NANA'S BIRTHDAY

     

          This past Monday, February 27, would have been my grandmother’s 110^th birthday!  I was born on her birthday and each year I cannot celebrate my birthday without remembering hers.  She always said I was her birthday present, and it established a strong bond that continues to this day. 

“Nana” lived two doors down from our house.  Growing up, we spent as much time with Nana at her house as we did our own.  All the major holidays and big events were celebrated at Nana’s house.  Whenever we gathered around her large dining room table, there were always others who joined us.  Nana was very mindful of neighbors and friends who didn’t have family, and if she found out someone would be celebrating a holiday alone, she insisted they come to her house and dine with us. 

        Nana had a profound influence on my life.  When I was in the second grade, my teacher Mrs. Howell (no relation), would routinely assign me speeches to make before the class.   February was busy as I had an Abraham Lincoln speech followed quickly by one on George Washington.  I would normally go to Nana’s house after school and tell her what my assignment was.  It was amazing that even before I told Nana, she had the World Book encyclopedias out and had done other research on my assignment.  She helped me write the speech and then Nana and “Auntie” (my great-aunt who was a High School English and Drama teacher) would coach me on memorizing the speech and my delivery.  I guess I never thought it was odd that none of the other kids in the class were ever assigned speeches.  Come to find out, Nana, Auntie, and Mrs. Howell were in cahoots with each other. 

        When I was sixteen and made my church aware that I felt called to preach, someone told me, “Your grandmother has been praying for this since the day you were born.”  Seems she was doing more than praying!

        Nana loved the church and served in many capacities of leadership.  She started our church library and would always arrive at church an hour before Sunday School to open the library.  Most Sundays I would be with her.  We got there before the preacher did!  She was Mrs. WMU, she always hosted the visiting revival preachers for a meal, visiting missionaries stayed at her home, and she would sometimes play the violin in the worship service.  She loved Ridgecrest and for a number of years attending Ridgecrest for a week in the summer was our summer vacation.

        Nana also loved to travel and instilled within me the same love.  When I was small I would listen to her exciting stories of her European travels.  She brought me some wooden shoes from Holland that stayed in my room for years.  Her niece was a Pan Am flight attendant, back with that was a glamorous occupation and she and my grandmother would fly all over the world. 

        When I was old enough to travel, she took me on some amazing trips, including two trips to Alaska and a six week odyssey that took us to Salt Lake City, Yellowstone Park, San Francisco, Los Angeles, the Grand Canyon, Carlsbad Caverns, Dallas, Texas, and two weeks in Hawaii!   It was on that trip that my suitcase was stolen.  While I was devastated, Nana reminded me that I had a Bible in that suitcase, and she was convinced that it was all part of God’s plan.  She told me that whoever stole my suitcase would read the Bible and get saved.  And she believed it!  

        Nana wanted me to get my education.  When I graduated from seminary she told me I wasn’t through yet!   “You need to get your doctor’s degree,” she said.

        In May of 1983 I graduated for the last time with my Doctor of Ministry degree.  I called her that night and she told me how proud she was.  It was the last time I ever talked to her.

        She died in her sleep early on a Sunday morning.  Of course, she was always early on Sunday mornings. 

        Monday night, just before the Bible Study, the class sang “Happy Birthday” to me.  I then shared with them that it was also my grandmother’s birthday, and I know Nana would be proud to know I celebrated my birthday by teaching a Bible Study!  

REMEMBER YOU ARE DUST

        We observed Ash Wednesday this week.  I find the Ash Wednesday service to be the one of the most difficult services for me personally.  Ministers get to do a lot of things: celebrate births, officiate at weddings, baptize believers, dedicate babies, comfort families at funerals, and visit hospitals and nursing homes, (and preach sermons) but nothing is more difficult for me than to place ashes on the forehead of a friend (and when you have been around as long as I have, everyone in the church is my friend) and say the words, “Remember you are dust and to dust you shall return.”  

        I am basically telling people they are going to die.  And I find that hard to do. 

        Twelve years ago in March of 2000 we were in Israel for Ash Wednesday.  Dr. Bill Leonard from the Wake Forest Divinity School was on that trip with us and he and I talked about having an Ash Wednesday service for our group.  The problem, that we did not anticipate, was where to find some ashes.  The correct way to prepare the ashes is to save the palm branches from the previous Palm Sunday.  You burn the palm branches and mix them with olive oil.  (Not cinnamon like the Lutheran Minister did one year for the community service.   People went around town for a week with a cross burned into their foreheads!)  

        We certainly didn’t pack any old palm branches to carry with us to Israel.  You don’t go into a store and purchase ashes, not even in Jerusalem.   We didn’t know what we would do. 

