Joe McKeever

Life and Death Issues

We are gathered in the chapel today to pay our last respects to our beloved sister and friend who was called to the Lord a few days ago.

As you look around, you no doubt notice that some friends you thought would be here are absent. I need to let you know that some people shy away from funeral homes with everything in them. Perhaps there are many reasons for this, but the big one is simply this: attending a service like this one forces people to think about the issues of life and death. And it will not come as news to you to learn that many people will do everything in their power to avoid such confrontations and examinations.

But you're here and I'm here and there will never be a better time. So, let's do it. Let's think about life and death.

I'd like to give you four words about Life and four words about death, to take home with you and to reflect on in the days ahead.

FOUR WORDS ON LIFE....

1) Life is a mystery.

One of the great arguments in our society is when exactly life begins. A far greater mystery is the origin of life itself, as to when and how it began on this planet. And then, when the spirit departs and the body is no longer alive, what happened there? Where did the spirit go? There is an eternal mystery about life. Don't be surprised if we never figure it all out this side of Heaven.

2) Life is a gift.

This Week is a Great Time to Read

1) The current issue of Pulpit Helps (January 2009) has resurrected an article of mine from four years ago and given it front-page coverage. "If you wanted to hurt the cause of Christ..." is both the title and the opening of the first sentence. It may be one of the most important things I've ever written. I'd love for you to go back and read it.

http://www.joemckeever.com/mt/archives/000072.html

The fascinating thing about running across something you wrote years ago is you get to read it as an outsider, as though picking it up for the first time. Fun.

2) The current issue of Architecture Digest (January 2009) has a huge article on actor Brad Pitt's charitable/rebuilding work in New Orleans. He established a foundation and has poured money and time into the building of new "hurricane-proof" (we hope!) homes in the Lower Ninth Ward. Not quite the stereotypical image most of us have of Hollywood-types. Pitt and Angelina Jolie have a home in the French Quarter and remark on how well they're treated by locals.

I'm not inviting him to fill the pulpit at my church anytime soon, but still....

3) The December 2008 issue of National Geographic has a display on King Herod whom they call the architect of the Holy Land. Fascinating, instructive.

One photograph shows small boulders that are "spiky with salt crystals" on the shore of the Dead Sea. Doctors ordered the nearly 70 year old King Herod to bathe in those waters. He was "feverish, itchy, and wracked with pain." And then, "the therapy failed, and Herod, despondent and increasingly paranoid, tried to kill himself."

It couldn't have happened to a more-deserving fellow, one of the original "baddies" from history.

The same issue of the Geographic contains thought-provoking stuff on "Necessary Angels," the illiterate women from India's Untouchable class who are curing diseases and saving lives. Also, stand in awe of the incredible photographs from Mars. The article following the one on King Herod deals with the ever-persisting problem of looting archeological sites in that region of the world.

Aren't we grateful for the public library where we can read these magazines without spending a dime!

Death is Up to its Old Tricks

Pastor Marshall Truehill went to Heaven on Christmas afternoon. He pastored First United Baptist Church on Jefferson Davis Parkway in downton New Orleans and was a community activist on behalf of the poorest of our society. Saturday morning's Times-Picayune carries a long obituary and tribute to him. I understand it was a heart attack.

Marshall was one of the most unforgettable characters you would ever meet. (You've heard me point out that this city has more than its share of those.) He was not content to sit in his pastor's study and mourn over the conditions in this city, but got out and did things. Last election, he ran for City Council. He headed up several community organizations dedicated to solving the homeless and housing problems. He was a graduate of Xavier and New Orleans Baptist Theological Seminary (with a doctor of ministry) and just a few days ago, received a doctorate from the University of New Orleans.

Arrangements for his funeral have not been announced. Those wishing to contact Marshall's wife Miranda may send notes to the church at 131 So. Jefferson Davis Parkway, New Orleans 70119.

Marilyn Woodward was no pastor but leaves a vacuum just as surely. She was a member of the First Baptist Church of Kenner when I was pastor there. For a number of years she worked in the welcome center at the entrance to Kenner just off Interstate 10 (at the Loyola exit). I cannot tell you the number of times she called me with information on new people to our city or old friends of mine she had met in her job. She had a heart for people and a gift for hospitality. I grieved when the city closed the center due to budget constraints a few years back.

Marilyn's funeral will be Tuesday at 11 a.m. at Muhleisen Funeral Home on Williams Boulevard in Kenner.

Monday of this week, I drove to north Alabama to spend a couple of days with my Mom. Three miles this side of the house lies the cemetery where my wonderful Dad is buried. I always run by there. Lately, every time I visit the grave, I've found myself thinking the same thoughts....

After-Christmas Shopping? No Thanks!

