STANDING ON HOLY GROUND!

We were standing on holy ground! A group of your Lexington friends and neighbors arrived in Israel on March 1 for a spiritual pilgrimage. Even though this was my fifth trip to the Holy Land, the experience never grows old.

I remember a strange sensation I had on my first trip to Israel in 1996. We were 6,000 miles away from home in a strange Middle Eastern country, in the heart of the world's three major religions, with different languages and different customs; yet I kept having the feeling that I had been there before. Then it dawned on me. I was in the land of the Bible, and the Bible has been a major part of my life since I was a toddler. Of course, I had been there before — many times.

There have been many exciting discoveries in Israel since I made that first trip almost two decades ago. One of the latest is the excavation of ancient Magdala on the western shore of the Sea of Galilee. The work is so recent that it is not even open to the public, but our savvy guide knew just what to do to get us in the middle of the ruins. We were soon standing by the foundation of an ancient synagogue, not realizing that we were standing on holy ground.

CNN and all the major news outlets reported Sept. 10, 2009, that a first century synagogue had been discovered quite by accident. Plans were being made for the construction of a hotel when a routine archeological test revealed that something old and very important was resting just beneath the surface. Since then archeologists are saying that this discovery is the greatest in decades, maybe the most significant discovery since the Dead Sea Scrolls.

Our guide, who is an expert in biblical history and a walking encyclopedia of archeological knowledge, shared with us that some scholars were questioning whether synagogues even developed before the destruction of the Temple in 70 AD. This would negate all the stories in the gospels of Jesus preaching and teaching in the synagogues. And what about the Apostle Paul visiting all the synagogues on his missionary journeys? But then they started to build a hotel in Magdala and boom, a discovery that rocked the archeological world. A Roman coin dates the synagogue back to at least 29 AD, making it the oldest ever discovered.

Jesus was in nearby Capernaum when he announced that he must visit the nearby villages. Mark (1:39) reports that "he traveled all over Galilee, preaching in the synagogues. The closest synagogue to Capernaum was Magdala, and that's where we were three weeks ago, standing on holy ground. Jesus most certainly preached there and walked across the mosaic floor that we could reach out and touch.

In Magdala Jesus met one of his most faithful followers, a woman named Mary. Was she in the synagogue on that first Sabbath when Jesus came to town? The excavations at Magdala reveal a very wealthy city, and according to Luke 8:2-3, Mary was not only one of the women who followed Jesus, she also became a financial benefactor of his mission. Unfortunately, people have given Mary a bad name through the years, but that has not always been true. Some of the early Christian leaders called Mary of Magdala "an apostle to the apostles." Perhaps these new discoveries will once again cleanse Mary of the demons that have plagued her for centuries.

Mary followed Jesus and supported him, and she was faithful to the end. An eyewitness to the horrific crucifixion, Mary was blessed to be the first eyewitness to the resurrection. She also became the first evangelist; the first one to go and tell that "Jesus is alive!" And there we were, standing in her hometown beside the synagogue where Jesus preached the good news of the Kingdom of God. We were standing where Jesus stood. We were standing where Mary stood. We were standing on holy ground.

But more important than where we stand is where we follow. Will we follow Jesus and the example of Mary who proclaimed the good news of the risen Lord to disciples who did not want to listen, much less believe? Will we be faithful to be financial benefactors to his mission? Will we go and tell the glorious news of the resurrection? When we do we truly find ourselves on holy ground.

 

Recalling An Angelic Grandmother

        I’ve been thinking about my grandmother this week.  Today, February 27, would have been her 112^th birthday!  She’s been gone over 30 years now, but she continues to have a great influence on my life; in fact, she once saved my life.  Or maybe it was an angel. 

        We lived two doors down from her and I spent as much time at “Nana’s” house growing up as I did my own.  She doted on me and my siblings.  I could set up my electric train at her house, creating a railroad network than ran through all the back rooms and she never said a word.  She took me on wonderful trips: a train trip to Washington, DC; a cross-country trip across the nation that took us through 17 states; and trips to Alaska and Hawaii.  But she also expected the best from me.  She was my private tutor; grooming me in public speaking, drilling me on English skills and she was constantly trying to improve my penmanship (a failed effort!).  Nana rarely said no to me, but there was one occasion when she not only told me no, but said it loudly, emphatically, and unequivocally!   And the odd thing was—it was over the seating arrangement at a Sunday lunch. 

        After church each Sunday my grandmother and a group of her little-old-lady friends were go out to eat lunch and I often went with them.        There was a large group of ladies on this particular Sunday and we waited while they set up a big table in the very center of the restaurant.  We didn’t pay much attention to it, but over the table was a huge, rectangular, heavy light fixture with inlaid florescent bulbs.  It was almost as large as the big table where we ate.

        I started to sit down when my grandmother said sternly, “You can’t sit there!”  I didn’t understand.  What difference would it make where I would sit?  

        “Why?” I asked.

