Put Your Jesus Glasses On When Interpreting Scripture

        There was a big picture of Neil Armstrong standing on the moon with the earth in the background hanging behind his desk.  He was proud of that picture and he should have been, because he helped put him there.  He was an engineer with NASA back in its heyday, back when they were fully funded, fully staffed, and working day and night  to achieve President Kennedy’s dream of putting a man on the moon by the end of the decade.  They succeeded, too, as the picture behind Tom’s desk bore witness.

        After the moon landings, NASA slowed down.  The funding was cut.  Public support wavered.  Many of the most dedicated NASA employees found themselves without a job, including Tom.  He moved to North Carolina, to his wife’s hometown, and became a member of the church I was serving as pastor.   That is why I was sitting in his office one day, looking with admiration at the picture of Neil Armstrong, trying to find something pleasant while Tom lectured me on the Bible. 

        “When I worked for NASA,” he said pointing to the picture, “everything we did was according to the book.”  We had a manual for everything, for every possible situation, for every foreseeable scenario.  There was a very deliberate, intentional, detailed protocol for every move we made.”

        Then he glared at me and asked, “How do you think we put a man on the moon?”  I didn’t answer.  I knew he was about to tell me.  “We followed the manual to the letter of the law!” he practically screamed as he pointed his finger at me.  And then he added, “And that is the only way to interpret Scripture.  The Bible is our manual and we are to follow it to the letter of the law!”

        There was no point trying to discuss the issue with Tom.  His mind was made up.  He had all the answers.  Not long after that lecture he left my church because, “I didn’t believe the Bible.” 

        I know a lot of people who interpret the Bible just like Tom.  I read their letters to the Editor.  They use this misguided approach to judge and condemn people, to discriminate against those who are not living according to their standards, and to divide and demean others with the harsh and caustic language of hatred.  They isolate certain passages of Scripture and use the Bible as a battering ram to slam those who disagree into humble submission. 

        The Bible is not a fixed manual.  The Bible is the living, dynamic Word of God.  It is alive and fluid.  Interpreting Scripture is hard work; it is not simple and straightforward, it is a spiritual exercise.  I believe that Scripture is Divinely inspired and that inspiration guides the interpreter just as it guided the writers.  And I believe you should use Scripture to interpret Scripture. 

As a Christian, I have a very intentional focus when I approach Scripture.  I seek to interpret Scripture through the eyes of Jesus.  When I read something that is judgmental, harsh, or divisive, I put on my Jesus glasses.  I filter what I read through the witness of Jesus, through his example of love, forgiveness, and grace.  When I see a Scripture passage that appears to condemn someone, I put on my Jesus glasses and see that individual as a child of God and as a person of worth.

        I learn that I am a sinner in interpreting Scripture and I have fallen short of the glory of God.  But then I put on my Jesus glasses and see that it was for sinners like me that Christ died, that he has washed all my sins away and I am a new creation in Christ!  

        There is too much harsh, critical, discriminatory, and hateful language in our world today.  Those of us who follow the Christ need to be to put on our Jesus glasses and turn the rhetoric of division into the promise of reconciliation and grace.  Saint Francis certainly had on his Jesus glasses when he wrote, “Where there is hatred, let me sow love; where there is injury, pardon.”  May we go and do likewise.

                                                               

Advent is the Season to let our Light Shine

        Have you noticed?  Little by little, slowly but surely, the darkness continues to erode the light.  The days are getting shorter.  We didn’t notice at first.  Not back in late June when daylight would greet us when we first opened our eyes from the night’s rest.  But that is when it started and for the next three weeks it will continue.  There will be more and more darkness until December 22 when the light begins to push back and reverse the darkness.

        The church anticipates the reversal of the darkness through the season of Advent.  Many years ago I wrote my doctoral dissertation on Advent.  I argued that the dominant theme of Advent is hope.  As we recall the stirring prophecies of swords being beaten into plowshares, of peace on earth, and righteous and justice for all people, we focus on the not yet as we yearn for a better world for all of God’s children.  Hope is a contradiction of the present, a belief that our best days are still to come.         

        Looking back I realize that I missed something.  Advent may be defined by hope but it is expressed with light.  We light candles.  We place lights on our Christmas trees and have elaborate outdoor light displays.  Advent is the season of hope and light.  The church doesn’t run from the darkness, it invades the darkness with degrees of light.

        The Apostle John, in his thunderous theological treatise on the Incarnation, described this lofty, mysterious, unexplainable reality with a simple metaphor:  “The light shines in the darkness, and darkness cannot overcome it.”  (John 1: 5)

        There is a reason we celebrate the birth of Jesus on December 25 and it is not because Jesus was born on this day.  (Sorry about that—Jesus was probably born in the springtime when shepherds would be abiding in the fields)  In the old Julian calendar, December 25 was the winter solstice, the day the light started to reverse the onslaught of darkness.  We celebrate the birth of Jesus who is the “light of the world” on the day the light begins to reclaim the darkness!