The ad for Macy's in the Christmas edition of the Times-Picayune indicated that those incredible neckties would be 75 percent off Friday morning. By 1 o'clock, however, the price escalates by 10 bucks, and later in the day, the price returns to normal. As I considered the crowds jamming the aisles of the malls and the overstuffed parking lots, reality set in and I realized, "I don't actually need a new necktie." In fact, most of the forty hanging in my closet never see the light of day.

This year, for the first time in memory, I received not a single necktie for Christmas. If that's not a sign of changing times, nothing is. My grandfather Virge Kilgore once remarked that his kids thought he had nothing but feet and a neck, judging by the socks and ties they sent his way for Christmas. That was 75 years ago. We're still wearing socks, but the neckties are going the way of cutaway coats and ascots for preachers.

I'm not complaining, though. Life is always evolving in various ways, on numerous levels.

The best story I've read in a while....

"Sister Mary, a home health nurse, was visiting homebound patients when she ran out of gasoline. As luck would have it, a gas station was just a block away. She walked to the station to borrow a gas can and buy some gas. The attendant told her the only gas can he owned had been loaned out, but she could wait until it returned. Instead of waiting, she walked back to her car and grabbed the bedpan she was taking to a patient. Always resourceful, she carried the bedpan to the station and filled it with gas. As she was pouring the gas into the tank, two men watched from across the street. One turned to the other and said, 'If it starts, I'm turning Catholic.'"

(from Pulpit Helps magazine, January 2009)

Random thoughts on sharing our faith with family members....

At the Intersection of the Years, I'm Thankful

(This was written a dozen years ago. I found it today and still mean it. If you know what real poetry is supposed to look and sound like, you may skip this!)

I'm grateful for my burdens,
For they have made me strong.
Thankful for my friends
Who tell me when I'm wrong.

I'm grateful for my critics
For sometimes they've been right,
And have been the voice of God to me
Even if doing it out of spite.

I'm thankful for my wife --
We've covered many a mile.
She's signed on for the duration
And does it all in style.

I'm grateful for my children --
Two sons and a daughter.
This is where I thank Margaret again --
I'm so glad I caught her!

I'm particularly grateful for my grands --
Leah, Jessica, and Grant,
With several more on the way;
I think I may faint!

I've not had a real job in years.
I spend all my days around church.
I pray with folks, share their sorrows and their tears;
You couldn't improve on this without a search.

I'm thankful for the deacons
Some have been my dearest friends,
Though I've wished they all would see me
Through rose-colored lens!

I'm grateful for our staff,
Ministers of God every one.
Not a lazy bone in their bodies,
Who don't mind having some fun.

I'm thankful for the churches
The Father called me to pastor.
Though I've wished they all responded
To my leadership a little faster.

It's great to know the Lord,
And to serve Him alongside you.
I expect we'll be doing this
Until Gabriel takes his cue.

So let's determine to help each other
To make the burdens a little easier,
To bless and pray, work and sing,
And make life a whole lot sweeter.

Exodus Cartoons (Black & White)

Click Here for Full Color versions

The Weekend in New Orleans

Friday Afternoon, the movie "Australia"

I don't usually recommend movies for lots of reasons, and I am not suggesting you get the DVD of this one and play it for your Sunday School class, but it was two and a half hours well-invested, I felt. The scenery was incredible -- I'm ready to visit Australia -- the history lesson was disturbing, the story was powerful, and the background music was excellent. About the latter, when have you ever heard a movie build the background music around "Somewhere Over the Rainbow" and Bach's "Sheep May Safely Graze"?

Some 25 years ago, James Allen will remember my returning to Columbus, Mississippi, from the funeral of Barbara Hardy's father in Ripley, Tennessee, and asking him, "What is this music? Ta-da-da-ta-da-dah etc etc?" And he said, "That's Johann Sebastian Bach's 'Sheep May Safely Graze.'" I thought then and think now, "What an odd name for a classical piece!" And have loved it ever since.

Friday night, Christmas dinner with the Operation NOAH team

David and Wanda Maxwell invited their co-workers and some of their extended friends and supporters to a wonderful sit-down dinner at Zea's restaurant on St. Charles Avenue. It was excellent in every way -- I brought home some of the leftover bread pudding! -- but left me feeling oddly frustrated. I mean, I need to be looking for ways to thank these wonderful people for the work they're doing in rebuilding this city and rescuing the broken lives of our people -- and here they are thanking me for the privilege. What are you going to do with folks like this!

Most of the NOAH workers are people from outside the Deep South who put their "other lives" on hold and journeyed here to help us. Most have been here two years or more. We are forever in their debt.

Odds and Ends from Here and There

I used to be a deli worker but couldn't cut the mustard!

I used to be a musician but wasn't noteworthy.

I wanted to be an evangelist, but they put me out to pasture.

I tried being a dentist, but hated living hand to mouth.

I looked into working at a hydroelectric plant, but there it was just one dammed thing after another. (Sorry, Mom.)