        Normally when I asked my grandmother a question she would take time to explain, but not this time.  In fact, totally out of character for her, she almost bit my head off when she said sharply, “Because I said you can’t sit there!  That’s why!  The answer is NO!  You sit over there and I don’t want to hear another word!”  Then my grandmother proceeded to sit in the seat I wanted and sent me to the other side of the table!

        Everyone looked at my grandmother with wonder.  No one had ever seen her this way.  I was almost in tears.  The little ladies thought she might be having a “spell!”

        I followed her command and soon everything settled down as we ordered our food and I listened to the ladies critique the sermon and the choir special of the morning.  As we were eating our meal, I asked for a refill on my soft drink.  I recall the waitress taking my glass and walking over to the serving counter.  As she was pouring the drink, I watched as the glass overflowed, but the waitress was totally transfixed on something else.  She was looking at the falling light fixture above our head.

        Then came a loud noise and the huge, heavy light fixture crashed down on the ladies at the table.  I heard screams.  I could hear my grandmother pleading, “Get if off.  Please get it off of me!”  It took several men to lift the fixture off.  An ambulance arrived and my grandmother was taken to the hospital.  Three or four of the ladies were treated in the emergency room.  There were no critical injuries.  No broken bones.  My grandmother was hurt more than anyone.  She had a terrible bruise on her shoulder where the light fixture hit. 

        The doctor told her it would take several weeks for the swelling and soreness to go away.  “I’m just thankful it was me,” she said.  “What do you mean?” the doctor asked.  “Ray wanted to sit in that chair, but for some reason I wouldn’t let him.”

        “If that had been him, he may have been killed,” said the doctor.

        I was thinking about Nana on her birthday, which was also my birthday.  I might not have been here to celebrate and write this column if she had not made me sit on the other side of the table that day.  Was it my grandmother?  Was it an angel?  She was always an angel to me!   Happy Birthday Nana!

                                                                                                           

 

THE GREAT BLIZZARD OF 1980

        The big snow this week brought back memories of a much bigger snow 34 years ago when we were living in the church parsonage in Pollocksville, NC.  We remember that snow for a number of reasons, but primarily because we had four children including a two month old baby, and God sent his angel.    

        Weather forecasting is not an exact science today, but 34 years ago it was even more of a guessing game.  We heard we might have some snow, but no one predicted or could have guessed the magnitude of the storm that dumped almost two feet of snow on Jones County, North Carolina. 

        Earlier in the winter, someone brought me an old gas heater for my office at the church.  My office was always cold, but this old, gas heater –did I mention it was old—could get my office toasty in a few minutes.  I don’t know how old it was, but I would guess it went back to the 1930s or earlier. 

        The little town of Pollocksville didn’t have natural gas, but the church already had a propane tank to heat the baptistery water.  (See the story below)  We moved the propane tank (it took two people to move it) to outside my office window and ran a piece of copper tubing from the tank to the old gas heater.  I think I told you earlier it was old—very old.

        Meanwhile, out in the Atlantic Ocean, a classic Nor’easter was moving up the east coast while a frigid high pressure mass of Arctic air was blowing in from the north.  The weather forecasters finally realized what was taking place and told everyone to get home as quickly as possible because when this storm hit, it would be fast and furious and wouldn’t let up for quite a while.

        Jones County has always been rural and somewhat isolated from the rest of the world.  When we lived there, we had to go to New Bern (15 miles north) to buy groceries.  There was only one traffic light in the whole county.  Today there are two traffic lights.  We did not have cable television.  The most advanced technological device I had was a pager since I was on the local Fire Department and Rescue Squad, and a scanner that was tuned to local law enforcement and emergency channels.  The county only had one road grader which was operated by Junior Phillips who lived across the street from our house. 

        We bought groceries once a week and were well stocked so we didn’t need to make a mad dash to New Bern to the grocery store.  The church and the parsonage were located on adjoining lots.  I could walk out the back door and across the yard to enter the back door of the church.  I walked over to the church that afternoon to check and make sure all was secure.  When I looked in my office I saw the old gas heater and thought, “Well, if the power goes off I know where we can come to get warm.”

        Late in the afternoon it started snowing and the forecasters were right on target—it came in fast and furious.  The ground was quickly covered.  The snow was falling so fast I couldn’t see the church from the house.  The scanner was blowing up with reports of accidents.  Joyce was cooking supper and we were settling in for a long winter’s night when it happened.  The lights flickered and then went out. 

        We didn’t have any power.  Our house didn’t have gas logs or a fireplace.  Without electricity we had no heat.

        “Ray,” Joyce said anxiously.  “The baby! What will we do?”

        “I know where we can get warm,” I said.  “My office.  I can turn on the old gas heater.”

        About the time I said that, there was a flash of lightening.  We were in a thunder snow storm.  The wind was blowing so hard the blinding snow was coming in sideways.  You could not see more than 10 feet in front of you. 