        The night before Ash Wednesday (Fat Tuesday) we noted a Catholic group staying at our hotel gathering for an Ash Wednesday service.  Bill talked to the priest and discovered that they were flying home the next morning and therefore were observing Ash Wednesday that night.  Bill explained our dilemma and the priest graciously said we could have all of his remaining ashes.  I don’t know if Bill told him we were a Baptist group or not!

        Ash Wednesday was a beautiful day in Jerusalem.  We visited the Garden of Gethsemane, one of the most sacred sites in the Holy Land.  There is a beautiful church, “The Church of All Nations” that rests over the traditional site where Jesus prayed, “Not my will, but thine be done.”  On the steps of this church, in the very garden where Jesus prayed and then was arrested while his disciples fled, we prayed, sang hymns, read Scripture and received the imposition of ashes. 

        Standing on the very site where Jesus yielded totally to God’s will, within sight of the Temple Mount and the old walls of Jerusalem, we received the ashes as we heard the words, “Remember you are dust and to dust you shall return.” 

        Never had I felt so vulnerable and weak.  One day I will surely die and I will return to the dust. 

        But then I will hear the words, “I am the resurrection and the life, the one who believes in me, though he die, yet shall he live.  Whoever lives and believes in me shall never die!”

        Thanks be to God!

ITS ABOUT THE PEOPLE

      The last three Wednesday nights were some of the best attended in recent memory.  Everyone was interested in hearing from three outstanding specialists.  All three of these physicians came to our church without charge.  The arrangements were made through Wake Forest Baptist Health-Lexington Medical Center.  I was especially pleased since I serve on the hospital board, both here in Lexington and in Winston at Baptist. 

        A few weeks ago when I received my hometown newspaper, I couldn’t believe the headlines.  The local hospital was closing!  For good!   When I was growing up the town actually had two hospitals, but one closed a number of years ago.  I realized as I read the articles that the same sad story could have happened to us.  

        When our hospital board first started talking about merging into a larger system, I didn’t know what to think.  I didn’t realize how bad things were financially for us until we got into the merger process.  The truth is if we had waited much longer, it might have been too late, like it was for my hometown. 

        I found myself on the merger committee and spent a lot of time a few years ago talking about what our new hospital would look like as a part of a larger system.  I also spend a lot of time talking to my good friend, and trusted confidant, Dr. Bob Team.  Bob was so happy we were going with Baptist. 

        There are so many good things about our relationship with Baptist.  Jamie Young told me that because our two hospitals are one system, the transfer of their newborn baby Jacob to Brenner’s Children’s Hospital was seamless.  I highlight some of the other benefits below.

        My newspaper article won’t run for a couple of weeks, but after reading about my hometown hospital going out of business, here is my first draft on my March 3 article: 

IT’S ABOUT THE PEOPLE

        My mother insists that I receive my hometown newspaper, the “Hartselle (Alabama) Enquirer,” even though I told her that the only names I recognize are those in the obituaries.  It was therefore not surprising when I did not recognize the name of Sandra Smelser in a recent front page article that I read in its entirety.  She was at a candlelight vigil and was quoted as saying, “It’s the only job I’ve ever had after graduating from high school.”  With tears in her eyes she added, “It’s just like losing a family member.”

        Sandra Smelser was employed for 43 years by Hartselle Medical Center, my hometown hospital.  On January 31 of this year, the hospital closed its doors, going out of business.  Several attempts to sell the hospital or merge with a larger healthcare system were not successful.  The hospital, that first opened in 1948, stopped admitting patients a week before the end.  Signs on the doors announced the hospital was closing.  All remaining patients and Emergency Department admissions were shipped to hosptials in neighboring towns on the 31st. 

     I read the article with great interest, not only because it is a painful tragedy for my hometown, but also because I realized that it could have happened here, in Lexington. 

        Five years ago, shortly after I went on the Lexington Memorial Hospital Board of Directors, our hospital President, Mr. John Cashion, told the board that he felt it would be good for us to study the opportunities of merging into a larger healthcare system.  He understood what I as a new board member did not, that in the rapidly changing world of healthcare, small community hospitals were struggling to survive and it would only get worse.  As we spent several months systematically exploring our options, our hospital’s financial situation grew more and more serious.  The question was no longer “will we merge?” but “with whom?”

        We looked at several viable options.  Each one of the larger systems offered us something attractive.  But when we sat down for the first time with Donny Lambeth and other representatives from Baptist Hospital, it was like we had come home.  There was a sense of immediate trust.  We shared core values.  It felt like family. 

        As everyone knows, we made the decision to go with Baptist (now Wake Forest Baptist Health).  Have we been disappointed?  What do you think!