Being a math teacher looked good, but that had too many problems.

So, I became a pastor where there are no problems and everyone loves everybody else.

"That fish I caught weighed 20 pounds!" "Twenty pounds! Were there any witnesses?" "Of course. Otherwise, it would have weighed 30 pounds."

After the Marx Brothers came out with their movie "A Night in Casablanca," Warner Brothers studio threatened to sue them. The title was too much like their movie "Casablanca." Groucho Marx ended the nonsense by threatening to sue Warner Brothers for plagiarizing the name "Brothers."

The Statler Brothers singing group (remember them? They were so terrific. Are they still around?) enjoyed telling how they chose their name. They were sitting around a hotel room trying to find a suitable name for a quartet. Someone spotted the box of Statler tissues on a table and suggested Statler would be a classy name. And that's how it happened. In telling that story, they would always add, "Just think---we could have been the Kleenex Brothers!"

Inspecting Things in New Orleans

In late summer of 2006, we reported here of the hiring of Boston's Robert Cerasoli as the first Inspector General for New Orleans. Provisions for this office had been on the city's books for years, but nothing had ever been done. With the post-Katrina upheavals and scandals, a hue and cry went up from citizens for the city council to staff the position. The plan called for the IG to see how business is done in New Orleans government and identify wrongs as well as suggest changes to prevent wrongs.

In that introductory piece, we wished Cerasoli well and said a prayer for him---and got an e-mail response from him (to my amazement).

"Mr. C" identified himself as a fellow believer and said we'd have to get together. We set up an appointment at Loyola University which was providing temporary office space for him. The day I went by, Cerasoli was conducting assembly-line interviews. One television news crew was interviewing him in the college's conference room while another waited in the off-room where I was. The crew and I chatted, I pulled out my pad and sketched them, and when Cerasoli came out, he invited me to sit in on the interview. That was educational.

The most interesting part of the interview came after the cameras were turned off. The news anchor mentioned to "Mr. C" that he was conducting his own little investigation into the take-home cars the city was providing for employees. There seemed to be no oversight to the program and no accountability for either the cars or the fuel. Cerasoli mentioned that ever since a car had been offered to him upon his arrival, he had had some of the same thoughts.

That would be the subject of one of his first investigations.

Wednesday night, Inspector General Cerasoli revealed the results of that investigation. The lead paragraph on the front page article in Thursday's Times-Picayune reads:

"Mayor Ray Nagin's administration allows too many take-home vehicles, does not keep track of the fleet, and could save close to $1 million by eliminating the expense, the New Orleans inspector general stated in his first report in 16 months on the job."

The 53 page report covered 13 city departments. Here are some of its findings:

How to Pray When You Feel Unworthy

If we were required to be worthy of entering the Lord's presence before our prayers were heard, Heaven would never hear a peep out of me.

When the young Martin Luther knelt to pray, a sense of shame often overwhelmed him. He was unworthy to approach the Lord and knew it. Some scriptures in particular, instead of assisting him, only added to his misery.

"Who may ascend into the hill of the Lord? Or who may stand in His holy place? He who has clean hands and a pure heart...." (Psalm 24:4a)

That let Luther out--as it does me, and I suspect you, too. Who among us is innocent, who has not "lifted up his soul to an idol, nor sworn deceitfully"? (Psalm 24:4b)

Philip Yancey says as a young monk Luther would spend hours trying to identify every stray thought and sin in order to confess it. "No matter how thorough his confession, as he knelt to pray he felt himself rejected by a righteous God."

The breakthrough came, Yancey says in "Prayer: Does It Make Any Difference?" when Luther saw that in Jesus Christ God was pouring out grace and forgiveness to the foulest of sinners, the least worthy.

Thereafter, Luther recognized feelings of unworthiness and shame for what they were, agents of the devil which he rejected and handed to the Lord in gratitude.

It is indeed true that we are all unworthy. Without even understanding all its apocalyptic ramifications, the poorest of believers will read in Revelation 5 and say, "Yes, yes."

"I saw a strong angel proclaiming with a loud voice, 'Who is worthy to open the scroll and to loose its seals?" John says, "I wept much, because no one was found worthy to open and read the scroll or to look at it." And then, shortly, he hears the angelic chorus intoning, "Worthy is the Lamb that was slain...."

I am unworthy; Christ is all-worthy.

It's one thing to know that and another to live it, to believe it in our heart of hearts, and to feel it.

How to Pray When You're Too Tired to Pray

"Lord, I'm Tired. Amen." That's the caption on the most popular cartoon I ever produced. It has been clipped and pinned to bulletin boards in many places. Apparently, I'm not the only one who sometimes feels too tired to pray.

So, how does one pray when he's tired?