        “”I can’t take the baby out in this,” Joyce said.  “Is there any way you can bring the heater over here?”

        I put on several layers of clothes, then put on my fire turn-out gear.  The boots were perfect for a big snow and the heavy coat would protect me from the furious wind.  I put my fire helmet on as if I was about to enter a burning house. Grabbing a flashlight,  Joyce wished me well and I was out the door. 

        By now the snow must have been 8 to 10 inches.  It was hard to walk in the heavy snow and the wind kept me guessing which direction I was walking.  And, I could not see the church. The flashlight was useless.  I was blinded by a blizzard—a complete white-out!

        Somehow I managed to make it to the church.  I went in under a covered awning that led into the basement.  Stomping the snow off of my boots, I used my flashlight to trudge up the steps to my office. 

        Even though I had gloves on, my hands were almost frozen and I had trouble disconnecting the copper tubing.  I finally freed the copper tube and guided it out the window.  Then I reached down to pick up the old gas heater.  It was not only old, but it weighed a ton.  Using both hands, I was able to pick it up.  Rather than risk walking down the basement stairs with the heavy heater, I used the main entrance to the church even though it would mean a longer walk in the wind and blizzard back to the house.

        I remember thinking that I needed to stop and rest, but the snow was stinging my face the same way it would in a sand storm.  I trudged on, out of breath, thinking I was going to drop it.  I kept thinking about the children and the baby, and praying that God would give me the strength.  I somehow made it to the house.

        I had to sit down and catch my breath.  I was covered in wet snow.  Joyce was already moving a mattress into the den so we could all sleep in the room with the heater.  Once I situated the heater I said, “Now comes the hard part—the propane tank,”

        I had already been thinking about how I would move the tank.  My thought was that I could roll it.  That would have worked on a normal day—but I had not taken into account almost a foot of snow. 

        As I made my way past the basement entrance to the church, I saw that awning that covered the entrance had collapsed under the weight of the snow.  And to think I had walked under that a few minutes before.

        I made my way to the window outside my office where the imposing propane tank was standing in the quickly accumulating snow.  I disconnected the copper tube and affixed it to my fire suit.  Then I gently pushed the tank on its side and started to roll it.   Only—it wouldn’t budge. 

        After several unsuccessful attempts, I stood the tank back up and grabbing it with a bear hug, I tried to drag it.  I did—it moved a few feet.  But it took every ounce of energy I had.  I tried again—a few more feet.  I not only was dragging the heavy tank that had recently been filled, but I was dragging it against the resistance of a foot of snow.  And the snow was still whipping down in a fierce blizzard. 

        I kept pulling at the tank, a few feet, a few more feet.  I would get out of breath.  Once I tried to pull it and lost my grip, tumbling backwards into the snow.  My heart was pounding.  I thought, “I could have a heart attack right here.  They wouldn’t find me until the spring thaw!”

        Joyce was also getting worried.  I had been gone too long.  I should have been back with the tank by now.  The house was getting colder.  There was no way she could leave the baby and the children.  She anxiously peered out the back window in the direction of the church, but all she could see was blinding snow. 

        I guessed I was half-way to the house.  I had come too far to turn back.  I could go to the house without the tank, but what good would that do.  Without any heat, we were all in trouble. 

        There was one thing I remember doing.  I was praying.  Praying that God would send me super-human strength.  Praying that God would send an angel to help me.  I kept thinking about the children, the newborn baby, my dear wife—they were all depending on me.  But I didn’t think I could make it.  I was totally exhausted.  It was harder and harder to budge the tank, even a few inches.  I tried rolling it again.  No luck and this time, I almost didn’t get it back up.  I sat down in the snow to catch my breath.  I remember thinking that I better not sit too long.  With the way the snow was pummeling down, I would be an igloo in no time. 

        “Please God, help me . . .”

        That was when I saw the light!

        Mike Coward was one of the “Good ole’ boys” in our church.  He had one of these big pickup trucks with 4 wheel drive and big, big tires.  He was riding around in the blizzard when “something told me to check on you.” 

        Going to the parsonage door, Joyce told him what was going on.   He headed in the direction of the church and soon found me and the tank.  Together, we lifted the tank—it took every ounce of energy I had left—and placed it outside the den window. 

        I was so frozen, I couldn’t even attach the copper tubing, but Mike did.  As I was trying to take off my fire suit, he hooked up the old gas stove and lighted it.  Just like that the room as getting warm and my angel was off to rescue another poor soul. 

        I finally thawed out.  We lit candles.  I turned on the scanner, that worked on batteries, and heard that no emergency vehicles were moving.  Everyone was trapped by the blizzard.  Later that night we heard Junior Phillips pull his big road grader in front of his house.  He went inside and went to sleep.  He later told us that trying to plow the road was useless, so he came home.

        All six of us slept in front of the old gas heater that night.  In fact, it got rather toasty in the room.  The children and the baby slept soundly.  Joyce and I stayed up, wondering when the storm would let up.

