some of what he had to say.
Chris Rose's column in Tuesday's Times-Picayune deals with the "badges of honor," those spray-painted markings left from the days following Katrina when National Guardsmen were checking houses for survivors or victims. They brandished their cans of spray paint with a flair, marking giant X's on every home no matter whether damaged or not, noting their unit number, today's date, a number--usually a zero--to say whether anyone was found inside, and often "NE" to indicate "no entry."
Animal lovers frequently came behind the guardsmen looking for abandoned critters. The markings they spray-painted beside the NG tattoos were usually large and gaudy and wordy. "Two cats under the house; dog in back." Occasionally, a house will carry a full conversation between these animal lovers: "Dog in back." "Could not find it." "Look next door."
Sometimes the only damage a home sustained was the bright red paint on the brick carrying the post-hurricane graffiti. A souvenir of our saviors; residue from our rescuers.
The community has not agreed on what to make of those tattoos. Or even what to call them. Hieroglyphs of catastrophe. Crisis markings. Marks of distinction. Disgusting souvenirs. Badges of honor. Battle scars.
I sometimes suggest to preacher friends that they consider bringing a sermon on scars. The scars on your body tell a story about you.
Until a few days ago, the chairman of the board of trustees of Roger Williams University in Rhode Island was 80-year-old Ralph Papitto. In fact, this gentleman had served on that board for 40 years, and over the years had contributed some $7 million to the school. It's a private school, perhaps a religious institution since Mr. Williams was a Baptist and, if I remember my history, was pastor of the First Baptist Church of Providence which was the first of its kind in the new world.
The point being that, by all appearances, Mr. Papitto was a powerful man who was trying to do good with his life. And in a sense, in his own mind at least, he was untouchable. He had money and position and needed nothing from anyone, he thought.
One day a few weeks ago, the trustees received a complaint that the board was not diverse enough. No minorities sat on the board; it was all white men and a couple of white women.
Well sir, Mr. Papitto did not like outsiders telling him what to do with his school. He made some derogatory remark about the criticism and in the process used the N-word.
That's all he did. Used the N-word. And I don't mean "nuclear." I refer to the racial putdown, the well-known expression called the ugliest racial slur and the most inflammatory term in the English language in a couple of references I looked up.
After the board meeting, when three trustees took exception to what Papitto said and called for his resignation, they themselves were kicked off.
If ever a time and situation cried out for leadership, New Orleans following the double disasters of Katrina and the flooding which followed was the place. To the puzzlement and frustration of most people, our mayor discovered that what he did best was talk. He made grandiose claims, issued reports, and pronounced major projects, none of which came to fruition. Because he was handsome and articulate, soon he was on all the televised news programs and being invited to speak at national forums. Around the country, a lot of people were impressed by this well-spoken leader. Only on the local level did we know the truth: he was a non-leader if ever one existed.
Watch the political scene in America these days and be amazed at the failure of leadership at every level of government. The typical scenario calls for elected officials and those running for their offices to engage costly polling operations to find out what the public wants. Then they package the results as their offering to the citizens. It's the very definition of non-leadership. That old line comes to mind: "There goes the crowd. I must rush to their front, because I am their leader!"
How many games would a football team win if they paused between every play to poll the team and take a vote? Or even worse, to poll the fans in the stadium and find a consensus? A perfect recipe for disaster.
How many battles would an army win if the officer polled his troops on the best course of action in every situation, then took a vote. No one would do much of anything.
How many gains will a business make if the boss asks the employees, "What should we do now?"
In England, they call them Water Closets or "WCs" for short. When a group from our church visited the London and Kent area some years ago, a man in a Sunday School class leaned over to me and asked about our deacon W. C. Thomas, who had just been introduced, "Why in the world would his parents give him such a name?" I explained his name was William Cledith, and that in America "W.C." had no connotation about rest rooms--or anything else, for that matter.
People are funny about rest rooms.
You don't hear "little moron" jokes any more, but one I recall from childhood went like this. "Why did it take the little moron four hours to travel fifty miles on the highway?" Answer: "Because he kept seeing signs that said 'clean rest rooms' and he must have cleaned a hundred that day!"