        We have a world-class cancer center, new cardiac and pulmonary rehab services, bariatric surgery, reconstructive surgery, ENT head and neck surgery, and vascular surgery.  Over 25 new physicians have been added to the staff, Wake Forest Baptist physicians now staff our much improved emergency department, outstanding specialists see patients in Lexington, the employee base has grown, the financial condition is much improved and we are beginning a major expansion of our Physical Therapy and Emergency departments.  Wake Forest Baptist has matched well over a million dollars in foundation funds, the hospital is engaged in the community in a positive way and annual capital expenditures have increased by almost 2 and one-half million dollars.  We can be assured of world-class quality health care right here, in our own little town.  But even with all these incredible improvements, there is something more important.

        At the candlelight vigil that was held on the night my hometown hospital closed, one (now former) employee said, “It’s more than just bricks and mortar.  It’s about the people.” 

        From the first day we sat down with Baptist Hospital we realized that “it’s about the people.”  It has been true from day one and it continues to be.  I’m thankful that rather than holding a candlelight vigil for what was, we continue to celebrate what will be!

                                                               

                                            

MISSION ACCOMPLISHED

        This past Monday morning at 9:32 a.m. a Priority Mail package was delivered to the Religion Office of the Lilly Endowment in Indianapolis, Indiana.  With the acceptance of the package my Sabbatical experience that started back in the fall of 2007 was finally, officially complete.  My report to the Lilly Endowment started with two words:  Mission Accomplished. 

        Our church graciously provides a Sabbatical for the ministers every seven years.  My first Sabbatical was in 2001, in my eleventh year of ministry at First Baptist.  I was eligible for another Sabbatical in 2008, but our church’s financial situation had changed and I knew that I would need to find outside funding.  That was when I looked into the Lilly Endowment, the premier foundation for Sabbatical grants. 

        I have a couple of minister friends who had received Lilly grants and I talked to them in the summer of 2007.  They told me how generous the grant could be (up to $45,000) but also told me that since they had received their grants, the competition and requirements for the grant had become much more intense. 

        In the fall of 2007 I received the application packet for 2008.  It was much more involved than I ever anticipated.  I realized the application process would take months and the amount of work, planning, and coordination that the application required was staggering.  I had to ask myself the question “Is it worth it?” 

        One of the key components of a successful application was the coordination and involvement of the minister and the congregation.  The Lilly Endowment doesn’t even use the word “Sabbatical.”  They speak of church renewal that is shared and coordinated between the church and pastor.  So one of the first things I did was invited several members to join in planning the church renewal experience.  We determined that the renewal would revolve around storytelling with the theme, “This is Our Story, This is Our Song.”

        It was in this group that the idea of intergenerational SS classes was suggested.  We started working on the requirements of the detailed application. 

        The application had to be submitted by early May, but I would not hear anything until October.  Detailed itineraries, budgets, program ideas, themes, a ten-page narrative, and other documentation such as my ordination and our church’s tax exempt status from the state of North Carolina were all required.   When I finally mailed the exhaustive application form in May of 2008, I was very confident that it would be accepted.  

        As October neared I closely watched the mail.  Nothing came.  The month started and the first week passed, then the second:  nothing.  By the third week of October I was getting discouraged.  Finally, on one of the last days of the month, a single first class letter arrived from the Lilly Endowment.  “This doesn’t look good,” I thought, and I was right.  The letter informed me that our proposal had not been accepted and went on to explain that the endowment had received more applications that ever before.  The letter did state that I could call and set up a telephone interview to determine the reason the proposal had failed.  I almost didn’t do it.

        After getting over the disappointment of being rejected, I finally made the call.  A time was established for the following week.  I was scheduled to talk to the director of the entire program. 

        She was a very pleasant woman who quickly put me at ease.  The first thing she said was, “You had an excellent proposal, one of the best we have seen.”  I was shocked.  I didn’t know what to say.  She quickly added, “And I guess you are wondering why you didn’t get the grant if your proposal was so good.” 

        “Well, yes,” I stuttered. 

        “Because you will kill yourself,” she said with a laugh.  “You are going from one conference to another, flying all over the country.  You are on the east coast one week and in California the next!  You are supposed to have some fun!  Redo the proposal, but don’t schedule so much.  Have fun!”

        The call had lasted less than five minutes. 

        Here’s a confession.  Before I mailed the proposal Joyce told me.  “You are scheduling too much.  You will kill yourself!”   I should have listened to my wife. 

        I went back to the drawing board.  I scheduled an Alban Institute seminar on storytelling and a week at the famed Chautauqua Institute for intellectual stimulation, but then I planned a week in New York City to see Broadway Shows, a family trip to Belize, and a month in Italy. 

        “It sounds crazy,” I told Joyce.  “But what do I have to lose?”

        The new proposal was mailed in May of 2009.  On the final week of September a thick packet arrived the mail. The cover letter started with one word:  “Congratulations!” 