        One December Sunday in 1956 Mrs. Frances Spencer walked into the sanctuary of her church in Danville, Virginia, and could not believe what she was seeing.  There was a Christmas tree!  A Christmas tree with colored lights, Santa Claus ornaments, and jingle bells!  In the church, no less!   Her first reaction was to protest, to complain that this is exactly what is wrong with Christmas.  Christmas is about Jesus, not Santa Claus.  This tree represented the secular world.  It had no place in the sacred house of worship.  But her righteous indignation was soon replaced with divine inspiration.  Rather than condemn, rather than judge, rather than complain, Mrs. Spencer was led to transform what she perceived as darkness into a glorious light. 

        She asked her minister if she could have the privilege of decorating the Christmas tree the next year.  He readily agreed and over the course of the year she created a number of handmade ornaments that proclaimed the true meaning of Christmas.  She replaced the colored lights with white lights to represent Christ as the light of the world.  She named her ornaments “Chrismons” which means a monogram of Christ.  Each Chrismon was designed to represent Christ and the message of God’s love.  This is how the Chrismon tree was born and this Advent many churches in Lexington and Davidson County have beautiful Chrismon trees in their sanctuaries to proclaim the true meaning of Christmas, the light that shines in the darkness. 

        Mrs. Spencer not only left us with a great tradition, but a powerful example of how we confront the darkness of our world.  We are not called to condemn the darkness but to transform it.  Martin Luther King once said, “Darkness cannot drive out darkness; only light can do that.” With acts of mercy and grace we can drive out the darkness.  We can feed the hungry, provide Christmas gifts for deserving children, and reach out to the lonely and the depressed.  Let’s do more than turn on the lights this Advent season, let us become the light of Christ for a world of darkness.  For when the light shines in the darkness, the darkness can never overcome it!

He Became A Father To Me

        We were an unlikely pair:  The legendary All-American player and Hall of Fame coach, educator, Mayor, and veteran radio announcer and me—a lowly Baptist preacher from LA (Lower Alabama).  For the last ten years of Harold Bowen’s storied 50-year career as the play-by-play voice of the Lexington Yellow Jackets, I sat by his side.  I was his side-kick, his color commentator, or as Harold said “a common tator.”   I loved every minute of it. 

        In one of my first sermons in Lexington I made a reference to “Jonah swallowing the whale.”  I did it on purpose to simply see if the congregation was listening.  They weren’t.  But Harold was.   He loved it and the next week invited me to be a guest on his radio show.  We spent the entire time telling jokes and talking football. 

        Fred Lohr was helping Harold broadcast the games back then.  When Fred suffered a heart attack on a Thursday night, Harold called me the next morning to see if I could help him that night.  I helped him for the next decade.

        I have dozens of delightful stories from my time broadcasting with Harold.  We made a great team and enjoyed playing off of each other.  The listeners may not have heard the most professional broadcast, but they could tell we were having fun.  And I quickly learned that Harold Bowen was all about those young men on the field.  The only rule he had was, “You don’t criticize a player.  You never call a young man out when he makes a mistake.” 

        Harold and his devoted wife, Jean, lived their lives for young people. If I hear someone say, “Harold and Jean didn’t have any children,” I correct them. They have had 100s of children and they have blessed their lives in a multitude of ways. When Jean died, Harold set up a memorial endowment in her name to help the young people of our church. He continues to bless the lives of young people.

        Harold became one of my best friends and one of my most      trusted confidants. And when my father died in 1998, Harold became a father to me. I could share things with Harold I couldn’t share with anyone else. There were times I just needed to talk and he was always there to listen.

Harold’s health had been declining for several years. He was on dialysis and it was taking its toll. But there was one thing Harold loved and that was coming to church on Sunday. His faith was deep and true. He would sit in the back and pretend to sleep, but I knew better. I knew if I had Moses building the ark Harold would catch it if no one else would.

        A few weeks ago Harold was sitting at the front of the church to see his good friend, Dave Colescott, being baptized. I wore a Carolina T-shirt, ostensibly for Dave who played basketball for Dean Smith, but really for Harold. Dave was there for Harold, too. He knew this baptism would mean as much to Harold as it would to him. We sang Harold’s favorite hymn, “There is a Balm in Gilead, “and I laughed when I remembered the night we played Mt. Gilead and Harold chastised me for pronouncing it like Gilead in the Bible. When it came time for the baptism, Harold carefully poured water from the Jordan River into Dave’s water pitcher. Two days later Harold crossed the Jordan River into the Promised Land.

        I spoke at my Dad’s funeral. It was one of the hardest things I’ve ever had to do. And as I prepared to stand up and speak at Harold’s funeral, I felt the same way. When Mickey Sharpe started to sing, “There is a Balm in Gilead,” I thought I was going to lose it.