The very question presupposes that we are going to pray each day and even at a specific time. Otherwise, if a person has no time and place to pray, when he/she is tired, the thought of praying never enters their minds. They come home fatigued and drop into bed without a thought of needing to pray.

The short answer to the question is to bear in mind that the Father sees our tiredness and understands the limits on our spirituality at that moment. He knows. He understands. And He's okay by it.

We must forever do away with the image of the Heavenly Father sitting over us with a stopwatch or a clipboard to gauge the number of minutes we spend in prayer or the intensity with which we commune with Him.

"He Himself knows our frame; He is mindful that we are but dust." (Psalm 103:14)

How to Pray When You Don't Feel Like Praying

If there is a church on the planet which teaches young Christians and new believers how to pray, I've not heard of it. And yet, "Teach us to pray" (Luke 18:1) is one of the primary requests the twelve apostles had of the Lord Jesus. He clearly spent time teaching them to pray, both by His example and His instruction.

You would think this most basic of all Christian disciplines would be taught to every new believer and youngster growing up in the church.

The fact that any of us learn to pray at all is a tribute to dogged determination to acquire this skill in contacting the Almighty and connecting His will with our world.

In his book, "Prayer: Does It Make Any Difference?" Philip Yancey points out that Jesus gave very few rules for prayer. "His teaching reduces down to three general principles: Keep it honest, keep it simple, and keep it up."

That's as good a starting place as we can find.

Rumors and Whom They Hurt

It would have been almost funny had it not been so serious.

In a session with the leadership of a troubled church, I gave them examples of congregations I've seen over nearly a half-century of ministry that dealt with similar divisive situations as they were facing, sometimes wisely and sometimes not.

I told of one church where the new pastor was discovered to be a homosexual and was making overtures to a student in the congregation. When the deacon leadership found out, they dealt with it promptly and firmly. All the congregation knew was that the pastor resigned suddenly and was moved back to South Carolina. Because the members supported their leadership, no one left the church. Six months later, I came as pastor of that wonderful church and stayed over a dozen years.

I told of a church where the new pastor's girlfriend's father came to town and confronted him. "Tell these people what you've been doing or I'll tell them for you!" The pastor called a quick meeting of the deacons and informed them of this sordid business in his "distant past which the Lord has forgiven." The deacons had no clue what to do but within days, the congregation began unraveling at the seams. Seven months later, they finally voted that pastor out, but not before half the congregation had departed. A year later, I came as pastor of that damaged church and stayed nearly fourteen years.

One church handled its problem well, the other did not.

Then, a week after our meeting, the chairman of deacons of the church I was trying to help called. "One of our former pastors was talking to some of our members this week. He told them you were the preacher who tore up that church. He said you were the culprit." Furthermore, he said, that rumor was being circulated throughout the congregation.

I said, "Can you give me that pastor's phone number?"

Lordy, Lordy, Lordy

First.

William Perkins, editor of Mississippi Baptist's weekly "The Baptist Record," reports in the December 11 issue of a creative Christmas gift that Planned Parenthood has concocted: a gift certificate for an abortion.

"From the folks who gave us 'Choice on Earth' Christmas cards last year in a twisted effort to commemorate this country's modern-day Slaughter of the Innocents that has claimed more than 50 million babies, the Indiana state affiliate of Planned Parenthood is offering gift certificates that can be redeemed for any of their 'services.'"

The come-on promises that by giving a friend this certificate you will "contribute to their health throughout the year." They don't tell how such a gift will contribute to the health of the aborted babies, William notes.

He quotes Alveda King, niece of Martin Luther King, Jr., who said, "The word inappropriate hardly describes Planned Parenthood's scheme. To give someone a gift card from the nation's largest abortion business is to give death for Christmas."

She continues, "Planned Parenthood really should call these 'King Herod' certificates after the Roman ruler who slaughtered tiny babies in his vain attempt to kill the baby Jesus. Better yet, it should just leave Christmas, a celebration of birth, hope, and life, completely alone."

Amen, sister. And Brother Perkins.

Second.

We in the New Orleans area have just been treated to the most ghastly display of the flesh, a nightmarish picture of what happens when one's ego goes unchecked.

Prayer's Formula

If you have to have a formula for prayer -- and I'm not suggesting you do -- I have a suggestion, at least for the beginning. Consider this....

"Dear Lord,
In the wondrous name of Jesus,
Through the precious blood of Jesus,
For the glorious sake of Jesus,
I come to Thee...."

The first -- the name of Jesus -- is about Christ. Who He is and by implication, who we are.

The second -- the blood of Jesus -- is about the cross. What He did and thus how we got here.

The last -- the sake of Jesus -- is about the cause. What He wants and why we're here.