        The Sabbatical was August – October of 2010.  The final component was last year’s church retreat.  But then I realized that the final reports and accounting that I needed to prepare were almost as involved and detailed as the original proposal.  I don’t normally procrastinate, but I have.  I planned to complete it last summer, but never got around to it.  The reports were not due until March of 2012 so I kept telling myself I have plenty of time. 

        I thought I would complete them during the holidays but was too busy.  Finally, last month, I knew that I had to get it done.   Thanks to many of you for helping with the evaluation.  When I mailed the Priority Mail package last Saturday, I felt like I had graduated from school!  It was finally over! 

        Here is how my final report began:

Mission accomplished!  My much anticipated and carefully planned Sabbatical was everything I hoped it would be and more.  I returned from the three month Sabbatical rested, renewed, and recommitted to ministry with new energy and enthusiasm.  Specifically, the Sabbatical was designed to sharpen my skills as a storyteller, find spiritual renewal, spend time with family, rest, travel, read, and write.  My goal was to link my stories with God’s story of redemption and through the synergy of our new stories, renew our faith traditions, experience transformation in ministry, and form congregational identity and mission.  One of the big overall goals for our church was to emerge from the renewal experience with a new story for our ministry.  In many ways, I believe this was also accomplished, although this element of the program is much more difficult to measure. 

          The first significant factor that led to the success of the program was the timing and relevance of the Alban Institute Seminar, “The Power of Story to Transform Your Leadership.”  When my original proposal was submitted in the spring of 2009, the Alban seminar schedule for 2010 had not been released.  I felt that this seminar (originally titled “Narrative Leadership in Congregational Life) would be a key component to the success of my Sabbatical, but did not know how it would fit into the schedule.  The 2009 seminar was in October.  When the 2010 schedule was released I couldn’t believe my good fortune.  Perhaps, Providence would be a more accurate explanation.  The seminar had been moved to the final week of July.  My last Sunday was July 25, 2010.  My wife, Joyce, and I left early the next morning to fly to Connecticut for the seminar that started on the morning of July 26.  The seminar not only provided the context and foundation for the Sabbatical experience, but also provided the educational component that I needed to help me prepare the Intergeneration Sunday School Classes for the church.  We left the Alban Seminar and traveled to Chautauqua for a wonderful week of intellectual challenge and structure that resulted in the completion of the Sunday School lessons and provided the spiritual inspiration to launch the Sabbatical.

Thank you First Baptist Church and the Lilly Endowment for an amazing experience!  And thank the good Lord that the final report has been received, the mission has been accomplished, and it is FINALLY OVER!

         

JOHNNY PARKER'S BAPTISM

        Last week, in our Bible study on Mark’s Gospel, we focused on the baptism of Jesus.  In thinking about baptism, I recalled one of the most significant baptisms I have ever performed.  It was 30 years ago in my first church, Pollocksville Baptist.  I shared the story with my Bible studies and they encouraged me to condense this into an article for the paper.  Last week this story appeared in the Lexington Dispatch. 

        It was 30 years ago when he rode his bicycle into our back yard and stopped for a visit.  Johnny was a kind, gentle, and pleasant young man.  I’m guessing he was in his 20s.  People told us he was “a retarded boy,” a term we don’t use anymore.  Like many who are limited in different ways, Johnny made up for with an over-abundance of love and kindness.

        “How do you get that water in the pool?” he asked. At first I didn’t know what he was talking about.  “What pool?”

        “The one in the church,” he said. 

        I asked him if he wanted to go and see. We walked over to the church and I showed him the pipes that supplied water to the baptistery.  

        “Is it cold?”

        I explained to him how we heated the water with a makeshift gas stove that looked suspiciously like a still.  Satisfied, Johnny got on his bicycle and returned home.

His father approached me a few days later and told me that Johnny was talking about being baptized.  “We have never pushed baptism with him,” he said.  “There’s so much about it that he doesn’t understand.”

        Over the next few weeks Johnny would stop by and we would continue our discussion about baptism.  We went from the mechanics of the water, to what one would wear, to the meaning of baptism.  He nodded his head in agreement but I didn’t know how much he comprehended. 

        Finally, Johnny told me one day that he was ready to be baptized.  I explained to him that in our Baptist Church, one would come down to the front during the final hymn so I could share his decision with the church.  He agreed but when the time came, Johnny had disappeared.  I found him later that week and asked if he still wanted to be baptized.  I sensed he was fearful so I tried to reassure him.  As I was rigging up our homemade gas water heater, I wondered if we would have a baptism or not.  

        When it came time for the baptism Sunday morning Johnny was there, but he was scared to death.  I talked to him for a moment.  I really thought he was going to back out. I could hear a hush in the sanctuary.  I knew they were waiting on us. 

        We walked to the steps leading into the water.  I walked down into the water and looked up at him, holding my hand out, inviting him to come.  He hesitated.  It seemed like a long time as he stared at the water, trying to make up his mind. 

