| « June 2008 | MAIN | August 2008 » |
Thirty-two years ago--that would be the summer of '76--my wife and I took the children on a Bicentennial vacation up the East Coast. We were combining trips to the Southern Baptist Convention and my first session as a trustee of the Foreign Mission Board with our own personal travels, and decided on a theme for our journeying.
We visited presidential homes. Starting in Columbis, TN, we called on President James Polk. In Nashville, it was President Andy Jackson. In Staunton, VA, Woodrow Wilson was not at home, but we went on in his house anyway. We visited with Thomas Jefferson and George Washington and went through the White House (if Jerry Ford was at home, no one was saying). Later, we drove north and saw the hometown of Calvin Coolidge, Hyde Park where FDR came from and returned to, and in New Hampshire, the home of Franklin Pierce. I think that's all.
This time, I'm making pretty much the same journey, except this is not about presidents, but calling on some of my preacher friends. Of course, the main idea is to visit our grandchildren in Charlotte, NC and in Laconia, NH, but it's a great opportunity to see some old friends.
If any of the preacher-friends I've visited are reading this, they can relax. I'm not telling a thing. What happens in McDonalds stays in McDonalds (or the Waffle House in Spartanburg or Nordstrom's Cafe in Charlotte). Still, the experience is proving to be quite a blessing to me personally.
I'm always surprised on encountering ministers who never connect with their colleagues in the Lord's work, for whatever reason. That might be a good subject to pursue for a future article here--why so many pastors are loners.
1) We never take vacations, but visit families. I expect you know how that is. The last real vacation we had was the Spring of '04 in between pastoring FBC Kenner and this job with the Baptist Association of Greater New Orleans. Tomorrow, though, vacation begins.
It was to have been a driving trip to South Dakota to meet up with Margaret's sister and brother-in-law, our beloved Susan and Jim from Seattle. Alas, their health problems forced them to cancel, and we're not going without them. I insisted to Margaret that we take some kind of vacation, and she suggested that if I want to get out of town, then I should drive to New Hampshire to see our daughter and three granddaughters--as well as our son and his family in North Carolina--and visit with friends along the way, one of my favorite activities.
So, Sunday, July 27, that's the plan. She doesn't feel up to accompanying me, so I checked out several recorded books from the library to take along, and after a wedding today and a going-away thing for Dr. Ken Gabrielse tonight at a church member's home, I'm packing and pulling out tomorrow morning.
I'm leaving a few things for my son Marty to post in my absence.
2) Do you know the name Maria Shaw? I didn't either. Evidently, she's a psychic of some notoriety, said to have a call-in show on the CBS radio network, which is available here only on the web. Anyway, she has moved to New Orleans and was interviewed in Friday's paper by columnist (formerly, in pre-Katrina New Orleans, we would have called him a humorist, but the hurricane knocked all the bluster out of him) Chris Rose.
One question he asked her was: "What do you see for the Saints this season?"
Sometimes when I sketch someone, I'll ask their name so I can write it at the bottom. Most often, it's a normal name, but once in a while, I'll hear, "Arkadelphia Sue" or "Tae-D'Antonio" or some such. I ask how they spell it and, "Have you ever met another person by that name?" Usually they haven't.
I wonder what in the sam hill the parents were thinking, saddling a child with a name like that! They have guaranteed that he'll go through life spelling his name for everyone he meets.
Maybe carrying a name like Joe makes me think about things like that.
I was named for one of my Mom's uncles, Joe Noles, and a family friend, Neil Barker. Interestingly, with the internet, the daughters of both these terrific men read this blog and occasionally respond. Myrtle, daughter of Uncle Joe, lives in Houston. Mary Frances, daughter of Neil, lives in Rome, New York. (She says he spelled it "Neal." Too late, M.F.)
This was in Saturday's news....
"A family court judge in New Zealand has had enough with parents giving their children bizarre names here, and did something about it. Just ask 'Talula Does the Hula From Hawaii.'"
Yep. That was her name.
The judge allowed the 9-year-old girl to choose another name. He should have allowed her to choose other parents!
The paper isn't saying what her new name is, adding she'd been so embarrassed she had never told her closest friends her real name.
In the judge's ruling, he cited some of the unfortunate names he'd run across in his court. How about a man named "Fish and Chips," one named "Yeah Detroit," and then, "Keenan Got Lucy" and "Sex Fruit."
There oughta be a law.
I've previously mentioned my "present favorite" Western movie, "Open Range," starring Robert Duvall and Kevin Costner. In the story, Duvall, known as Boss Spearman, reveals to Costner that his real name is Bluebonnet. Now, he made him swear never to tell a living soul, but the cameras were rolling and we all heard, so the secret is out.
I could fill several pages with odd names I've encountered through the years. Mary Lee Sumrall, welfare officer in Columbus, MS, was filling out papers on a client who gave her name as "Ninthamay Terry." When asked how she came by such a name, the woman replied, "I was born on the Ninth of May."
Which makes us wonder what if she'd been born on September the twenty-third.