Here's a question for you: in what public buildings in every town in America would you expect to find the dirtiest, smelliest rest rooms? Most people would probably answer: in the schools. The institution where we send our children to spend eight or more hours every day. The institution charged with molding these young lives and preparing them for the future. Dirty, stinky toilets.
Yesterday, Friday, a group of New Orleans high school students who have formed an organization they call "Kids Rethink New Orleans Schools," held a news conference to talk about some of the more basic problems facing our city's public schools.
Dudley Grady, age 16 and a rising senior at New Orleans Charter Science and Mathematics High School, told the assembly that during the Katrina evacuation he attended school in Shreveport and got the surprise of his life. The rest rooms were beautiful. He wondered, "Why are their bathrooms so clean and ours are so not?"
I talked to Mom this Friday morning, as I do every day, and she says the birthday card count has leveled out at 144. Our goal, of course, was a card for each of her 91 years. So, she's thrilled and we all are.
Thanks to so many who wrote these terrific notes and cards. A special thanks to you who went the extra mile with a personal note or, in several cases, enclosing a dollar or two. Even though we did not ask for it, several included money and Mom she ended up with over $150. That was lagniappe, as we say in South Louisiana. A little extra.
One of my Texas cousins wrote, "Hey, I didn't know everyone was sending money. No one told me." I wrote her back that that was not part of the deal, that we were just asking for notes. The money business got started over 15 years ago when Pop was coming up on his 82nd birthday (we thought that might be his last; he'd had health problems) and big brother Ronnie--always one to figure the money angle, being a Baptist preacher and all--thought we should get him that many cards, and ask everyone to include a dollar bill. Pop ended up with over 200 dollars and had a lot of fun opening the cards and reading the notes.
This week, we've had a death in the family--Mom's youngest sister, Lorene Kilgore McKleroy, from Lake City, Florida--and our family is sad and coming together in love. Since they'll be flying the body to North Alabama, and that will incur extra expenses on her husband, my siblings thought our bunch ought to contribute financially to help. When Pop suggested to Mom that she give some of her birthday money, she responded in typical half-serious, full-teasing mode and said, "I didn't tell you what to do with your birthday money, and you don't tell me." I've laughed at that ever since.
I stumbled onto Isaiah 50:4 the other day and plan never to be without it. The New American Standard Version reads like this: "The Lord has given me the tongue of disciples that I may know how to sustain the weary one with a word."
Everyone I know down here is weary. Some are weary in well-doing, some are weary for just "doing," and many are weary for their own reasons. Everyone needs a good word.
In our Wednesday pastors' meeting, attended by thirty, some of whom came late or left early, we heard the kind of reports that do indeed sustain the weary one. Most were praise reports.
Rudy French told of a church team visiting his FBC-Norco from Forest, Louisiana. Yesterday, they knocked on doors in St. Bernard Parish and led three people to Christ. The pastor led one, Rudy led another, and then, the third guy is the one that stood out. Rudy said, "I was driving the van and dropping the group off in small clusters. I was driving down a street and noticed this guy in his yard working on his car. He was shirtless, sweating, tattooed, wearing a bandanna on his head." When the fellow waved a greeting, Rudy stopped to chat with him. Soon, he was sharing his faith in Christ and the man was weeping, praying to receive the Lord.
Rudy said, "I came back and told our group about him, and one of the men said, 'Wait a minute. You said he was shirtless and wearing a bandanna on his head?' Right. The man said, 'I spent a half-hour witnessing to that same guy before you got there. And he wanted nothing to do with the Lord. What happened?'"
Rudy said, "I told him, 'I don't know what happened. The Lord just intervened.'"
Just outside Slidell, Dolores and Kermit Atwood live in the house they have owned for decades. It's a humble house, they paid it off long ago, and they've never had to pay taxes on it. However, it recently came to light that in 1996, the house was revalued for $75,100, exactly $100 above the homestead exemption cutoff. The Atwoods would be taxed for the $100 difference and they were billed for $1.63. But there was a problem.
When the addresses were updated from "Rural Route Whatever" to street names to comply with the 911 system, their home address became 4122 Dauphine Street. However, the tax bill--which the Atwoods did not know existed and were not expecting--was sent to the old route address. When it was returned to the assessor's office marked "address unknown," it was entered into the books as an unpaid tax debt. Eventually, in July 1997 the house was sold at a tax auction for the $1.63 in unpaid taxes plus 10 cents interest and $125 in various costs. A real estate guy named Jamie Land bought the property a month later from the folks who acquired it at the tax sale.