        “It’s okay,” I said.  “You will be fine.”

        Slowly, Johnny took a step and then another.  As he entered the pool he let out a yelp and loudly proclaimed, “Whoo boy, this water’s cold!”  It was more nerves than anything else.

        He stood in the water, shaking.  I said.  “Are you ready?”  He nodded his head.  I stated the baptismal formula, pronouncing that Johnny Parker was being baptized in the name of the Father, the Son, and the Holy Spirit.   He held his breath and went under the cleansing waters of baptism.

        Just as quickly he emerged, shaking his head like a puppy coming out of a bath, and he looked at his hands as if they had been transformed.  He smiled a big smile and confidently walked out of the pool. 

        There was a transformation that day, but not just with Johnny.  Johnny was a child of God, always had been, before and after the baptism.  But as I stood there before a trembling young man in the cool waters, I recognized not his weakness, but mine.  I was not the one who lifted Johnny out of the water.  No, it wasn’t me, but a power much greater.    

        The congregation was also transformed.  Tears of joy punctuated a celebration of God’s goodness and grace.  We realized that in God’s family all are favored and all are blessed.  And I think that if I had listened closely I would have heard the words, “This is my beloved child, with whom I am well pleased.” 

                                                                Ray N. Howell III

                                                                February 4, 2012

DO YOU BELIEVE IN ANGELS?

        Do you believe in Angels?   I believe Angels are all around us and but we don’t recognize them as Angels.  Only Hollywood dresses them in white robes with wings.  Last Friday Joyce and I had an encounter with an Angel outside of Aldi’s Foods. 

        A few months ago I had my tires aligned.  I could look at my tires and tell that an alignment was needed.  Jeff, at Perryman’s Alignment told me that I would need to get new tires before too much longer.  “You definitely need them before winter,” he said.

        I’ve been waiting for winter to come.  At least, that was my excuse.  I knew I needed to buy new tires but I kept putting it off.  I had other “more important” things to do.  I was so busy during the holidays and no one wants to buy new tires for Christmas, do they?   I will get them after the first of the year, I thought. 

        Joyce’s car was due for a major service so we took her car to the dealership last Thursday afternoon.  Then we drove my truck to Durham for a show and drove back late Thursday night.  I noticed that my steering wheel was shaking a little more than normal.  I thought about needing new tires.  When I get them I will get another alignment and the shaking will stop, I thought. 

        Friday afternoon we were going to get Joyce’s car.  Joyce told me we needed to stop by Aldi’s to pick up a couple of items that they always have at a great price.  Then we would go and get her car.  I had it all scheduled.  

        When we were getting into my truck, a man walked up and said, “My wife said I shouldn’t say anything, but I think you need to know.  Your tire is in bad shape.  You can see the steel thread and there is a knot on the tire.  You need to do something about it.” 

        He pointed it out to me.  My tires should have been replaced 5,000 miles before.  I should have gotten new tires shortly after the alignment months before.  But, I didn’t listen. The tire on the passenger front was really dangerous.  Suddenly, our first priority was getting new tires for my truck.  Within a couple of hours I had brand new tires. 

        I thought about driving to Durham and back the night before.  That tire could have blown at any time. Who knows what would have happened. We not only had an Angel riding with us, but the next day in the parking lot of Aldi’s, an Angel told me something I needed to hear and instructed me to do something that I had put off for too long. 

        I hope I see him again, because I want to thank him.  But you know I may never see him.  Angels are like that.   And I believe in Angels.

A WEEKEND TO REMEMBER!

        The Young People are on their annual ski retreat this weekend and for the first time in several years, Joyce and I are not with them.  There is a good reason for our absence.  Our grandson, Parker, is celebrating his second birthday!  There was no way we would miss his party, but we did miss his birth—because we were on the annual youth ski retreat!

        We didn’t plan it that way.  In fact, until the very last minute Joyce was unsure where she would be that weekend.  Our daughter, Della, went to the doctor on Wednesday and was told it would probably be another two weeks before the baby would come.  I remember hearing Joyce on the phone saying, “Well if that’s the case, I’m going on the ski retreat with the youth.”

        We were watching the weather forecast all week because they were calling for snow that Friday.  Our concern was getting to the mountains!  Just the opposite is true this year.  Sadly, the unseasonable warm weather may close the ski slopes.  The leaders have other plans of course, but it is sad to go on a ski retreat without any snow. 

        Two years ago we feared there would be too much snow!  I recall contacting all the parents to move the departure time up on Friday afternoon.  It was one of those cold, dismal days when the clouds looked ready to burst open any minute.  The temperatures were in the 20s.  When it started falling, it would be snow and it would stick! 