I met Auburn waiting tables in a restaurant in Birmingham and made a little joke about her name. "Bet you have a sister named Alabama." She said, "I have two sisters, Tulane and Cornell." Surely, I thought, she was putting me on. "I have four brothers--Stanford, Harvard, Princeton, and Duquesne." I said, "Lady, I don't believe a word of this."
Thursday, NOPD Chief Warren Riley announced that after departmental hearings conducted this week, he has suspended from the police force two officers who made news in all the wrong ways in recent days. Ashley Terry is the cop who terrorized a community center with her cursings and gun wavings. Donyell Sanchell led the bridge cops on a high speed chase, almost ran over a policeman in his truck, and slapped another. Both have been fired.
Riley announced that he moved quickly on these cases because of the public outcry and the overwhelming nature of the evidence against them. In Sanchell's case, police cars recorded the entire thing on video. In Terry's case, the community center produced witness after witness to incriminate her.
Chief Riley said he's turning both cases over to the district attorney's office for possible prosecution.
Interestingly, the chief said two representatives from Inspector General Robert Cerasoli's office sat in on the hearings. "I wanted them to see that we conduct our business open and above board," Riley said.
A later hearing will be held for the police officer who responded to the 911 call at the community center and dismissed the matter without interviewing a soul. Look for him to be disciplined.
On a closely-related matter, the new Chief of the Causeway Police is Nick Congemi, for 16 years chief of the Kenner Police Department. The causeway position became vacant recently after it came to light that police on this 23-mile bridge had stopped a drunken Mayor Eddie Price of Mandeville and did not charge him. Several officers were terminated and the chief resigned. When the position of chief was opened for applications, a dozen or more candidates responded. Today, the board administering the causeway affairs voted unanimously to hire Chief Congemi.
Nick Congemi is a man of great integrity and the highest character. I was privileged to pastor his father-in-law Everett Beasley for all my 14 years at FBC-Kenner, and came to a high appreciation of Mr. Congemi and his family.
The more we hear of the disaster on the Mississippi River, the worse it gets.
Sunday, I worshiped with the First Baptist Church of New Orleans, met with two other churches in the afternoon to monitor their discussion about the possibility of merging, and preached at another that night.
The last time I worshiped at FBC-NO, Pastor David Crosby was announcing the departure of Minister of Music Brian Skinner. Today, it was the departure of Scott Carlin, for the last six years his associate pastor. Scott becomes education minister at FBC Lubbock, Texas.
David Crosby told me, "Before Katrina, our church had 12 full-time staffers, including custodial. Today, with Scott's departure, the last has left us. Everyone on our staff has come since Katrina."
Turnover. It's like an epidemic.
As the First Baptist Church of Kenner prepares to welcome Pastor Mike Miller on Sunday, July 27, the following Sunday it will say good-bye to Ken Gabrielse, minister of music for the past 16 years. Ken leaves our church and the music department chairmanship at New Orleans Baptist Theological Seminary to become director of music for the Oklahoma Baptist Convention.
No one called from Oklahoma to ask, but had they done so, in addition to giving Ken the highest of recommendations, I would have encouraged them to find occasions for him to teach pastors about staff leadership. I've worked with some excellent staffers on the years, but none more loyal or more faithful than Ken. We thank God for him and Jana and will miss them intensely.
Meanwhile, New Orleans' Calvary Baptist Church has voted unanimously-save-one to call Michael Carney as their new pastor. Coming from the Atlanta area, he begins on August 24.
This week, Good News Baptist Church, located 3 blocks from Franklin Avenue Baptist Church--are these folks brave or what?--is dedicating their new facility with a series of services. I'm preaching Wednesday night, July 23.
Sunday, August 10, the First Baptist Church of LaPlace dedicates a new educational building which has been long in the planning stage.
Deaths.
You've heard of the optimist who jumped off the top of the highest building in the city. Someone at the 20th floor heard him say on the way down, "So far, so good."
It's Tuesday morning at 9 o'clock and my colonoscopy is scheduled for 12:30 pm. I'm ready.
They say that after age 50, men and women--but particularly men--should get these tests every five years. I'm 68 and this is my first. My wife and her gastroenterologist conspired to get me in for this examination. I didn't protest; I've known this is something that I needed to attend to.
When I've mentioned to friends that I'm having a colonoscopy, they all say the same thing: "Piece of cake. The worst part is the preparation."
The internet is saturated with sites giving information, analyses, advice, descriptions, photos, and testimonials on the subject, so I'll spare readers the technical stuff I've dug up, except for one paragraph.
Colon cancer is the second leading cause of cancer deaths in the USA. Each year, something like 150,000 Americans come down with colon cancer, and around a third of them die from it. However, a colonoscopy is the gold standard of detections, and when caught in time, colon cancer has a 90 percent cure rate. That's pretty impressive.