The Atwoods had a 3-year exemption period during which they could redeem their home from Mr. Land. The problem is they didn't know it. At no point had they been notified. The first they knew of this monkey business was exactly one week after the exemption period had expired. "We've lost our house?" they asked, astonished. "For $1.63?" even more astonished. "For a bill we never received?"
Is there any sanity in the universe, they wondered. How could this happen in America? Too bad, said Mr. Land. Business is business.
Senator David Vitter hopes he has put his troubles behind him after the very brief news conference he and his wife Wendy held Monday at a Metairie hotel. Mrs. Vitter called for everyone to show grace to them to protect their children. Others in the community have echoed that plea. Couple of quick comments.
It's not just that the senator consorted with prostitutes, as bad as that is. It's that his own words--uttered when President Clinton was being assailed for his dalliance with Monica Lewinsky--condemn him. At that time, he called Clinton a moral failure, unworthy to hold that hallowed office, and urged him to resign. If there's a difference here, we haven't found it yet.
The other thing is this. When a public figure, whether a preacher or a politician or whatever, decides to ignore his family's welfare and do something horrendous, not to say stupid, like this, then would someone please explain where he gets off asking us to protect his children when it becomes public. Wasn't that his job in the first place, and didn't he fail to do it? And isn't he asking to have it both ways: to have his fling but not have to pay the consequences.
I am in favor of protecting the children. And I admire the wife for her strength and loyalty.
The talk shows and newspapers are saturated with citizens defending and damning Vitter, who has always seemed a very decent sort, if perhaps not the sharpest knife in the drawer. His counterpart, Democratic Senator Mary Landrieu, however, creates the impression of being the brightest girl in the class, the one brainier than all the rest of us, someone created to be a senator.
Readers who live outside Louisiana can only imagine this scenario: New Orleans' Congressman, William Jefferson, is under indictment for bribery and racketeering; Louisiana's Republican Senator, David Vitter, is making headlines across the country for consorting with prostitutes in Washington and here; Mayor Ray Nagin, arguably the least effective chief executive in any city in America, one given to making announcements and speeches but clueless on how to lead a city, is building a war chest in order to run for some political office since he cannot repeat as mayor; and now District Attorney Eddie Jordan is "it."
Already attacked from every quarter for the DA office's ineffectiveness at prosecuting major crimes while spending the majority of their time and energy prosecuting minor stuff, this week Jordan announced that charges against 20-year-old Michael Anderson were being dropped because the chief witness had disappeared. Anderson was indicted last year for shooting to death five teenagers on a street corner in Central City. That tragedy made every newspaper and news program in America and considered greatly to the deteriorating reputation of New Orleans in its post-Katrina existence.
Here's what happened.
On Tuesday of this week, Jordan's staff announced they were dismissing charges against Anderson. The sole witness could not be found, they said, so they were helpless to proceed with the case.
On Wednesday, NOPD Superintendent Warren Riley held a news conference to announce that his homicide detectives had gone out and found the missing witness within hours. Jordan's people hastily gave the woman a subpoena to testify before the grand jury next week.
If you count on and need the support of the people you lead--and who doesn't--it is absolutely essential you keep them informed on situations and up-to-date on circumstances. They will be reluctant to make great sacrifices based merely on their allegiance to you.
Tell them what's going on.
This week, as I write, the president of the Baptist seminary in our city sent a letter to hundreds of the school's supporters across the country. In the single page missive he outlined the financial situation for the seminary and the post-Katrina recovery which is 90 percent complete. He pointed out what the American Association of Theological Schools estimates the typical year of seminary education to cost and laid that alongside what the six schools of our denomination spend per student, and finally, contrasted that with the much smaller figure for the New Orleans school.
"We're not fighting for our survival," he pointed out, but the day-to-day expenses of utilities and insurance have increased alarmingly and put the seminary in a difficult situation. He was asking for contributions to the general fund. The next day I wrote a nice check and sent to this outstanding school which has played such a key role in my own life and ministry.