        The next morning we were blanketed by 18-20 inches of snow.  We took everything out of the refrigerator and put it on the front porch to keep it cold.  The power stayed off for a couple of days, but the old gas heater—did I tell you it was old—the old gas heater kept us warm. 

        I will always be grateful to my angel, Mike Coward, who rescued me that night.   And whenever we have a big snow, I think about the Blizzard of 1980.  And Ella Rae, our granddaughter has a favorite story:  “Tell me that story, Gdaddy.  The one about when daddy was a little baby in the big snow.”  And I do—I tell the old story, and like the old gas heater, it warms me every time. 


HERE IS AN OLD POST ON A SPECIAL BAPTISM THAT EXPLAINS ABOUT THE GAS HEATER WE USED TO HEAT THE BAPTISTERY




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.” 

                                                           

       

No One Loves A Loser, Except Jesus

Tomorrow is Super Bowl Sunday and when all the hype and extended pre-game coverage, the incredibly expensive commercials, the extravagant halftime show, the incessant commentary and analysis, and, oh yes, the game are finally over only one team will be the winner, only one team will raise the trophy, only one team will be the champion of all.  The only problem with winning is that you have to have losers.  Everyone loves a winner.  Everyone would just as soon forget a loser. 

      By Monday morning either Payton Manning or Russell Wilson will be lauded as one of the greatest quarterbacks ever, be on the front page of every paper, appear on all the morning talk shows, and make plans to go to Disney World.  The other one will . . ., well, I’m not sure what the loser will do.  No one loves a loser, except Jesus. 

      The words of Jesus often fly in the face of all that we hold to be important. We live in a success driven world.  Students are encouraged, and often pressured to be the top student in their class.  We compete for the best jobs that pay the most money.  We go above and beyond what is expected in order to be successful.  We honor our success by building bigger homes, buying expensive cars, wearing the best clothes, eating in gourmet restaurants, and becoming members of exclusive clubs and organizations.  We want to be a winner, to raise the trophy of success, to be the champion of all.  We have worked hard, sacrificed to get to the top, and established ourselves as outstanding and exceptional individuals.  We are encouraged to enjoy the fruits of our success.  After all, we earned it—we deserve it.  We did it on our own—didn’t we?

      Jesus applauds success as well.  We have all been created with many gifts and great potential.  We honor God when we realize our God-given potential and use our gifts to accomplish great things.  But we didn’t do it on our own—not by a long shot. 

      While Jesus applauds success he isn’t ready for us to raise the trophy and claim victory—not yet.  He reminds us that to whom much is given, much is required.  And he expects us to focus on those who have not made it to the top, the people he focuses on, the people that many would call “losers.”  Rather than lifting up the trophy of success, Jesus wants us to lift up the losers.

      My friend, Gary Gunderson, calls them God’s favorite people.  They are the poor, the powerless, the marginalized, the underdogs, and the ones who are left behind.  Jesus is always lifting these people up, caring for them in a special way, focusing on their needs, urging us to live with less so they can have more.  Jesus loves the losers. 

      While most of you who read this column are not poor and homeless—therefore not a loser—the truth is we all are losers.  We go to great lengths to convince ourselves and others that we are not, but we are.  No matter how hard we try, we are still plagued by insecurities, we still find it hard to love ourselves and others, we still struggle with the dark places in our souls, and we are still destined at the end of all of our striving to return to the dust of the ground.  We are all losers and that is not something to be ashamed of, it is one of the defining elements of our existence. We can’t do it on our own.  And until we recognize it and confess it we will have a hard time receiving the mercy, forgiveness and grace that Jesus offers. 

      When I understand that I’m not a winner, only a loser who has been blessed by God, I can reach out and share my success with those other losers who haven’t been as fortunate.  And if I am faithful and live my life serving and blessing others, I may be fortunate enough to one day hear the words: “Well done, good and faithful servant.”   That is when I can finally raise the trophy because Jesus loves the losers.

 

                                         

                                         

     

 

 

     

 

Threads of Feeling

        On a dreary winter’s day in 1767, a sad and desperate mother by the name of Sarah Bender painfully made her way to an impressive building in the London suburb of Bloomsbury.  She was holding her baby boy Charles.  Sarah had come to the agonizing conclusion that Charles would be better off in the Foundling Hospital than at home with her. 

        She understood what would happen.  She would hand over her baby anonymously. Neither her name nor the baby’s name would be recorded.  In a single moment, his past would be erased, his history would be wiped out, a new name, and a new identity would begin.

        But one fact could not be erased; one reality could never be altered.  Sarah Bender would always be the baby’s mother.  He would always be her child.  You cannot erase DNA—you cannot substitute who you were created to be.  And there would be a connection—one small link, one mark of identification that would be preserved.