I visited the doctor's office one week ago and we made this appointment. The doctor gave me a prescription for something called "osmoprep," the tablets to clear my system before the test. The prescription costs 50 dollars. The instructions said to quit taking aspirins 7 days prior to the colonoscopy. On Sunday, two days before the test, I was to eat easily-digested food. I had cereal with milk and coffee for breakfast, a piece of grilled chicken and a baked potato for lunch, and a bowl of chicken noodle soup for supper.
I was scheduled to bring the final sermon at a church that was one week away from welcoming its new pastor. My first thought was to pull out a message I had used before with other congregations that would be apt for this occasion. Then, an idea occurred to me.
Why not ask the incoming pastor what he'd like me to say to the church.
In reply to my e-mail, an hour later I had his answer. One would have thought he had been waiting for someone to ask him that very question since he was so prompt in responding.
He said, "I would love to come into a church that was unified, where everyone loved each other, and they all prayed for the pastor." He even gave a text for each point from Paul's Epistle to the Ephesians.
The more I reflected on it all week, the more I realized any pastor coming into a new church would give a month's salary for these three gifts.
UNITY -- The text is Ephesians 4:11-16.
To be sure, we only have one side of the story, but from the account of the only eyewitnesses speaking out, this is what happened at the Treme Community Center Tuesday morning.
Kiyana Howell had arrived at the center to pick up her four children at the end of the Tambourine and Fan summer camp. She parked in the drive-through and was gathering the kids in, when a woman pulled up behind her and began blowing her horn, demanding that she "move it" and "move it now." The angry motorist, it turned out, was a member of the New Orleans Police Department, 17-month veteran Ashley Terry, who was there in her personal vehicle to pick up her nephew.
According to the staff of the center and some bystanders, Terry was honking her horn and yelling, "B----, you don't know who you're f---- with!" among other crude cursings. At some point, she told Ms. Howell she was a police officer and flaunted her gun in full view of a number of witnesses.
Meanwhile, the staff of the center called 911. Several members of the force showed up a few minutes later. The one in charge talked only to Officer Terry, interviewed no one else, told Ms. Terry that she should have shot the man who had stepped up and suggested she put her gun away, and wrote up the report that the 911 complaint was "unfounded."
Well, not so fast, defenders of the public welfare. Wednesday morning's Times-Picayune brandished this all across the front page. Looks like one more example of local police departments taking care of their own, said the report.
In recent weeks, we've seen several occasions where a cop was out of line but his colleagues merely warned him and sent him on his way. In one case, the off-duty cop was speeding, almost ran over another policeman, and slapped a cop. However, no charges were filed.
In another, the mayor of Mandeville, just across Lake Pontchartrain to the north, was drunk and behind the wheel of his SUV. He was speeding, broke through the toll booth gate leading on to the causeway, and was finally chased down by the Causeway cops. Because he was the mayor, they took him home and that was that. Except you can't keep news like this down.
For the next couple of weeks, more and more revelations about Mayor Eddie Price's drunken behavior came to light, making the front page of our newspaper each time. The cops who should have written him a ticket and booked him but did nothing were fired, as they should have been.
One more, of a different nature.
Thursday of this week was unlike any 12 hour period of the last four-and-a-half years for me. I was a pastor again, doing the things pastors typically do.
Here's how it went.
For two hours--from 7 to 9 am--I sat in the waiting room of my local tire store. After finding out the previous afternoon that the wait to have my tires rotated would be up to two hours, I decided to be there when they opened the next morning. Thursday morning at 7 o'clock, I was there. A woman and I walked in together, and ended up the sole occupants of the waiting room as the employees worked on our car and kept finding additional services we needed. In my case, it was a front end alignment, wind-shield wiper replacement, new air filter, and one of my tires was questionable. (It was the spare that had come with the car when it was new. After a blowout a few months back, we took it out of the trunk and put it on the ground. Small numbers on the tire indicate it was manufactured in the 25th week of 2004. Who knew tires get old so quickly and become hazardous? We put it back in the trunk for the emergency spare and placed the spare, a new tire, in its place. We're leaving on a 2-3 week vacation on July 27 and want the tires to be in good shape.)
I had prayed for the Lord to use the time in the store. He did.
The woman and I gradually began to chat, first about her job, then her church (her pastor is a close friend), and finally about her broken marriage and the challenges she faces dealing with a non-responsive ex-husband, bad finances, two young children, and such. I made suggestions on getting help, shared two scriptures that seem ready-made for her situation, and we prayed together.
Since she drives almost 10 miles to church on Sunday, and lives only a few blocks from the First Baptist Church of Kenner, when she found out that I will be preaching there this Sunday night at 6 o'clock, she said, "I'm coming." I suggested it wouldn't be a bad idea for her to have this as her back-up church family since she lives so close, but to remain a member of the fine church she already has.
I was 10 o'clock arriving at the associational office. In the meantime, the pastor's secretary from our church called to tell me of two families in Ochsner Hospital. One family had asked if I might run by to visit, since death seems eminent.
I'm no longer a pastor but I know my calling. God did not give me a pastor's heart for nothing. (Every retired pastor knows the feeling.) I told her I would go.