Every denomination has its own way of operating, but a motto in Baptist life for many generations has been "tell the people." Dean Doster, past-executive of Louisiana Baptists, likes to say, "Baptists are down on what they're not up on." No doubt it's true of other religious groups also.
I believe that axiom and have the battle scars to prove it.
That's why I did what I did and how I got into trouble.
It sounds so right: "I expect nothing less than perfection from you. We have the highest standards in this church (or company or family)."
Many years ago, "Psychology Today" magazine ran an article titled "The Perfectionist's Script for Self-Defeat." It was one of the most practical and helpful things I had ever found.
Here's a woman on a diet. She has done well for two weeks now, avoiding the danger foods, eating only the prescribed meals. She has lost 7 pounds and can already feel the difference in her clothes. One day in a moment of weakness, she eats 3 potato chips. Just 3. But she is so overwhelmed by guilt and the knowledge that she has broken her diet, she gets discouraged about the diet and goes on a binge. By the end of the day she has consumed 3 bags of chips and a half-gallon of ice cream.
Anything wrong with eating 3 potato chips? Not at all. The problem was the impossible standard of perfection she erected for herself.
She was born on July 14, 1916, in the house still standing on the next ridge. Her dad--John Wesley "Virge" Kilgore--bought this entire part of the undeveloped rural countryside in 1903 and built the house, the barn, the blacksmith shop, and eventually the garage which would hold his old Packard. Everything still stands, including Lois Jane, one of his middle children, whose birthday the family is celebrating today. Lois married Carl McKeever on March 3, 1934, and they moved 5 miles south to Nauvoo, produced 7 children (the fourth would die soon after childbirth in 1939), and have lived to see their household sprout into so many grands and greats that Mom despairs of trying to keep up with them.
If you could have chosen your mom or grandma, you'd have picked her. My brother Ronnie points out that she never smoked a cigarette, never took a drink of liquor of any kind, and never uttered a profane word in her life. He adds, "as far as we know." The rest of us would bet on it.
She was raised to love the Lord, read the Word, and support her church, and she's still at it. That church is the New Oak Grove Free Will Baptist Church 2 miles from Nauvoo. It's the same church, although with sparkling new buildings, where Virge and his bride Sarah began worshiping over a hundred years ago and where Lois and Carl met in 1930.
We call this "roots." Through both Dad and Mom--but particularly through the Kilgores--this family has roots, solidly planted in the soil of Winston/Walker Counties of northwest Alabama.
My brother Ron put a note on this blog a couple of weeks ago requesting cards to Mom for her birthday. As of today, Saturday, she has received perhaps 110. ("I think," she said. "The number changes every time I count them.") She's read them and reread them. "Right now, they're spread over the dining room table." Each day this week, from 7 to 16 have arrived each day. I usually call about 9:30 just to see what came in today.
Grady Cook, an artist in Central Mississippi, told me how he had improved his technique. "The picture you bought from me last time," he said, "was all right. But I still had a lot to learn." I assured him Margaret and I thought it was fine and that it was hanging in our living room.
"Since then, I've studied under a wonderful teacher," he explained, "and have learned how to add darkness to my work." He said, "Here. Look at this." Pointing at the picture I would buy from him a few minutes later, he showed the shadows and the blackness of the undergrowth of the forest. It made the picture far more three-dimensional than the first one. The trees stood out. It looked like someplace I'd like to explore.
We still have both pieces of art on display in our home, but since he explained the difference, I've enjoyed the last one far more.
"There's something missing in this sermon," I said to myself. On the surface, it seemed to work just fine. The "fruit of the Spirit" passage of Galatians 5:22-23 is a familiar and well-loved one. I'd studied it numerous times over the years and had preached it on several occasions. I like what it says about the effect of the Holy Spirit in the life of a believer who abides in the Lord, that in time one may observe all nine qualities of this "fruit" in his life. I have enjoyed pointing out to the members of my congregations that all nine qualities are the "fruit," not "fruits," and that we do not specialize on one or two, but the indwelling Spirit may be expected to shine forth in all of these ways.
And yet, studying my notes and trying to put myself in the place of my people and listen to my own delivery of the message, I felt it was rather blah. It just lay there. In short, it was boring me--and if I was bored, how much more the poor hearers would be.