        We loaded into several cars and trucks.  Because of the weather we didn’t feel it was safe to take the bus.  I had my trusty Chevrolet Colorado weighted with concrete blocks in the back to gain more traction. 

        We gathered at the church Friday afternoon and the excitement was palatable.  We kept looking to the sky.  The clouds were “pregnant” with snow. (A sign-perhaps!)  “It could start any minute,” we said.

        We left the church in a caravan and headed up Highway 52.  When we reached Winston and turned on I-40 it started snowing!  At first it was a fine mist of sorts, but then it started in earnest and by the time we reached 421, the roads were getting covered. 

        Cell phones are wonderful inventions for times like that.  We were talking to the other cars.  All the kids were excited.  All the drivers were nervous.  We were thinking about the climb up the mountain as we approached Boone. 

        We stopped in Wilkesboro at a Subway for supper.  The parking lot was white and the kids were already finding enough snow to form snowballs.  Those of us driving had a quick meeting of the minds.  “We need to be careful, extremely careful,” we all said.

        By the time we reached the bottom of the mountain on 421, the roads were white.  Traffic was very thin.  Most people were staying home and here we were taking a bunch of kids into the heart of the snowy weather!  We had all slowed down, not going over 25-30 mph. 

        The young people sensed our apprehension and there was a tense silence in all the vehicles.  The talk became measured and more serious.  The snow was coming down so fast visibility was very restricted.  We could see flashing blue lights on the southbound lanes, the downward side.  A number of vehicles had skidded off the road.  We also passed several cars and trucks attempting to go up that were unsuccessful.  We realized that we were just about the only cars on the road.  Our slow ascent continued—methodically, carefully, and nervously.  We didn’t see a single vehicle coming down the southbound lanes.  Then we realized that the Highway Patrol had closed the highway!  At least the downward side.  We wondered how far we would go before they would stop us. 

        We finally made it to the top of the mountain but still had ten miles to go before we reached Boone and another five miles to our destination in Valle Crucis.  Joyce called Della to see how she was doing.  It was snowing hard in Raleigh and they were advising everyone to stay off the roads.  Della said she was going to bed.  Joyce told her they would talk in the morning.

        Our slow trek continued into Boone.  We knew we only a few miles left to go, but one of our drivers, Kyle Kepley, had tire trouble.  He changed the tire in the snow and we were ready for the final push.  The good Lord was with us as we safely arrived at our destination.  The only trouble we had was getting up the hill to the lodge!

        It was a picture-perfect snow.  It snowed almost a foot that night in the mountains.  We woke up the next morning to a winter wonderland.  Skiing was perfect.  That night after a good meal we all sat around a roaring fire and talked about life and God’s calling.  It was one of those unforgettable moments when the group was tuned in and the message resonated loud and clear. 

        It snowed so much in Lexington that church was cancelled on Sunday.  But we had a wonderful service with the youth in the mountains.  All was well—but here is the rest of the story!

        Everyone went to bed Friday night with the snow falling.  I slept well and woke up the next morning looking forward to a great day.  I put on my snow boots and trudged through the foot of new fallen snow to the lodge.  Walking into the lodge, I could smell bacon frying!  I poured myself a cup of hot coffee and savored the moment.  It couldn’t get any better than this, I thought.  Little did I know what had happened while I was sleeping.

        Joyce and the girls went to sleep around 11:00 o’clock.  At some point after midnight one of the girls woke Joyce to tell her that her phone was beeping.  Joyce looked at the phone.  Della had been calling.  She was trying to get to the hospital in Raleigh.  The baby was on the way!

        Della woke up a little after 11 and realized she was in labor.  Ryan, her husband, borrowed his dad’s 4 wheel drive vehicle and they started to the hospital in the snowstorm.  The roads were covered and icy.  A trip that normally took 25 minutes took over an hour.  Just as she walked into the ER waiting room, her water broke.

        Joyce was texting Della back and forth all night.  The plan was for Joyce to be with her when the baby was born, but that was not an option.  Our oldest daughter, Lynn, was at her job at Durham Regional Hospital due to the weather.  She jumped in her car and made the slow and dangerous drive to Rex Hospital in Raleigh.  Just after 5 a.m., Parker Jennings was born.  I was sound asleep, not aware of all the drama going on. 

        When Joyce came into the lodge that morning I asked her how she slept.  She didn’t say a word!  Just looked at me!  Then she informed me that I had another grandson!

        We will be celebrating Parker’s 2^nd birthday this weekend.  It is supposed to be in the 60s and balmy.  The kids are in the snowless mountains on a ski retreat.  They have no doubt talked about the amazing ski retreat two years ago in the snow.  It will be a weekend we will never forget.

        Happy Birthday Parker!

A HOLY COLLISION!