Tuesday evening, on my way home, I was driving up Metairie Road in heavy traffic. Suddenly as we drove past a small side street, I glimpsed a fellow on a bicycle coming out of that street, headed straight for our line of cars. In a split second, the bike whipped straight toward us, then at the last moment turned a sharp right and moved in the same direction we were going. I almost had a heart attack; I just knew I was hitting a cyclist and killing him.
And now, for perhaps 10 seconds he was pedaling alongside my car, just off the right window. I rolled it down and called.
"What are you doing? You scared the daylights out of me!"
He said, "Don't worry about me. I know what I'm doing." The light up ahead turned red, the traffic stopped, he crossed at the light, and was gone.
I thought of twelve things I wanted to say to that foolish man. "Maybe you know what you're doing, but I don't--and I'm the guy with the car!" "You're trying to commit suicide, that's what you're doing." I even thought of saying to him, "Friend, you're going to get killed. I can't say that bothers me a great deal, but it will devastate your loved ones. And, frankly, I don't want to be the one who hits you!"
So, so foolish. "I know what I'm doing." He was in a little world all his own, dead certain that if he followed his own rules, he would do just fine.
My strong hunch is that the impatient motorist on the interstate, the one weaving in and out of traffic, the fellow who tailgates you flashing his lights until you get out of his way, then pulls the same stunt on the next driver in front of him, that foolish speeder no doubt feels he knows what he is doing.
He may indeed. Until he meets up with another nitwit just like him, then all bets are off.
Earlier the same day, maybe at 1:30 or so, I drove a few blocks to a little eatery that has opened up on Elysian Fields Avenue close to the University of New Orleans. I've been there once, trying to patronize businesses that have reopened in our area. The food was nothing special, but I decided to give them another try.
Inside the door, a sign instructed me to seat myself. The one vacant table, however, had not been cleaned and the last diners had clearly been messy eaters. I pulled out a chair, sat a little back from the table, and looked for a waiter. A couple of minutes later, he arrived, towel in one hand and a stack of menus in the other. When I asked for a menu, he said, "In a minute," and proceeded to--I couldn't believe my eyes--rake the mess off the table onto the tiled floor.
I sat there frozen in place. Did I want to eat here?
I said, "You're raking that food onto the floor?!" He didn't say a word, just kept at it. I stood up and said, "Friend, this place is too dirty for me. I believe I'll eat somewhere else." And walked out. Nonplussed, the waiter called, "Thanks for coming in, have a nice day."
Clueless, apparently. Or maybe he just didn't care.
What are they thinking? I can understand the restaurants that serve you a bucket of roasted peanuts encouraging customers to drop the dry shells onto the floor. But wet, sloppy food onto a tiled floor? No thank you.
I drove down the street to Cafe Roma, a lovely and classy affair with great food, friendly staff, and better prices.
Do they know what they are doing, one wonders.
You visit a church where no one speaks to you, no one greets you at the front door, no one gives you a bulletin, and no one even acknowledges your presence. You're uncertain where to sit, completely in the dark on where the nursery or rest rooms are, and feeling more alone by the minute. You can tell by the empty pews that this church is in trouble. You find yourself wondering, do they know what they are doing?
Or more specifically, what they are not doing.
The cover of TIME for July 21, 2008, pictures Nelson Mandela at age 90 beaming that sweet smile out to the world. The accompanying article is titled "The Secrets of Leadership: Eight lessons from one of history's icons."
"Secrets?" I thought. "Leadership has secrets? Hasn't John Maxwell unearthed them all and written a book on each?"
Inside, I turned to the cover article, eager to learn what secrets Mr. Mandela had discovered. It was a good interview, the writer made some excellent points, so much so that we want to repeat his eight principles here with an occasional comment or two of our own. While no deep-dark secrets were embedded in the article, readers will find Mandela's insights helpful.
You know who Nelson Mandela is, I'm confident. A political activist against South Africa's apartheid in the days when to speak out was to land in prison, Mandela was sentenced to life in prison in 1964. In 1990, the President of South Africa F. W. de Klerk released him, three years later the two men received the Nobel Peace Prize, and in 1994, Mandela was elected president of the country. His autobiography is "Long Walk to Freedom." (Definition: 'apartheid' was extreme racial segregation based on white superiority.)
Over the decades, Mandela became a mature voice for reconciliation, reason, and unity. Today, he is a symbol of so much for everyone on the planet, but particularly for Africans no matter where in the world they or their descendants live.
1) Courage is not the absence of fear--it's inspiring others to move beyond it.
Ask any church leader why America--or the churches in general or a denomination in particular or all Christians--does not (do not) have revival and the answers will usually come out to something like: "We're not praying," or "We're not praying hard enough," or "This takes prayer and fasting."
Today, I spent an hour on the internet reading some of the hundreds of websites on the subject of revival. Those that attempt to cover the subject of why we are not experiencing revival usually attribute it to sin, complacency, or prayerlessness.
Maybe they're right, but it seems to me those answers are missing the point.