Something was wrong.
The latest bad news to hit our city is that Senator David Vitter, Republican, is on the list of clients of the Washington, D.C., brothel. In Tuesday's Times-Picayune, Vitter--who has been a strong voice for morality, faith, and family values--said, "This was a very serious sin in my past for which I am, of course, completely responsible." He added, "Several years ago, I asked for and received forgiveness from God and my wife in confession and marriage counseling. Out of respect for my family, I will keep my discussion of the matter there--with God and them. But I certainly offer my deep and sincere apologies to all I have disappointed and let down in any way."
Driving into the office Tuesday morning, I caught a snippet of a call-in talk show in which this was the subject. Everyone had an opinion. One station said the calls and internet votes were running 57 percent for Vitter to resign.
A reporter for the Associated Press--who said he reads this blog, so I told him I'd be careful what I write!--called for my reaction. He'd been on the streets interviewing citizens, he said, and most people were saying it was no big deal. "Every man does that," said one woman. Thankfully, not.
What was my reaction? I said something to the effect that in my mind, Vitter has not been the spokesman for religious values that Congressman Bobby Jindal has, and that if Jindal had confessed to such a failing, the disappointment would be even greater. Barring further revelations, I said, this will probably not be an issue when Vitter runs for re-election two years from now. "God's people believe in grace."
Then, Wednesday morning's headline read: "Canal Street Madam: Vitter was New Orleans Brothel Client." Uh uh. Not good.
Many years ago, when I was a young pastor and a seminarian, my wife and I caught the movie, "A Man for All Seasons," Robert Bolt's account of Thomas More in 16th century England. I was transfixed by Bolt's depiction of this man whose integrity and personal strength in the face of pressure from King Henry VIII stood him head and shoulders above his generation. After seeing the movie, I read everything I could find on St. Thomas More.
I didn't have to read very far before discovering More to be a far more complex figure than the play had made him out to be, one who would have had citizens who believe as my denomination does burned at the stake. That took the shine off his character for me. However, I love the movie so much I own it, and have bought the book containing Bolt's play. Memorable lines from the play have made many an apt illustration for my sermons over these decades.
In his introduction, Robert Bolt pays tribute to the chief characteristic of Thomas More that made him who he was. "As I wrote about him, (More) became for me a man with an adamantine sense of his own self. He knew where he began and left off, what area of hmself he could yield to the encroachments of his enemies, and what to the encroachments of those he loved."
He knew where he began and where he left off; what a fascinating way of putting it. Knowing himself so thoroughly, More was able to turn down all kinds of bribes and threats thrown his way to entice or coerce him to violate his own conscience. He ended up paying for this kind of steadfastness and integrity with his life.
The ancient Greeks made much of the importance of a person knowing himself. We don't hear much about it these days, which is a shame, because many a heartache and tragedy in life could have been avoided by a person truly knowing himself.
Here are some questions to help us know ourselves and to decide how well we do.
We're told that in places, the Mississippi River runs both ways. One layer of water heads south toward the Gulf, while underneath, the bottom layer is flowing northward. Obviously, that condition holds true only for a limited number of miles before it all gets together and heads back downriver. Riverologists (is there such a word?) have an explanation for the phenomenon, no doubt.
Two streams are flowing in opposite directions in New Orleans life these days.
The outward stream was on display Sunday morning at the First Baptist Church of New Orleans. While Pastor David Crosby led a prayer for the city's recovery in his pastoral prayer, a time when the altar was filled with members interceding for the community, various church leaders announced their plans to leave.
Brian Skinner, minister of music at FBC-NO for the last year or two, was experiencing his final Sunday before departing for the same position at FBC-Daytona Beach. Brian said to me, "My family was just never able to make the adjustment to this city."
The pastor thanked the former president of the choir. "Today is her last Sunday with us."
Donna Johnson--whom I pastored in Columbus, Mississippi, when she was a teen and went by Donna Fielder--informed me she has taken a job in Mobile and bought a house in the bedroom community of Daphne, and that the family will be moving over soon. Her family has been a mainstay at FBC-NO for many years.
Meanwhile, the other current flows, the incoming stream.