        A few weeks ago Joyce and I had the privilege of visiting Williamsburg to plan for our 17^th Annual Bible Study Field Trip this May.  While Joyce was attending a workshop, I was enjoying the museums of Williamsburg.  I love museums.  I could spend days at the different Smithsonian Museums in Washington.  The Williamsburg museum is exceptional.  They have an amazing collection of early American paintings, furniture, and artifacts.  But as I browsed through the museum that morning, I was not prepared for a traveling exhibit that was on display.  With the exception of the Holocaust museums in Jerusalem and Washington, no museum exhibit has affected me emotionally as much as this exhibit titled “Threads of Feeling.” 

        As soon as Joyce got out of the workshop I said, “There is something that you must see.”

        The Foundling Hospital of London existed from 1741 to 1760 and received over 16,000 babies.  While one might think most of these babies were illegitimate or given up for reasons of convenience, that was simply not true.  The great majority of these babies came from mothers who loved their child, but due to poverty, unemployment, disease, death, or other reasons simply could not provide for them.  To give up their child was agonizing for most of these mothers, but it was also a sacrificial act of love.  Because the mothers recognized that in many cases the only chance their baby had for a better life, the only chance their baby had for survival, was to give them up and leave them at the Foundling Hospital. 

        But the decision was not irrevocable. 

        While the nameless mothers gave away their babies, who would be given a new name, the mothers, and only the mothers, always had the option of returning to reclaim their child.  And since the process was anonymous, there had to be a way, a system, a plan for identification.  And so the hospital requested that when the mothers left the babies, that they pin some kind of identifying token to the child, some type of matching material evidence that in the event their circumstances improved they could be reunited.

        Many of the mothers ignored the request.  They left their babies and walked away, never to return.  But over 5,000 mothers, mothers who loved their babies, who were in anguish as they walked away from the hospital, left a material token of identification in the hope that one day they could see their child again and claim him or her as her own. 

        The majority of these identifying tokens were pieces of fabric, all different types of fabric; calico, flannel, gingham and satin, many in the form of ribbons.  The hospital promised that “great care would be taken for the preservation” of the tokens and the hospital was true to its word, for these tokens now comprise the “Threads of Feeling” exhibit that are on display at the Museum in Williamsburg.

        As Joyce and I walked through the exhibit, and those of you going to Williamsburg will also see this, I was filled with emotion.  For every token, every fabric represented a desperate mother who loved her child and lived with the hope that one day they would be reunited.

        Although they were forbidden to give a name, many found ways of smuggling that information past the admitting clerk.  Some wrote the name in a hidden place on the fabric, others stitched initials, some so shaky they are impossible to decipher.  Others stuck to the rules, but came up with elaborate patterns to ensure that no one could ever mistake their child with another.  One cut her child’s shirt in half; another deposited one sleeve with the baby and kept the other.  Other mothers employed a language of color and symbol to express their complicated feelings.  There are buds, flowers, acorns, birds and butterflies.  Buds and acorns and flowers hinted at a beautiful life still to come, birds and butterflies implied that they were giving up their child to set them free from its present grim circumstances.  And then there were the hearts—hearts in every form, every fabric, every shape—hearts of love, hearts of longing, hearts of hope. 

        The few mothers who did return to reclaim their children, brought the other half of the fabric with them so that it could be matched with the fabric that the hospital had on file.  And if the pieces matched, then there was no doubt as to the identity of this child, and mother and child were reunited. 

        The Threads of Hope is a poignant and powerful display of the love of a mother for her child, and a sad and tragic reminder of the circumstances of life that often force the separation of a mother from her child.  But more than anything else, the Threads of Feeling contain symbols of hope, that one day, my circumstances will be better, one day my child will blossom and live, one day life will be full of joy and gladness and we will be together again.

        When God created the heavens and the earth, he took a tremendous risk.  Rather than create a programmed and carefully scripted world that would operate like seamless computer program, rather than create the perfect world that would be perfect only because there was no other option, God took the greatest risk of all infinity, and he created humanity “in his own image.” 

        This Scripture that Connie read for us this morning is described by theologian Helmut Thielicke as the “Great Risk of Creation.”   For to be created in the Image of God, means that in many ways we are like God, most especially in our ability to think and reason and make decisions on our own. 

        We have creative potential even as God has.  We have the potential to grow and develop, to live and love, to offer redemption and reconciliation, to enrich community and bless the lives of others through our gifts and service.  We also have the potential to withdraw, to retreat, to build selfish walls around our existence, to oppress, to mistreat, and to inflict harm on others. 

        When our loving God carried us, like a mother carrying her infant in her arms, and when he left us at the door of creation, not knowing what the outcome would be, it was an agonizing and heart-wrenching decision.  But just as these mothers knew that this was on the only chance their child had at a better and fulfilling life, God knew this was the only chance humanity had to truly discover love and joy, and know life only as it was created to be. 

        After God left us at the door of creation, things started to decline.   We became more interested in what we wanted than what God wanted for us.  We selfishly ignored the boundaries that God had established, foolishly believing that that we could create our own paradise that we could find joy and happiness in ways that God never intended.