The reason we're not having revival may indeed be that we're not praying for one. After all, Scripture assures us that "you have not because you ask not." (James 4:2)
But that just leads to the question of why we're not praying for revival. The answer, I strongly suggest, is simple: we don't want a revival. We like things the way they are.
I said it and will stand by it: we do not want revival. The churches don't, the church members don't, and very few of the pastors want a genuine Heaven-sent revival.
After all, revival means change, and we don't want change. We're too comfortable the way things are at the present.
I used to have an elderly man in my last church who showed up for services from time to time mainly because of his wife. Once when I was visiting in their home, I learned that five years earlier, he had had a heart bypass operation. His wife said, "And pastor, the doctor ordered him to walk several blocks a day, but he won't do it."
I tried to shame him a little. After all, the walking was for his own good and might prolong his life. He said, "Preacher, the reason I don't walk is simple. Walking interferes with my routine."
His wife scoffed, "What routine! Pastor, he goes to the casino!"
He lived two more years, still spending his days with the slot machines.
That, in a word, is why the great masses of Christians do not pray for nor desire revival: it would interfere with their routine.
By "revival," we mean an across-the-board movement of the Holy Spirit as He touches hearts, changes minds, melts pride, and transforms sinners.
In a revival, the hearts of God's people are broken in repentance and humility, the Lord's people come together in love and service, and the Lord's work of ministry and giving and witnessing and missions moves forward at warp speed.
Now, logically, most Christians would like these things to occur. In our heart of hearts, we know this is what is going to be required for God to transform the modern church and make it once again a missionary organization. We know the people of our community are not going to be reached in numbers big enough to have any kind of impact until the Lord's people have a new touch of God in their lives. And we confess we want that, that we desire revival.
But we don't. Not really.
Everything inside us resists change. Our ego resists Anyone else sitting on the throne over our lives. Our spirit rebels at Another calling the shots. Our bodies are afflicted with inertia, which we learned in the chemistry lab means a resting body prefers to remain at rest.
Now, I've seen revival and perhaps you have, too.
Cause for Reflection....
After the recent death of comedian George Carlin, one of the funniest men on the planet--also, one of the dirtiest--the Florida Baptist Witness ran a guest column from Don Walton, a vocational evangelist whose blog is www.timefortruth.org. Titled "Seven Words You Can't Say in Heaven," the article credits Carlin with "more than anyone else" being "responsible for turning the profane and irrevent into comedic material."
Walton picks up on Carlin's infamous "seven words you can never say on television," a routine he was sometimes arrested for performing. Now that he has died, Walton says, he "stands before a much higher tribunal than our nation's Supreme Court." And, here are seven words he cannot say in Heaven: "I'm sorry, Lord. I was just joking."
Cause for Rejoicing....
Last Sunday, Memorial Baptist Church in Metairie dedicated their newly restored sanctuary. This is one of the few churches in our association that suffered great loss due not to the floodwaters that followed Katrina but the winds and rain that comprised this hurricane. When winds tore off the roof of the sanctuary, water rushed in, ruining the upstairs offices and the interior of the worship center.
For nearly three years, Memorial has met in their fellowship hall. A number of churches across the Southern Baptist Convention, including Nashville's Woodmont Baptist Church and Allen, Texas' First Baptist Church, have been faithful encouragers to Memorial during this time. Prestonwood in Dallas has sponsored their Unlimited Partnership seminary student, if I'm not mistaken. That student, Jonathan Young, recently graduated from seminary and has become Minister of Education at Opelousas' First Baptist Church.
Pastor Jackie Gestes came to us some two years ago--in the depth of the church's need--and has become a faithful friend and shepherd.
Sunday, the congregation ringed the inside of the worship center, holding hands, and dedicated this building and themselves to Christ anew. I've known this good church since arriving in New Orleans in 1964 and can say the sanctuary has never been more beautiful.
We will appreciate prayers for Pastor Jackie, his wife Joani, and the church leadership as they tackle the impressive challenges before them.
Cause for Concern....
The Jasper Alabama Daily Mountain Eagle has published a fine article and some great pictures of this incredible lady
Click Here to read the whole thing.
In his book on the Korean War, General Matthew Ridgway paid tribute to perhaps the 20th Century's pre-eminent American military leader, General George C. Marshall. He called him the greatest our country had seen since Washington. He quotes Marshall as calling for "moral courage," illustrated as "that time when an officer lays his commission on the line."
Peggy Noonan, in her biography "Ronald Reagan," wrote: "In a president, character is everything. A president doesn't have to be brilliant; Harry Truman wasn't brilliant, and he helped save Western Europe from Stalin. He doesn't have to be clever; you can hire clever... But you can't buy courage and decency; you can't rent a strong moral sense. A president must bring these things with him... A vision is worth little if a president doesn't have the character--the courage and heart--to see it through."
Everyone knows what courage is--when a person risks his life or safety in some noble cause. John Wayne said, "Courage is being scared to death--and saddling up anyway."
But what is moral courage?