        This Sunday a Holy Collision is taking place at First Baptist Church!  We are celebrating baptism—the baptism of Courtney Sams.  Courtney told me last night she was excited!  And she should be!   Everyone should be excited about the day of their baptism.  And if baptism is true and authentic, the excitement is only beginning and    life will never be the same!  

        Baptists, as you well know, baptize by immersion.  You will get wet!  Soaked to the skin!   I honor and respect the baptisms of different faith traditions; we accept all baptisms in our church because we believe that baptism can only be validated by God, not by a denomination.  But at the same time those who were only baptized as infants or even later by “sprinkling” miss the full impact.  There are many powerful Christian acts that we have, shall we say, “watered down,” behind the soft light of our stained glass windows and the antiseptic atmosphere of our church rituals.  Baptism was never intended to be a comforting little ceremony with warm fuzzy feelings, it was a Holy Collision between water, Word, and Spirit!

        Our Gathering this Sunday will hopefully set the tone for this service that will be anything but ordinary:  Yes, this is no “play it safe” Sunday. Today we celebrate this holy collision of water, Word, and Spirit. In celebrating the baptism of our Lord, we also remember our own baptism, our incorporation into the family of God, and into this wonderful, countercultural, dangerous discipleship journey. By water and Word God named and claimed us and gave us the gift of the Spirit. Nothing should ever be the same again; if it is, if the world is too much with you and you are distracted by worries and concerns then trouble those waters, my friend. Stir it up and remember whose you truly are. Let the grace and the wonder and the expectation wash over you again and again

            One cannot survive this Holy Collision and expect to return to normal.  When Jesus was baptized the heavens split open, the Word was proclaimed, and the Spirit descended like a Dove!  Whoa!   That’s powerful stuff.   Annie Dillard wrote these thought-provoking words:

        Does any-one have the foggiest idea what sort of power we so blithely invoke? Or, as I suspect, does no one believe a word of it? The churches are children playing on the floor with their chemistry sets, mixing up a batch of TNT to kill a Sunday morning. It is madness to wear ladies’ straw hats and velvet hats to church; we should all be wearing crash helmets. Ushers should issue life preservers and signal flares; they should lash us to our pews. For the sleeping God may wake some day and take offense, or the waking God may draw us out to where we can never return.” (from Teaching a Stone to Talk)

            Our ushers are not going to lash us to our pews Sunday!  (It’s an interesting thought, is it not?) But we are going to do something we have never done before!   (Mercy!)   

        Courtney will carry a small pitcher of water with her to the baptistery.  This will symbolize the faith that has been passed down from one generation to the next.  Courtney’s family goes back several generations in our church.  The pitcher will also will have water from the Jordan River, the river where our Lord was baptized.  We have done this before, only this time, after Courtney is baptized, I’m going to fill up the water pitcher and ask her to bring it back into the sanctuary with her.  Then, I am going to fill up 10 more water pitchers, and hand these to our youth who will place them in front of the pulpit.  We are taking water out of the baptistery!

        What do we do with the water after our baptism?  Do we simply dry off, get dressed, go to Southern Lunch and talk about how good it was?   Or do we put on our crash helmets and life preservers, and go forth into the world in the power of the Spirit, forever changed from the powerful collision of water, Word, and Spirit!  Do we go forth as the hands and feet of Christ to fulfill the mission that Jesus proclaimed after his baptism in his hometown of Nazareth: “THE SPIRIT OF THE LORD IS UPON ME, BECAUSE HE ANOINTED ME TO PREACH THE GOSPEL TO THE POOR. HE HAS SENT ME TO PROCLAIM RELEASE TO THE CAPTIVES, AND RECOVERY OF SIGHT TO THE BLIND,
TO SET FREE THOSE WHO ARE OPPRESSED, TO PROCLAIM THE FAVORABLE YEAR OF THE LORD.”

          At the conclusion of the service as we sing our closing hymn, “Shall We Gather at the River,” our ushers will come forward and take the water pitchers, full with the waters of baptism, to each exit from the Sanctuary.   As each worshiper leaves the church, he or she will be invited to dip their hand, if they dare, into the water!   It will be a reminder of our own baptisms and a commitment to live as baptized people, cleansed by the water, called out by the Word, and changed by the Spirit! 

        I hope to see you Sunday!  It will not be business as usual at old First Baptist!

GONE WITH THE WIN

        I remember the car—a small car with two big speakers tied to the top.  The car was going up and down the streets of my hometown and there was no way anyone could ignore it.  A country song, “Y’all Come,” was blaring through the big, cone shaped speakers.  It was followed by an announcement of a rally at the railroad station where you could meet the man whose picture adorned the vehicle—George C. Wallace.

        I rode my bicycle down to the station to hear this little man.  He may have been small in stature, but he sure could talk big!  He talked a whole lot about segregation.  The more he talked about, the more he fired up the crowd.  I got on my bicycle and rode home.