        And so we strayed away from God.  We forgot who we were created to be and most tragically, we no longer remembered our names, that we are children of God.  We established a new life and a new identity apart from God, and when it came crashing down we blamed others, subjected and oppressed those who were weaker to try to establish our own kingdoms that are self-serving.

        But imbedded deep within us, is a token of identification that was left by our loving God—a mark, a complex and hidden pattern of identity---the image of God.

        No matter what we have done, no matter how far away we have strayed, no matter how self-serving and hurtful our lives have been, we all contain the image of God.  We belong to God, we are his, and we never discover joy and love and fulfillment in life, until we are reunited with him. 

        In the first chapter of Romans Paul speaks of God’s invisible nature, the pattern of his eternal power and deity that is clearly perceived in creation—God’s threads of feeling.  It is only when we discover this token of identification imbedded deep within us that we can discover who we are and who we were created to be.  “True Freedom,” said Saint Augustine, “Is not found in moving away from that image but only in living it out.”

        Almost a decade after Sarah Bender left her baby boy in the arms of a nurse at the Foundling Hospital and walked away, there was a loud knock on the door.   The clerk opened the door to find a mother standing there holding an extraordinary piece of elaborate patchwork, made up of bits of printed fabric.  There was a heart embroidered with red thread.  They took the patchwork and matched to the other identical half that had been carefully filed ten years before.  Then they went and found a boy, a handsome young boy who was named Benjamin, but while he never knew it, his birth name was Charles and they walked with him to the front door where his mother, Sarah opened her arms and welcomed her son back home. 

        Generations and generations after God left us at the front door of creation, there was a loud clasp of thunder and the earth shook as a man took his last dying breath in a terrifying crucifixion outside the walls of Jerusalem.  And three days later the earth shook again, and the stone at the door of the tomb rolled away as what had been the darkest and most desperate of situations was transformed into light and life.  And emerging from the tomb, the risen Lord stood holding an elaborate and elegant patchwork of love, the threads of feeling proclaimed by the prophets, preserved by the scribes, and hoped for by all humanity.  It was the perfect match to the DNA within all of us known as the Image of God---for we belong to God, we may have strayed away, we may have tarnished that image, we may have rebelled against our creative nature, but now we know, there is no doubt, of who we are, and who we belong to, and what we are created to be—We are children of God, we are created in His Image to love, and serve, all of his family. 

       

       

       

       

Epiphany Lights--What Happened?

        The good news was that it did not rain on Monday night, January 6, the day of Epiphany, when we celebrated our Epiphany Lights!  The bad news was that the wind was blowing and it was the coldest night in a quarter of a century.  A few hearty souls, around 10 children in all, braved the icy elements and came to see the lights. 

        The temperature had plummeted all afternoon.  When the first children arrived shortly after 5:00 pm it was already in the 20s.  I had planned to build a big fire in my fire-pit and let the children roast marshmallows to go along with their hot chocolate and cookies, but the wind rendered a fire impossible. I set up a table next to the garage to shield it from the wind.  We did have hot chocolate.  We had enough cookies for 50 children! 

        To make matters worse, around 6:00 p.m. half of my lights went out.  I don’t know if it was the wind, or if the ground was still wet from the rain, but for the first time a circuit blew and the lights went out. 

        By the time I turned off the remaining lights shortly before 7:00 p.m., the temperature was below 20 and still dropping.  It bottomed out at 5 degrees early on Tuesday morning. 

        The next morning I took the rest of cookies to the Children’s Center so all the children could enjoy them.  And I read a book to my granddaughter’s class.  As the children laughed and smiled and eagerly shared their wonder and excitement during the reading, I realized that the Epiphany lights never go out.  They are burning brightly in the hearts of our children. And every light stands for Jesus!

Having An Epiphany About Lights!

        I confess, I love Christmas lights.  And even though my daughter has called me Clark Griswold, I will not confess to going overboard with my annual Christmas light display.  Why?  Because as I tell the children at church, “Every light stands for Jesus.” The more Christmas lights the better because every light proclaims the coming of Jesus who is the true light conquering the darkness of our world.  Did I tell you that I love Christmas lights!

        I start preparing the lights right after Thanksgiving and it takes several days to hang the balls in the trees, stake the deer on the ground, and strategically place every Christmas tree, star, and snowflake.  Then comes the most challenging part, at least to me, running drop cords to all these lights without blowing every electrical circuit in the house!

        Why do I spend so much time putting up all these lights?  My motivation is seeing the awe and wonder on the faces of my grandchildren and all the other children who visit the lights each year. One year a little girl, with the muti-colored lights reflecting in her eyes, could only say, “Wow!  This is like a fairy tale.”  When I see the joy and excitement that the lights bring to the children, it makes it all worthwhile.