My working definition is: "A firm spirit that does the right thing at great risk." In this case, you risk not bodily harm or your life but perhaps your reputation, success in your chosen field, or the support of friends and family.
My friend Bob was teaching in a Christian college, mind you, when he was informed by the dean and then the president that he should not be giving his Christian testimony to his students. Someone of another faith might be offended or feel discriminated against. Bob responded that he felt it was important for students to know who their professor is and to learn his world-view if they are to make sense of his teaching. Besides, he insisted, I thought we were a Christian school. They made sure Bob did not get tenure and eventually, God led him on to another institution.
Moral courage is standing up for the hard right against the easy wrong. Moral courage means refusing to stand idly by while others engage in wrong or hurtful acts.
Moral courage speaks truth to power.
Its opposite is cowardice in the name of getting along, silence in the face of cruelty and persecution, acquiescence in the cause of unity or personal advancement.
My 92-year-old mother asks if when couples come to see me with marriage plans, do I try to talk them out of it. She is teasing, but that's not entirely a joke. If the preacher can, he perhaps ought to.
The problem is by the time they get to the pastor's office, their minds are made up and no one can talk them into changing their plans. Unfortunately, in many cases, neither can you talk them into changing their mindsets.
But, we keep trying.
We deliver sermonettes to them in the office, counsel them on what they've learned about themselves and each other, and hand them books to read, all in an attempt to get some new ideas into their minds and some growth into their relationship.
We give them Gary Chapman's book, "Five Love Languages," and say, "Don't come back until you've read it. We'll be talking about its insights at the next session." Once, when the groom-to-be said he had not had the time to read it, I lowered the boom on him. "Remember I told you I'm not charging you anything for my services? Well, if I'm going to sacrifice a little, you ought to, also!" I looked at him and said sternly, "Read the book!"
My mom says, "Do you ever think about canceling your part in a wedding?" I said, "Every pastor thinks of it, but the reason we don't is that we don't know which marriages will make it and which won't. Some I thought would last forever did not survive five years. And some I wouldn't have given a plug nickel for have lasted forty years now."
I didn't say it, but I thought her own wedding to Dad is a case in point. These days, many pastors would not have married them. She was 17, he was 21, they hardly had a dime to their names, they had little actual preparation for marriage, and were more than likely being unequally yoked. If Dad was a Christian then, he wasn't much of one. Mom, on the other hand, was raised in church. It was years before they came together on spiritual matters. And yet the marriage lasted. When Dad died, in November of 2007, they were looking toward their 74th anniversary and told each other--and anyone who would listen--how much they loved each other.
What makes a marriage work and actually last when from all appearances it doesn't stand a chance? Here are some observations I've made over nearly half a century of joining couples in wedlock.
1. Someone is determined to make this marriage work.
Sometime in the mid-1990s when I was teaching a class for pastors at New Orleans Baptist Theological Seminary, I made up a list of suggestions for the conduct of young pastors and distributed them to the students. One item was: "Wear a suit to the office during the week, with a white shirt and a nice tie. It conveys a sense of professionalism."
If any pastor from that class is now reading this, I'd like to say: "You may ignore that. It's no longer necessary." As if you need me to tell you!
The dress code for ministers is one of the most drastic changes my generation has seen. When I began in the Lord's work in the early 1960s, the minister dressed up for everything.
I recall one afternoon in the mid-1970s, I was on my way home from playing tennis and ran by a downtown restaurant for something. I hesitated, wondering if I should do this, since I was dressed in the traditional tennis uniform: white polo shirt, white short pants, white shoes, white socks. A pastor should not be seen in public dressed this way, I thought. But I decided it was safe, and walked inside.
Immediately, I ran into some of the matrons from our church, having their afternoon tea. I felt naked before them, and as I recall, they looked as shocked as though I were.
How times change.
These days, the only time many pastors take that traditional black suit out of the closet is for funerals or the occasional wedding. All other times, casual is the order of the day.
I understand that's true for society across the board. Men are wearing fewer ties and suits, period.
Next time you watch an old film clip from the Depression years, notice the men. No matter how poor they were, whether they were striking a factory or standing in a bread line, they're all wearing hats. Every single one of them. No more.
Fifteen years ago, some pastor somewhere decided one Sunday to wear jeans and sneakers, and because he was bold and confident and effective in his ministry, the church grew and the word got out and pastors all across the land decided the way to grow a great church was to wear blue jeans and old sneakers.
Think of this as a confession.
Each year, when magazines like "Preaching" and "Christianity Today" come out with their books of the year--the ones their editors decide all successful and thoughtful ministers should be familiar with--invariably, I will have read only one or two of them. "That one looks interesting," I will think. "I'll have to get it."
When friends like Don Davidson ask, "So, what are you reading at the moment," I always feel that I'm not reading what a man in my position--veteran pastor, denominational servant, reasonably intelligent Christian--should be spending time on.