        George Wallace ran for governor once before, but he didn’t get elected.  They said he was too soft on “the negro issue.”   This time he sold out to the Klan.  He got their money and their votes, they got his voice and elected power.  He sold his soul to the devil and the devil won—this time. 

        A few months later I watched on television as Wallace took the oath of office on the steps of the state capitol in Montgomery.  He stood on the very spot where Jefferson Davis was sworn in as the president of the Confederacy.  I listened as he pledged, “Segregation today, segregation tomorrow, segregation forever!  “Y’all Come” applied only to the white folks.

        Governor Wallace continued with his vitriolic racial rhetoric.  His critics said that his bark was worse than his bite.  It was a pretty loud bark though, loud enough to stand in the school house door, but not enough bite to scare away the National Guard. 

        There was violence in Selma and Birmingham. A bus was burned.  Innocent people were killed.  Bull Conner turned fire hoses and dogs on protesters in Birmingham. Four innocent little girls attending Sunday School were killed in a tragic church bombing. The Sunday School lesson that morning was “The Love that Forgives.”  People of reason knew that the madness had to stop.

        Rev. Billy Graham came to Birmingham to promote racial harmony. The big football stadium where Alabama and Auburn played football was packed. Dr. Martin Luther King preached the gospel of peace and forgiveness.  When I heard his remarkable, “I Have a Dream” speech from the Lincoln Memorial, I was deeply moved.  Governor Wallace was not.

        There were two things in Alabama more important than politics: religion and sports—not necessarily in that order.  For the most part, white preachers were silent on the race issue.  We went to our white churches and just pretended that the problems didn’t exist while we raised money to send missionaries to Africa. The head usher at my church, who was also my barber and a Sunday School Teacher (haircuts $1.25) bragged about bringing a loaded gun to church to “keep the niggers out.”  As a nine year old boy, I was scared to death..

        There was one man in the state of Alabama more powerful than George Wallace.  In the late 1960’s, this man’s once-mighty football team was no longer a national powerhouse.  The problem could not be ignored.  The coach knew what he needed to do to fix the problem, but first he had to convince people that he was doing the right thing.  Paul “Bear” Bryant called his good friend, John McKay, coach of the University of Southern California and asked him for a big favor.  “I want you to bring your football down here and let’s play a game.”  John McKay reminded his good friend that USC was integrated; no school in the South was at this point.

        “Like I said,” the Bear continued.  “I want you to bring your football team down here.”

        John McKay brought his integrated football team to Birmingham in 1970.  For the first time ever, black men were permitted to do more at Legion Field than sell soft drinks and hot dogs.  The good old boys were making jokes about the California “colored” boys who thought they could play football.

        USC killed the all white Crimson Tide.  It was one of Bear’s worst defeats.  When he met Coach McKay after the game, the Bear simply said, “Thank you.”  He also invited USC's star running back, Sam "Bam" Cunningham into the Alabama locker room after the game.  The young black football star timidly looked into the eyes of the white players he had embarrassed on the football field.  Coach Bryant put his arm around the young man and said to his team, "Gentlemen, this is a football player."
        Coach Bryant had what he wanted.  When he unveiled his 1971 team, there were several black players.  Alabama became the first Southeastern Conference school to integrate.

        The unranked Tide traveled to California to open the next season against the #1 ranked USC Trojans. (Bear was returning the favor)  Alabama won and never looked back.  On New Year’s Day, the undefeated Crimson Tide played Nebraska in the Orange Bowl for the National Championship.  I remember it well because I was there.  So was George Wallace, who didn't look quite so big as he walked across the Orange Bowl turf being dwarfed by the massive football stars.  He knew why Alabama was there.  Bear won more football games in the 1970s than any other football team in a single decade.  Segregation was, shall we say, “Gone with the Win.”

        What happened to George?  Well, you know he ran for president and survived an assassination attempt that left him paralyzed—but it moved his heart.  He learned how to say three words that would change his life, “I was wrong.”

        In the early 1970s I served as Youth Minister of the First Baptist Church in Greenville, Alabama.  George Wallace’s daughter was a member of our church.  She told me that the bombing of the church in Birmingham that killed four little girls deeply hurt her father.  “He should have said, ‘I was wrong’ at that point,” she told me.  “But he continued his public show for political expediency.  It wasn’t until he was shot that it didn’t matter anymore.  For many, it was too late.” 

        He spent the last years of his life speaking in black churches asking for forgiveness.  He ran for governor again, but this time the “Y’all Come” good old white boys were against him. He was elected anyway, by the black vote!

        A football coach changed a state.  A wounded governor changed his heart.  Today we honor the prophet who dared to dream of a nation where people would be judged by the content of their character, rather than by the color of their skin. 

        Y’all come!