        We schedule a night when we invite all the church kids to come to our house and enjoy the lights.  We have Christmas cookies, hot chocolate, hot cider, and this year we decided to have a bonfire.  We fine tuned all the lights, replacing blown bulbs and fuses, placed the candles in the windows, the gifts under the tree, and we set the date for December 15—but sadly, it rained. 

        So we postponed the lights until the Sunday night before Christmas.  As the weekend approached, however, rain was again in the Sunday forecast so we moved it to Monday night—but alas, it rained both days.  So I told the kids we would have a post-Christmas light display on the Sunday night after Christmas, but, you guessed it—more rain. 

        It was at this point that I had, shall we say, an epiphany!  Why not have the lights the night of January 6, the day of Epiphany!  Most people are so tired after the Christmas rush that they forget about Epiphany, which is also called Old Christmas.  Eastern Orthodox Christians actually celebrate Christ’s birth on this day while those of us in the Western Church celebrate the coming of the Magi who followed a star to find the baby Jesus.  The observance of Epiphany takes place with a Festival of Lights, so what would be a better time to celebrate the lights that on this night!

        Everybody loves sweet little baby Jesus lying in the manger on a silent night surrounded by animals, shepherds, and angels.  But not everyone stays with Jesus long enough to experience a true epiphany.  This sweet little baby was the incarnate Word, the King of Kings, Lord of Lords, the very presence of God on this earth.  He was the Lamb of God who takes away the sins of the world.  The Gospel writer John describes him as the true light who enlightens every person, and gives us the right to become the very children of God!  But not everyone sees the light, at least not right away.

        It is one thing to celebrate the birth of Jesus; it is another thing to commit oneself to follow him in life.  Singing Silent Night is the easy part.  Taking up your cross to follow him is the challenge.  Only when one has a true epiphany of the real meaning and power of the Gospel does one really see the light. 

        I realize that most folks have taken down all their Christmas decorations and unplugged their lights, but not me—not yet.  I’m going to have one more great night to celebrate the lights.  We will have hot chocolate and cookies and all the children from the church can hopefully come and join us.  The lights are still burning brightly, but they are no longer Christmas lights—they are Epiphany lights.  Every light stands for Jesus, the Light of the World.  Just pray that it doesn’t rain!

A Letter To Kate Elizabeth and Ella Grace Kirkendall

Here is the letter that I wrote to Ella Grace and Kate Elizabeth Kirkendall.  I read this at their Daddy's funeral on December 27.  I will give copies to Holly to give to the girls when they get older.  Several people have asked for a copy of the letter.  Here is the letter as I read it at the service.

December 27, 2013

Dear Kate Elizabeth and Ella Grace,

        One day you will read this letter and you will read about one of the most remarkable, courageous and influential men I have ever known; your Daddy.  You were only 3 when your Daddy died, he was only 40.  I know you probably have some memories of him and you have grown up seeing pictures and hearing many people talk about him.  Let me tell you how I knew your Dad.

        I first met your Daddy when he was only 16 years old and a sophomore in high school.  I had moved to Lexington as the new minister at First Baptist Church and Chad was in the same class as our oldest son.  He always had the greatest smile and seemed so happy.  I remember when he graduated from high school in 1992 and went to Chapel Hill to the University of North Carolina.

        When your Daddy went into business, he quickly became known as someone people could depend on.  He had such a great personality and was always positive and optimistic.  When you needed him, he would be right there.  We had an emergency one day when the kitchen sink overflowed and the next day the floor started to buckle.  I called your Daddy and in no time he was there, setting up fans under the house and in the kitchen.  He saved our kitchen floor, and when I asked him how much I owed him, he wouldn’t let me pay him.  “All I did was set up a few fans,” he said.  “And I wasn’t going to be using them anyway.”  Your Daddy was a man of integrity who was honest, dependable, and trustworthy.  Everyone loved your Dad. 

        He was a faithful Christian and his dedication and kindness led to him being elected as one of the youngest deacons in our church.  The way he lived his life was an example for everyone to follow.

        Everybody in town was excited when your Daddy and Mommy found each other and announced that they would be married.  We all believed that it was a match made in heaven, and I really think it was.  They were such a happy couple and we all wanted them to live happily ever after, but as you know, real life doesn’t always have happy endings.

        On a beautiful Saturday morning, April 28, 2007, your Grandfather died suddenly.  Your Daddy loved his Daddy and they were very close.  I had to call your Daddy and tell him the terrible news.  He was devastated, but knew he had to be strong and brave for your Grandmother.  He quickly came to comfort your Grandmother.  While your Daddy was heartbroken, he told me that he knew his Daddy was in heaven and one day he would see him again.

        I’ve never known your Daddy to be a public speaker, but he stood up at your Grandfather’s funeral and gave a moving and heartfelt tribute.  So did your Aunt Kristi.  Everyone was deeply moved.