Sometimes it's a novel on World War II, such as those by James R. Benn, James Dunning, or Philip Kerr. At times, it's a biography, such as "A Rose for Mrs. Miniver" on Greer Garson or "Adlai Stevenson" by Porter McKeever (no relation). I'll read a book on the making of "Casablanca," and then hole up with any Lauran Paine western I can get my hands on. (He's the author of what may be the best western of our generation, "Open Range.")
My grandchildren look at the stack of books on the floor by the side of my bed and ask how I can read all of those at the same time. I feel I'm being a poor role model for these young readers who, thus far, know only to open a book and read it all the way through without laying it aside to begin one or two or ten more.
But this week, the book was "The Coldest Winter: America and the Korean War," by David Halberstam. Plowing through any kind of book on that war is not something I had planned. I was 10 years old when that "conflict" began, 13 when it ended, and vividly recall the frustration and depression with which Americans dealt with that event. For good reason, it has been called "the forgotten war," although anyone who was in it will never forget it.
The book was published last year and contains nearly 700 pages. I bought it on-line for $8 plus shipping and handling, and read it in three days this week while dealing with a strained muscle in my lower back which kept me home much of the time.
What drew me to read the book, though, was a half-hour I spent in the waiting room at Ochsner's Hospital recently. I had gone by to visit two friends who were dying of cancer--one has since gone to Heaven and I did her funeral--and afterwards, got a cup of coffee from the lobby cafe and settled down in a comfortable chair to relax. On the table to my left, the Smithsonian magazine, always one of our favorites, carried an excerpt from Halberstam's book which dealt with General Matthew Ridgway. I read a few paragraphs and was hooked.
I didn't swipe the magazine, although I thought seriously about it.
In his massive work on the Korean War, "The Coldest Winter," David Halberstam tells of Bruce Ritter, a radioman whose regiment was decimated by the Chinese Communists. When the little group he hooked up with arrived at the banks of the Peang Yong Chon river, an officer suggested they leave behind a wounded man named Smith they had been assisting. Ritter and the other soldiers looked at each other and rejected that alternative. They lifted Smith into their arms and carried him across to the other side, then helped him along as they searched for safety and shelter.
Once, when they ran into a band of enemy soldiers and engaged in a firefight, one of the men assisting the wounded soldier, George White, was hit in the foot. Now, with two wounded men, they moved even more slowly. Finally, they ran into a corpsman who got both Smith and White to a hospital.
Halberstam writes, "For a long time Ritter heard regularly from White, who would always sign off his letters saying, 'Thanks for the ride.'"
The Lord Jesus looked at the mass of humanity spread before Him and His heart broke. On the outside, the people looked whole and respectable enough, but underneath the exterior, Jesus thought they resembled sheep that have been ravaged by a pack of wolves, sheep direly in need of a shepherd. He called out to them, "Come unto me, all you who are weary and heavy-laden, and I will give you rest."
He continued, "Take my yoke upon you and learn from me, for I am gentle and humble in heart, and you will find rest for your souls. For my yoke is easy and my burden is light." (Matthew 9:36 and 11:28-30).
The world would have abandoned all those needy souls by life's raging river. The Lord gets under them and lifts them and brings them along with Him.
And that's when the ride of their life has its beginning.
Friday, July 4, I drove to Nauvoo, Alabama to spend 48 hours with my Mom. The 14th is her 92nd birthday. Thank you to those of our readers who have sent (or are sending) her birthday cards. She got three in Saturday's mail while I was there. They go into the basket on the dining room table and will a) be read again and again and b) never be thrown away!
The farm hasn't looked this green in a generation. Patricia and her husband James always have a nice garden and this year they've outdone themselves. Carolyn and her husband Van--they're buying Mom's place and beginning to farm it--have turned the land around the farmhouse into a lovely garden also. Sunflowers in the field just beyond the pear orchard. Scarecrows hanging from trees to scare off the deer. "The deer love okra," said Van. Who knew? Maybe they're making gumbo.
I timed my visit just right for the blueberries. Patricia has some 20 or 30 bushes in two fields, and they're loaded. I brought back what probably amounted to four gallons. James works in Birmingham and co-workers buy all he can bring to town. He sells them for $8/gallon which we've told him is much too low. Anyone who has spent 30 minutes picking a gallon will tell you that 50 dollars ought to be the minimum.
I'm by blueberries the way I have always been by peanuts. Whether they're good for you or not, we'll let the experts decide. But I eat them almost every day of my life just because I love them.
When you leave our house and head down Poplar Springs Road toward Nauvoo, where you intersect with Highway 5 (which runs from Jasper to Haleyville), just in front of you in that big barren space is where our family lived in the early 1940s. My earliest memories of life on this planet date back to that house owned by the coal company. I recall when the state paved that highway in 1946 and electricity came through about the same time.
Patricia and I would sometimes go into the woods behind the house picking blueberries. They grew wild, the plants no higher than your knee, only a few berries per bush. To me, they were like blue jewels. Patricia showed me how to crush them in a pint jar, and add water and sugar. The result was the sweetest, most wonderful taste I'd ever experienced. It was so special that I decided to save some for later. I stuck that jar half-filled with the nectar of the gods in the back of the pantry and checked on it from time to time. For a six-year-old, this was better than money in the bank. Then one day, I pulled out the jar and found myself staring at an inch of mold on top. I was broken-hearted to learn we had to throw the whole thing away.