The first, the Name, is about the audacity of praying in the first place, our right be here. We enter the Holy of Holies through the Name that is above all other names. "For there is no other name under heaven given among men whereby we must be saved" (Acts 4:12). "And whatever you ask in My name, that I will do, that the Father may be glorified in the Son." (John 14:13)

The second, the blood, is about the authority with which we enter this most sacred place in the universe. "We come boldly unto the throne of grace." "With His own blood He entered the Most Holy Place once for all, having obtained eternal redemption" (Hebrews 9:12). "...how much more shall the blood of Christ, who through the eternal Spirit offered Himself without spot to God, cleanse your conscience from dead works to serve the living God?" (9:14)

The third, the sake, is about the authenticity with which we pray. This is not about us. It is "for thy sake." "Thy will be done on earth as it is in Heaven." "Have thine own way, Lord." "I delight to do thy will." "What would you have me to do?"

Now, by contrast....

Snowing in New Orleans

"Whose woods these are I think I know,
His house is in the village though.
He will not see me stopping here
To watch his woods fill up with snow."

Every time we get a snow of any degree, I pull out my volume of Robert Frost poems and walk into the woods and read that one titled something like "Stopping By Woods on a Snowy Evening." Even those not familiar with it know the last part...

"...but I have miles to go before I sleep, And miles to go before I sleep."

We woke up granddaughter Leah Peters, our first-born, now 19 years old, down from New Hampshire for a week, and said, "Thank you for bringing the snow!" She sleepily came to the front door and looked out at a world all too familiar to every New Englander, rubbed the nighttime out of her eyes and said, "You're welcome," then went back to bed.

The complication for me is that I'm trying to drive north to Jackson, Mississippi today for the memorial service for Dr. Frank Pollard, scheduled for 2 pm at the First Baptist Church. I've assured Margaret if the roads get too bad, I'll turn around. And I've given my cell phone number to Mary Glass in Jackson and asked her to let me know if she learns the service has been postponed. I don't want to miss this opportunity to express my deep appreciation for such a dear brother in Christ.

In the daily call to my nearly 93-year-old mom on the Alabama farm, I was exulting about the snow. She said, "West Virginia ruined you!" We laughed at that.

In the Hands of an Unpredictable Father

After the busiest autumn in memory -- with outside speaking in Virginia, Alabama, Oklahoma, Mississippi, and Louisiana, alongside my regular work here at the associational office -- I finished up Tuesday night with a ministers and wives Christmas banquet in the western section of our state. Suddenly the calendar is clear for the rest of December and throughout most of January. It's a strange feeling, after praying so diligently about each one of those preaching assignments for months and then to have them abruptly go away.

Recently, I felt the Lord impressing upon me that just because the event was over (and that I had traveled to that city, arrived at the church, gotten up, delivered the message, and left town without betraying the Lord, embarrassing my hosts or humiliating myself!), that was no reason to quit praying for those who had heard the sermons. Ever since I've continued praying for the friends who attended the two day associational meeting in Newport News in October, the directors of missions in Alabama, the pastors and others in Alabama who made up that convention audience in November, the church members in several states where I brought Sunday messages, and the pastors and associational leaders in Oklahoma.

Praying what? Not knowing what else to pray for, I simply ask the Lord to bless the continuing effect of the messages He gave me in the hearts and minds of those who heard. Beyond that, I just leave it with the Lord. (What I most certainly do not ask is that He will let anything about me personally linger in their hearts; it's about Him, not me.)

The biggest difference in my preaching at special events now and say, twenty-five years ago, is prayer. From the moment the invitation arrives, I add it to my daily prayer routine and intercede for those who will be present and seek God's will for what to preach. Invariably now, when I rise to preach, I am as sure as I can be that I know what He wants me to say. And that, I confess to you, is a far cry from where I used to be.

Blind-Sided

One afternoon last week, driving down Little Farms Avenue in my New Orleans suburb, I spotted the small SUV approaching the intersection from the right. The driver had a stop sign and I had the right of way, so all was well. Then I noticed something disturbing.

The woman behind the wheel was not looking to her left, that is, from the direction of the traffic in front of her. As she eased closer to the street, clearly planning to turn right, she was looking to the right, not to the left. I could hardly believe my eyes. "She's going to hit me," I thought. She never once looked in my direction.

But I was ready.

Over the years, I have learned a little trick that has saved me from at least half dozen accidents in the 18 years we've lived in metro New Orleans: in busy traffic, my right hand is at three o'clock on the wheel, which puts my thumb on the horn. When a crisis happens suddenly, I tense, my hand squeezes, and the horn blows. The driver of the other car gets the wake-up message and whips back into the lane.

That's what saved that careless woman and me from colliding that afternoon. At the next traffic light, she had recovered and was now behind me. She signaled with her hands, implying, I suppose, that she was sorry. I gave no indication I had seen her. I wanted her to think seriously about the foolishness of pulling into traffic without stopping or checking to make sure it was safe.