It was the summer between my sophomore and junior years of college. For the past several months, I had been the weekend clerk-typist for the Pullman Company, dispatching porters and conductors to various runs in and out of Birmingham, Alabama, and keeping up with the whereabouts of all sleeping cars in the state. It was a great job and usually so quiet I was able to get a lot of studying done for class. Mac Chandler, passenger agent for the Seaboard Railroad, had invited me to work for him that summer, taking ticket reservations over the phone in his downtown office. There were only three other people in the office, all of them veterans of that work, and professionals.
I wish I knew what Mr. Chandler had noticed. He was a quiet man who took in everything around him, while speaking little and, alas, chain-smoking. One morning he walked over to my desk and handed me a little booklet. "Joe," he said, "I thought you would enjoy this. It has some excellent points in it."
The booklet was entitled "Tact." Mr. Chandler was the personification of the virtue.
Today, I cannot recall a single point the booklet made. But I remember distinctly reading its pages, feeling "this is so right," and taking to heart its points. There's a line in the Proverbs about "a word fitly spoken" being like apples of gold in a silver setting, which I take to mean "of great value." (Proverbs 25:11)
Undoubtedly, I was just right for a great lesson on tact and Mr. Chandler's act in matching me up with the booklet was one of the most helpful things anyone has ever done for me.
Yesterday, as I write, our daily newspaper reported on two men of prominence. The first is featured on the front page as the recommended candidate to become president of a major university in our state. The other was president of a local department store chain and is described in his obituary. The contrast is worth noting.
I have not been his pastor for 21 years, but at least twice over these decades, my friend Rick has said, "Joe, I pray for you every week. I ask the Lord to grant you long life so you may serve Him for many years to come."
Recently, when he said that, I thanked him and expressed my surprise that he would still pray for one out of his distant past whom he sees so rarely. I told him what someone said to our mutual friend Bill Hardy.
After a number of years as their minister of education, Bill was moving from Woodland Hills Baptist Church in Jackson, Mississippi, to join the staff of the First Baptist Church of Kosciusko, an hour up the highway. At the reception in his honor a little lady said, "Bill, I have had you at the top of my prayer list all these years." He said, "I sure do thank you. And I hope you'll keep me there." "No," she said, "let your new church pray for you. I'll be busy praying for our next minister."
I've reflected a number of times on Rick's prayer that I would live long and serve well. Genetically, it would appear not improbable since my father is 95 and Mom will be 91 on July 14. We're told that more and more Americans are living to be 100 these days.
The question comes: do I want to live to a ripe old age? Is this something one should desire?
In Isaiah 38, God sent word to King Hezekiah to set his house in order, that he was about to die. The Judean king was stunned. He sunk into a deep depression ("turned his face to the wall") and cried out to God bitterly that "I've served you faithfully all these years." Implying, it would appear, that the Lord owes him. And, since he actually had been superior to most of his predecessors, God heard his cry and granted him 15 more years of life.
Hezekiah was thrilled. But it turned out not to be a blessing for the country.
In the Lakeview section of the city, two church schools are up and running, flourishing even, while the public school lies in ruins. Neighborhood people say St. Dominic's Catholic and St. Paul's Episcopal schools--both pre-K to grade 7--became leaders of the comeback of Lakeview. Edward Hynes Elementary however has lain untouched since the hurricane and is due to be demolished. Therein lies the controversy.
In the first place, city agencies have more hoops to jump through than private schools, we're told, more red tape and more complex financing issues to deal with. A school board member said, "We lumber like a mastodon."
After the storm when people were re-entering Lakeview, the very-active parents organization mobilized volunteers who arrived at Hynes Elementary ready to gut out and clean their school. They were turned down by the Orleans Parish School Board, due to liability issues and the need for FEMA to get in and assess damages.
So, while the two church schools welcomed volunteers and contributions from encouragers across America and got on with the rebuilding, Hynes Elementary lay there, just as it does today, untouched. Like a bad time capsule. The chief financial officer for the school board explains that dealing with heavily damaged properties like Hynes is not as high a priority as reopening schools with greater potential. When the weeds at Hynes became scary, parents and neighbors convinced the board to have the lawn cut. One small victory.