Thus I began to learn about this fallen world we live in.
"Kit Kittredge, An American Girl." The movie, not the doll. It opened this week, and the reviews are enough to make one gag. "Saccharine." "Hokiness." "Relentless sweetness." "Flimsy plot."
What I wonder is what in the sam hill are newspapers doing sending 40 year old men to cover movies for 10-year-old girls? In the movie, Kit is trying to get the Cincinnati newspaper to run her writings. So, why--this is such a no-brainer that even editors should have thought of it--why not get a 10 year old girl to review this movie?
Who wants to know what the local drama expert thinks of a children's movie? I for one don't.
Friday afternoon, I took our 11-year-old granddaughters, Abby and Erin, to see this movie. Until a few days ago, I had no inkling that a series of dolls exist in the name of this little girl or that to pre-teens, Kit Kittredge is as big as Nancy Drew (or maybe Barbie is a better comparison) was to earlier generations.
I was unable to take JoAnne, 10, who lives in New Hampshire or Darilyn, 10, but 11 later this month, who lives in North Carolina, with us. But wouldn't that have been a hoot, taking all four granddaughters of that age! Anyway, I did the best I could and took the two who are nearby. It was a fun two hours.
Okay, being your typical grandpa, I would have enjoyed sitting on a park bench for two hours with those two (and moreso, those four). So the fact that I had a good time tells you nothing about the movie.
Okay, the movie. I did what you do before choosing a movie, and checked it out on some of the internet rating places. Today, after seeing "Kit Kittredge," I'd like to go back to some of the reviewers who called it "simplistic" or "formulaic" and say to them, "Hey--it's a child's movie! It's not for grownups and certainly not for movie critics."
The truth is that "Kit Kittredge" is more purely a child's movie than most that claim that for themselves. So many cinematic offerings in that category--whether from Disney or Pixar or other well-respected houses--are fakes. The parents are sitting there enjoying the movie along with their young-uns, and getting all the little innuendos and inside jokes that were inserted for big people and no one else. Meanwhile, the kids are wondering what all the laughter is about.
In this movie, if a kid doesn't get the joke, it was thrown out. Movie critics don't know what to do with that.
Following the last article on fellowship in our churches, the one about shy people, my son Marty connected me with a website in which a college professor was sounding forth on the difficulty he and his wife--both shy people--are having locating a church in their new city on the West Coast. They're looking for one of their denomination, one of the old-line liberal churches, and are quite specific as to what they like and cannot stand.
Below are the eight points he makes. Rather than posting my comments on his website, the way bloggers invite readers to do--in fact, we treasure those comments and invite them here--I'll leave my conclusions here. I'm confident the professor would not appreciate much I have to say, my being Southern Baptist and no doubt a fundamentalist Bible-thumper to his way of thinking. Besides, he'd probably tell me if I'm going to write this much about what he said, I should get my own website. (I told a writer that recently. He/she came back and said, "Sorry. I don't keep up with all the places I blog.")
Well, since I have my own website, here we go.... Let's call the professor Henry and his wife Hankette.
1. Please, please keep your hands off my wife and off me.
Henry doesn't like hugging, and worse, he abhors people he has just met who stand there stroking his arm, shoulder, or back. Hankette is worse about this than he.
2. Do not call us out by name in front of the entire congregation.
Hank writes, "Our modus operandi when we're trying out a new place is to take in the full service, then decide whether to fill out the visitors' card." He says, "Handshakes? Smiles? Absolutely. But if we tell you our names, don't say to the whole congregation, 'Be sure to welcome Henry and Hankette who are sitting on the back row!'"
3. We'll come to the post-service potluck if we want to.
It would appear from the stories our Lord gave in Scripture that a good way to teach prayer is by negative examples, that is, "how not to do it." Jesus told of prideful Pharisees bragging on themselves in prayer, mean-spirited tyrants asking for forgiveness but unwilling to forgive others, and a powerless widow hounding a merciless judge until he caved in and gave her what she wanted.
All illustrate wrongs way to pray.
I've previously mentioned in this website Lehman Strauss' book "Sense and Nonsense About Prayer." Well, after owning the book for three decades--it was first published in 1974--and frequently citing its lessons, I decided the time had arrived to go back and re-read it. I did that Monday.
The twelve chapters that deal with our subject--Strauss has a section at the end on the Lord's prayer and the prayer life of Jesus--are worthy of your consideration and study. At the end of these chapters, he invites the reader to agree or disagree with him at any point, but in love. I found myself disagreeing with facets of one or two principles in this list, but overall, the list is excellent and I commend it to you.
At the end, we'll include three of his non-sensical stories on how not to pray.
1) It does not make sense to pray if there is unconfessed sin in the heart. Psalm 66:18
However, it makes sense to confess our sins if we expect God to hear us.