Defensive driving means more than just taking care of oneself and making certain you are driving carefully. It means watching the other guy, anticipating what he or she might do, and being prepared for anything.

The Most Foolish Pastor in Our State

My preacher friend dropped down beside me in the pew. The first session of our annual state convention was about to get underway. I treasure his friendship and rejoice at the outstanding work he is doing in this his third pastorate. He's new in our city and we are blessed to have him.

"What did you do today?" I asked.

He smiled. "I've spent the day at the pastors conference at the seminary."

"How was it?"

"Great. They had some terrific speakers."

"How was the attendance?"

"Good actually," he said, and named two or three mutual friends he had bumped into.

I looked around and said, "I don't see them here tonight."

He said, "They won't be here. I told them I was heading out to the first session of the convention and asked if they were going. One rolled his eyes and said, 'Boring!'"

That conversation took place a month ago and I've thought about it ever since. It bugs me for several reasons.

From My Mail Just in Time for Christmas

Longtime friend Randy Tompkins of Alexandria, LA, is president of Cornerstone Consultants Ministries. In an eThoughts devotional from last week, he writes of the recent Sunday morning worship service at his church when the electricity went out. Just as the choir and orchestra lined up to enter the sanctuary, total darkness. The absence of power also meant no temperature control, no organ, and no sound system. He says, "Everything the average person equates with a comfortable room was absent."

The staff decided to proceed with the service in the dark, Randy says. The musicians all took their places in the congregation and the doors were opened for what light was available. The pastor began by baptizing a father and daughter, while someone held a flashlight. Then, the man with the light assisted the pianist.

As the congregation sang, Randy noted two things: the congregation had a good voice and could be heard, since there was no choir or orchestra, and secondly, without hymnals or screens, the people did not know the third verse of the hymns.

As the pastor took his place at the pulpit, something else happened Randy found fascinating. All the ambient noise usually associated with the Sunday sanctuary was absent. No coughing, moving about, paper rattling, nothing, just absolute quiet. The pastor had in his hands the sermon notes and his flashlight. As he preached, Randy noted he seemed to be editing the sermon down, making it shorter, either because the room was warm or he feared the battery dying.

The other thing that occurred to Randy was that God was present in that room, not in a well-worded prayer or an emotional display of any kind. He was in that room in the same way He had appeared to Elijah in I Kings 19. "The Lord was not in the wind...not in the earthquake...and not in the fire. And after the fire, a still small voice."

Showing Mercy, Becoming Diversified

For the past several months, a controversy has bubbled slightly beneath the surface in New Orleans society (I started to say it had "raged," but that suggests a forest fire whereas this is more of a bonfire that won't go away) over whether President Bush should pardon four-time former Louisiana Governor Edwin Edwards who is serving a long sentence at a federal pen for racketeering. In the early 1990s when he led our state, Edwards asked for and received kickbacks from those seeking to be awarded licenses for casinos. A vigorous investigation and prosecution by the U.S.Attorney nabbed him and sent him up for, I think, twenty years.

Former Republican Governor (for one term) Dave Treen is leading the effort to get the president to make Edwards one of his last minute pardons. This is rather bizarre because Treen was always the sole of integrity in his political career and Edwards was anything but; they were political enemies for decades. Now Treen points out that Edwards is old and has already put in eight years (I think it is) on his term, and "more years won't accomplish anything." He urges us all to have mercy on Edwards.

That has generated a number of pro and con letters to the editor. One said, "So, if you're old, go ahead and break the law because we'll let you out of jail early because of your age. What kind of sense does this make?"

Other writers plead for mercy for Edwards, say he has suffered enough, and wonder about the Christian charity of those who say he ought to serve every day of his term. More than one writer has pointed out that Edwards is as responsible as any human for the sordid reputation for politics in this state.

To date, I have refrained from writing the editor and chiming in with my point of view -- although I have one, as you will see -- and doubt if I've mentioned the "cause célèbre" here.

My main thought is this: "I'm ready to forgive Governor Edwards just as soon as he confesses." Until he admits his crimes and owns up to his misdeeds, no mercy. Sorry. That, I insist, is not hard-heartedness but just good old-fashioned common sense.

Twenty years ago, we were living in Charlotte, North Carolina, when the PTL empire imploded because of the sexual (and later, it came out, financial) shenanigans of founder Jim Bakker. A lasting memory I have of that event is that no sooner had it come out that Bakker had "done something bad" and was being relieved as head of that ministry, than signs went up on Interstate 77 proclaiming, "FORGIVEN!" Mr. Bakker was forgiven for whatever it was he had done. We were all forgiving him without knowing what we were forgiving him for!

I found myself struggling with the concept of forgiveness that erases from the record anything that has been done without knowing what exactly had been done. At no point had Bakker owned up to anything, but here we were -- gullible Christians, the same kind he had duped and fleeced all those years -- ready to turn over the keys to the hen house once again to that fox.