The school board has put Hynes on the list for demolition and total replacement. This puzzles the community. Even though FEMA declared the building as more than 51 percent damaged--thus qualifying it for replacement--some local construction companies have toured the building and found it solid.
The principal, on the other hand, admits the building was decaying even before the storm. She says FEMA found greater damage than can be seen by a walk-through. This appears to be a great opportunity to get a new building and who can blame her. The fact that the school will not be in operation until the 2009 year matters some but not a great deal since the community is still sparsely re-settled.
The Essence festival in New Orleans this week has welcomed Barack Obama and Hillary Clinton as major speakers. Both candidates for the Democratic nomination for President promise that the rebuilding of this city will be a large feature in their administrations.
In my previous request, I asked for cards for Pop's 95 birthday and I might have mentioned to many of you, that he received right at 160 (depends on who did the counting). Mom will be 91 on July 14 and we have never had a card request for her and she does not need to be left out. So....here's my request...a birthday card for her to the following address:
Lois McKeever 191 County Road 101 Nauvoo, Alabama 35578
It will be appreciated if you will do this and you might mention it to other members of your family since when you get to be 91, most of your friends and relatives are already gone on.
When you get to be 91 or 95, let me know and I will return the favor. Thanks a million!!!
Ronald J. McKeever
rjmdsm (at) excite.com
Driving back home from North Alabama Tuesday, I stopped for a rest in Picayune, Mississippi, and read the Biloxi newspaper. As with our paper, it was saturated with Katrina news. A charitable eatery called "God's Katrina Kitchen" was being shut down by one of the towns on the Mississippi coast.
Ever since the dark days following Hurricane Katrina, the good people manning this food ministry have been doling out free meals to construction workers and volunteers and storm victims. They've even relocated a couple of times, and are allowing the homeless to sleep on their premises. That's what caused the problem, evidently, for the townspeople say crime is following the kitchen and it's now time to shut the ministry down. When the town council voted to do just that, some applauded and others wept.
That is a microcosm of life in these Gulf cities these days. The same event is often good news and bad news.
In Reader's Digest, October 2004, actress Catherine Zeta-Jones says, "For marriage to be a success, every woman and every man should have her and his own bathroom. The end."
Ten years ago, when two good friends of mine--both widowed and family friends for ages--decided to marry, they agreed to keep both their houses. Ann Marie says, "Rick's house is too small for all my stuff." Rick says, "It's just about large enough for her clothes." She smiles, "Besides, it's on the golf course and he loves to golf."
Rick says, "After breakfast, she leaves and goes to her house. She works around there, in and out all day, and then we get back together at night." Ann Marie says, "I have friends whose husbands have retired and they're underfoot all day. This is so much better."
Besides, I suggested, you each have grown children and they have families, so this gives you more room to have them over.
I told them about two other friends, Winfield and Barbara, both widowed. I'm going to hazard a guess about their ages when they married, again about a decade ago. He was perhaps 70 and she was 55. I'm just guessing, Barbara. (She reads this.)
Winfield owned a house in Nashville and Barbara had a home in Cumming, Georgia. They kept their houses and lived in both of them, a few days or a couple of weeks here, then there.
I gave them the famous Tallulah Bankhead quote. Asked if she thought separate beds were necessary for a happy marriage, she answered in that husky Hollywood voice, "Separate beds nothing! Separate towns."
1. All our facilities hosting church volunteer teams coming to help rebuild the city are overflowing. A minister from Tennessee called me this week. "Dr. Harold Bryson said you might be able to help us. We were headed for the Mississippi Coast to help with a project that we understand has been canceled. We're coming Sunday. There are 40 of us." I called Bob Christian at Hopeview in St. Bernard Parish. He said, "Joe, we can host 150 people here, and we have over 200 coming next week." I knew the NOAH Volunteer Village was in the same situation, so made a call to FBC Norco. Pastor's wife Rose French said, "We have 20 bunk beds and have accommodated as many as 28, but tell them to come on. We'll take them."
2. Yesterday, the Louisiana Road Home program met with hundreds of applicants for grants in a feeble attempt to reach 10,000 for the month. They hoped to give out 900 grants yesterday. People were standing in long lines in the hot sun--but if they were successful, most felt it was well worth the wait.