        The sadness over your Grandfather’s sudden death was later tempered by the news that your Mommy and Daddy were having a baby.  Everyone was so excited over this good news!  I remember people saying that if anyone deserved a precious little baby, it was Chad and Holly.  Your Daddy worked so hard to get the nursery ready.  On July 29, 2009, your Mommy went to the hospital to give birth to your little brother, Matthew.  But something went terribly wrong and Matthew did not live.  Your parents were devastated.

        The funeral for little Matthew was one of the saddest gatherings I have ever seen.  Everyone’s heart was broken.  There were many, many tears.  Your Daddy had a very hard time dealing with Matthew’s death.  For the first time, I thought his smile might go away.  But it did not.  Because your Daddy had a remarkable faith that was deep and strong, he worked through his grief.  He knew that Matthew was in heaven, and that somehow, in ways we could not understand, God had a bigger plan and purpose.

        We were all praying that God would bless your parents with another baby.  Not only were our prayers answered, but God provided a double blessing when you girls were born on September 29, 2010.  Your Daddy was so proud and so happy.  His smile was brighter than ever before.  He had two precious baby girls and he loved you so very much.  On Mother’s Day, 2011, your Daddy and Mommy dedicated you to God.  Never has a Father been any prouder of his children as he and your Mom stood holding you with a great, big smile.

        Your Daddy had already been through so much sadness and tragedy that I couldn’t believe that there would ever be any more.  But there are so many things in life over which we have no control.  I saw him at the church one day late in 2012 and noticed he was limping.  “What happened to you?” I asked.  “I don’t know,” your Daddy responded.  “I don’t know what I have done.”

Your Daddy had not done anything.  Little did he, his doctors, or anyone else know that a deadly cancer had attacked his body.  It wasn’t until later that it was diagnosed and when it was, he started a long and courageous battle against the disease, finding the best doctors and treatment that were available, and all the time believing that God would work through the doctors to heal his body.  We all believed he would be healed.  We prayed and prayed.  Through social media thousands of people learned about your Daddy and prayed for him. We all wore blue ribbons and had prayer vigils when he had surgery at Duke Hospital in May.  His story inspired people he never even met and brought people in our town together in a marvelous way.  Your Daddy’s friends came together and provided remarkable support and love for him and your mom.  In all my years of ministry I don’t think I have ever seen such an amazing outpouring of love and support from an entire community.

  Your Daddy’s life, his courageous fight against cancer, and his unquenchable faith touched and inspired thousands of people.  Your Mommy was right there with him the whole time.  She was so strong and brave.  When I would tell your Daddy how many lives he was touching and people he was inspiring, he would smile and say he was thankful that God was using him.  But there were two lives that he was most concerned about, and that was you, his two girls.  This is what I want you to tell you about your Daddy:

Your Daddy’s faith in God, his courage in suffering, his powerful spirit will always be there for you as a witness and an example in times of trouble.  I hope and pray you will never have to go through the hard times that your parents went through, but we never know what life will bring.  But always remember that when trouble comes, when you find yourself in a painful situation, when there is suffering and heartache, you can work through it, you can overcome it, you can emerge victorious because your Daddy did.  He never gave up, he never lost hope, he never quit believing that God had a bigger plan and purpose for his suffering.  I know that God used your Daddy’s faith to inspire other people, and I also know that God will use his example to guide and inspire you throughout the rest of your life.  If ever you find yourself in a situation in which you are simply overwhelmed and feel like giving up, remember your Daddy and know that you can find that same strength, the same faith, and the same courage that he had.

Ella and Kate, the most important thing I want to know is this:  Your Daddy will always be with you.

How do I know this?  Because your Daddy loved you than you can ever imagine.  And love is eternal.  The Bible tells us that love never ends.  Death can destroy a lot of things, but it cannot take away love.  The power of love is greater than sickness, suffering, disease, pain, and death.  Your Daddy’s love will always be with you.

Whenever you accomplish something great in life, your Daddy will be with you, his smile and his love will surround you.  When you graduate from high school and college, your Daddy will be right there with you, smiling with pride over all you have achieved.  One great day, when you find the right person for your life and it is time to walk down the aisle of the church to exchange your wedding vows, your Daddy will be walking right beside with the biggest smile as he shares in your joy. 

And one day, many, many years from now hopefully, when death does come as it comes for all of us, do not be afraid, because your Daddy will be standing right there with Jesus to welcome you home.

A few weeks before he died, your Daddy told me that he was not afraid of death, but he didn’t want to leave his family.  And then he said, “I don’t want my girls to forget me.”

I assured your Daddy that it would never happen and that is one reason I wrote you this letter.  I wanted you to hear my story of one of the most courageous and faithful men I have ever known in all my years of ministry.  He loved God.  He was a faithful friend.  He loved his family.  He loved your Mommy. And he loved his baby girls.  I will never forget him.  I’m a better person because of him.  Your life will always be enriched, empowered, and inspired because he will always be with you. 

Sincerely with love,

 

Ray N. Howell III