No sir. Something about that is not right.

My Top Ten Favorite Insights From Exodus...

10. You want excuses? We got 'em!

Moses was the champion in many areas for the Lord's people who would eventually follow him. In his call, we find him coming up with some doozies of excuses why this isn't going to work, sending him into Pharaoh's court is a terrible idea, and he is the wrong person for this job.

"Who am I, Lord?" (3:11)

"Who are you, Lord?" (3:13)

"What if they don't believe me, Lord?" (4:1)

"I can't really do this, Lord." (4:10)

"Here am I, Lord; send Aaron." (4:13)

Sift through the entire conversation and you quickly decide that God's answer to all of Moses' excuses is the same: "I'll be with you." (3:12 and 4:12, 15)

When our Lord walked the earth, He kept running into one ridiculous excuse after another. Finally, He addressed the matter in a teaching found in Luke 14:16-24. The excuses given in this passage are so absurd ("I've bought some land and need to go see it," "I've bought some oxen and need to test them," and "I've gotten married and can't come"), the Lord hoped people would see how flimsy were their alibis for not responding to God's message.

The wonderful Vance Havner used to say, "An excuse is the skin of a reason stuffed with a lie." Several times in early Romans, Paul says, "They are without excuse." So are we all.

9. God is a God of infinite patience. (And aren't we glad!)

Rhapsody on a Theme

"You never know if the Lord is enough until He's all you have left."

I don't know who first said that -- I suspect only the Lord does -- but these days, with the worldwide economy seeking new subterranean territory, it's a good reminder. It may well be that before this is all over, He is all any of us have left.

But He will be enough.

Over three thousand years ago, the Lord made a simple little statement to explain the situation concerning the tribe of Levi as Israel made plans to divvy up the Promised Land. That statement resonated with David the Psalmist and soon found its way into a number of his songs---and forever lodged itself in our hearts.

The Lord was laying out the portions of the newly acquired country which would be assigned to each of the twelve tribes. On the east bank of the Jordan, Manasseh gets the territory to the north, Reuben gets the section below that, and Gad the southernmost land. On the west bank, which was much larger, the other tribes were assigned portions large and small, depending on their population. Everyone except the Levites, the priestly tribe. They received no land.

"I am your portion and your inheritance among the children of Israel," the Lord said (Numbers 18:20). This was repeated in Deuteronomy 10:9, "Therefore, Levi has no portion nor inheritance with his brethren; the Lord is his inheritance; just as the Lord your God promised him." Deuteronomy 18:1,2 reaffirms it.

When you're slicing up the pie, so to speak, the Lord is your slice.

The question is: is that enough for you?

Praying for Our Pastors

This week, New Orleans has been hosting the national (annual) gathering of the state directors of evangelism from across the country. Included among these leaders were their associate staff members, professors of evangelism from our six SBC seminaries, and leaders in this work from our North American Mission Board. All in all, there must have been two or three hundred here, including a few spouses, all of them champions of the Lord's work.

Tuesday afternoon, we chartered four buses for tours of the Katrina-affected areas of metro New Orleans. Freddie Arnold, David Rhymes, Keith Manuel (former pastor of Calvary here, now associate in our state evangelism office), and I were tour guides. We left the Westin Hotel on Poydras and drove north into Lakeview, across to Gentilly, down Franklin Avenue, eastward on Galvez to see the Baptist Crossroads/Musicians Village home sites in the Ninth Ward, out Claiborne Street into St. Bernard Parish, past Celebration-St. Bernard and FBC-Chalmette churches, north on Paris Road to Interstate 10, and then westward back into the city. We drove onto the campus of our seminary where an official boarded each bus to give us the grand tour of this site. Then, it was back to the French Quarter for café au lait and beignets at Café du Monde. (Our pastors who read this may rightfully be concerned that we did not come by your church when we were so close. We were on a strict schedule, and tweaked it continually in order to see as much as possible and yet get the group back on time.)

Along the way, we prayed. When we passed Lakeview Baptist Church, someone on the buses prayed for this congregation which is facing a great challenge after their merger with Sojourn, and for Pastor James Welch. At Pontchartrain Baptist Church, we prayed for Pastor Jerry Smith. At Gentilly, for Pastor Ken Taylor. On Franklin Avenue, for Pastor Fred Luter at FABC and Pastor Oscar Williams at Good News BC a couple of blocks away. We prayed for Craig Ratliff at Celebration-St. Bernard, for Pastor Warren Jones at New Salem, for Pastor John Jeffries at FBC-Chalmette, for Pastor Chad Gilbert at Edgewater, and others (I'm certain I'm leaving out someone).

Which brings us to the subject of today's epistle: how should we pray for these pastors?

Jesus is Calling Disciples, Not Friends

Maribelle was raised by godly parents to be a faithful Christian. During her teens, she rebelled, however, and ended up marrying Geoff, an undisciplined and ungodly young man. Life was parties and drinking and such. When they found they were going to have a baby, they ran to the pastor for a quick wedding. And that's when Maribelle changed.

One day she announced to Geoff that she wanted their child raised in a Christian home the way hers had been, that she wanted to go to church and worship as a family. She wanted to pray before meals and to read the Bible together. Geoff, understandably, felt betrayed. This was not the woman he had married and not the lifestyle he had signed on for.

The marriage did not survive.

Lawrence sat in Bob's living room sharing the gospel. "Believe on the Lord Jesus Christ," he said, "and you will be saved." Bob admitted he definitely wanted to go to Heaven, that he would like his sins forgiven, and needed peace in his heart. They prayed together and Lawrence assured Bob God had heard his prayer and his sins were forgiven and his name was written in down in heaven. Everything was fine. Almost.

Soon, folks from the church dropped in on Bob and invited him to the services. "You'll want to be baptized and join the church," they said. "And here are some offering envelopes." A letter from the pastor arrived, inviting him to a new members' class.

So far, Bob has yet to darken the doors of the church. The pastor and Lawrence, meanwhile, scratch their heads and wonder what's wrong with the church's discipleship program and why new converts aren't interested in growing in their faith.

The problem may not be with the church's discipleship or with the new convert. The problem lies with how they do evangelism. The simple fact is that Lawrence did not tell Bob the full story. He led him to join up, so to speak, without informing him of what he was joining. As with Geoff's marriage, Bob signed on for the Christian faith and then found the expectations to be more than he had in mind.

Imagine a recruiter for the military bringing in a new recruit, getting him through the physical, and swearing him into the service without informing him of what would be expected. And then, imagine the new recruit thanking the sergeant, wishing him well, and picking up his bag and heading back home, expecting everything to go on as before.

We've all known of unscrupulous salesmen conning unsuspecting buyers into signing on for a set of stainless steel-ware or a used car or a set of encyclopedias, without telling them of the fine print in the contract. Later they would find their obligations to be beyond what they expected and would feel betrayed.

We who call ourselves disciples of the Lord Jesus Christ would do well to see how the Lord reached people and then imitate His methods. Luke 18:18-23 presents a case full of insights.

Christmas - Here It Comes Again Right On Schedule!

A pastor friend told us of the time he took his family to a neighboring church's Christmas Eve midnight service. He and his wife loved it -- they could enjoy the presentation without worrying about the details, a rarity for a minister -- but for his seven-year-old daughter, it was a different matter. She was eager to get home and into bed so Christmas could arrive on time. As the worship service dragged on, the child became impatient. When the minister began reading the second chapter of Luke -- "Now, it came to pass in those days that a decree went out from Caesar Augustus..." -- she said in a voice that carried into the next county, "I have HEARD this story!"

We have all heard it. But it bears repeating again and again.

My friend Doug Oldham loves to sing, "Tell me that name again. Tell me that name again. Tell me that name again---that name is Jesus." The old hymn goes, "Tell me the story of Jesus. Write on my heart every word. Tell me the story most precious -- sweetest that ever was heard." When I was a child in that wonderful Methodist church in Affinity, West Virginia, number 100 in the hymnal was one I have loved ever since: "I love to tell the story of Jesus and His love....tis pleasant to repeat, what seems each time I tell it more wonderfully sweet." It goes on to say, "And when in scenes of glory, I sing the new, new song, 'twill be the old, old story that I have loved so long."

Granted, some stories do not bear repeating even once. And some that can stand a couple of repetitions get old quickly. My cousin Annette Spain interrupted the family reunion to take a call from her daughter Renee who had stayed home that weekend. "How was church this morning?" Annette asked, then broke into laughter. A couple of minutes later, she explained that the home church pastor had pulled out an old time-worn story and used it on the congregation for the umpteenth time. It involved a little girl who had strayed from home and fell into an abandoned well. The neighbors came together to search for her and eventually to rescue her. "I get so tired of that story," Annette said, "that sometimes I find myself rooting against them finding the kid just out of pure meanness!"

We all know the feeling.

Welcome to My Armoire

It's my very own piece of furniture, the only one I don't share with my wife. It stands higher than my head and opens with two doors to reveals shelves where I can stock handkerchiefs and socks and odds and ends and unload my pockets each night. The various drawers contain the usual assortment of clothing as well as winter sweaters and long-forgotten personal items. When I die, the family will commence strip-mining operations on my armoire. My coin jar is there, filled with buffalo nickels I collected in 1964 while working at the Coca-Cola Bottling Company in New Orleans. My DVD player is there, for some reason, and cards and photos from the many times I have unloaded and simplified my wallet.

So, now, think of today's blog as my armoire: lots of interesting and mostly unrelated stuff.