        Harold always taught me that I needed to be ready to speak at a moment’s notice. If the game is delayed, if the refs are late, if there is a weather delay, you always had to be ready to talk. And so somewhere, deep within, I mustered the strength to stand up and honor the man who was my friend, my mentor, my encourager, but most of all, a father to me.

America Is Better Than This

We ought to be ashamed!  All of us, Republicans, Democrats, and Independents should be ashamed that we have allowed presidential politics to descend to such a lowly and despicable level.  We should be ashamed that we apparently accept the sordid state of political affairs without protest.  America deserves better.  America is better than this! 

        Great leaders lift people up and inspire ordinary citizens to accomplish extraordinary things by appealing to our best qualities.  Inspired leaders help us realize that we are part of something much greater than ourselves, that democracy depends on the altruistic contributions of each citizen as we serve and sacrifice for the greater good of liberty and justice for all. 

        When John Adams was asked to compose a written “Declaration of Independence,” he deferred to his younger colleague from Virginia, Thomas Jefferson.  Adams recognized that his writing style was “ponderous,” while Jefferson’s pen was “graceful and eloquent.”  He told Jefferson that while he (Adams) was “obnoxious, suspected, and unpopular, you are very much otherwise.”  And he added, “You can write ten times better than I.” 

        John Adams recognized that Americans needed rhetorical eloquence to lift them out of their petty squabbles, territorial posturing, and egocentric debates.  One must be elevated to the mountaintop to see the grand vision of liberty. Someone must touch the hearts of the people to empower them to dream great dreams.  Jefferson did this with his majestic and eloquent words, “When in the course of human events . . .”  “We hold these truths to be self-evident . . “   “We mutually pledge to each other our lives, our fortunes, and our sacred honor.”

        The grand vision of a free and independent union almost disintegrated with the American Civil War, but once again a noble and visionary leader galvanized our nation with words that would ring in the hearts of Americans for generations as he proclaimed that “Government of the people, by the people, and for the people should not perish from the face of the earth.”  Abraham Lincoln spoke words of reconciliation and grace to all Americans when shortly before his assassination he appealed:  “With malice toward none, with charity for all, with firmness in the right as God gives us to see the right, let us strive on to finish the work we are in, to bind up the nation's wounds. . . .”

        Franklin Roosevelt lifted Americans from the despair of the depression with his words that riveted a nation, “The only thing we have to fear, is fear itself.”  John F. Kennedy inspired a young generation to selfless service with his words, “Ask not what your country can do for you, but what you can do for your country.”  Ronald Reagan’s confident leadership inspired Americans to believe in the greatness of our country again.

        Where are the inspired leaders?  Where are the eloquent wordsmiths?  Where are the noble visionaries?  Rather than inspiring us to greatness of the mountaintop, today’s politicians want to pull us down to the gutter. They speak to the dark side of humanity, planting seeds of distrust and doubt in the hearts of Americans.  They speak of conspiracy rather than commitment: of fear, not faith; of hatred instead of honor.  They focus on tearing people down, not building people up.  They appeal to every negative and weak element of the human soul.  As a result of this character assassination on the American public, the great majority of citizens will go to the polls to vote against someone.  This is not the American dream.  This is an American nightmare.

        The Apostle Paul, a gifted wordsmith, said: “Let no corrupting talk come out of your mouths, but only such as is good for building up.” In Colossians he exhorted us to put away all anger, wrath, malice, slander, and filthy talk.  In Proverbs we read: “Speaking recklessly cuts and maims, but the words of the wise bring healing.”

        I believe in the greatness of our nation.  There are noble and visionary leaders of integrity who will step forward.  My prayer is that all of us will live by the words of the Psalmist, “Let the words of my mouth and the meditation of my heart be acceptable in your sight, O Lord.” 

An Old Firefighter Honors The Brave and The Fallen

        I’m an old firefighter. I have been a firefighter since 1978.  I haven’t been active in a number of years, but once a firefighter, always a firefighter. 

        I joined the Pollocksville Fire Department in 1978.  We were a small, volunteer department with only one 750 gallon pumper and a large tanker truck.  The tanker was essential because outside of the town limits there was no water, we had to bring it with us.  I moved to Roxboro in 1982 and the Fire Chief, knowing I was a firefighter, asked me to be the Roxboro Fire Department Chaplain.  For the next eight years I responded to calls at all hours of the day and night.  I comforted families in time of loss.  I delivered the devastating news that a loved one had died in a fire.  I conducted the funeral for our beloved Assistant Fire Chief who was brutally murdered by a deranged drug addict who had just been released from prison on a technicality. 

        But nothing prepared me for a heart wrenching experience early in 1990.  We responded to a house fire one cold, rainy morning.  A frantic mother was screaming that her baby was in the house.  Smoke was pouring out and it was evident that we could not save the house, but there was a child.  Two of my fellow firefighters quickly donned their breathing equipment and did what any brave firefighter would do; they risked their lives to try to save the life of a child.  I was standing by a front window when it shattered.  One of the firefighters tore through the window with an axe while the other one reached through and handed me the lifeless body of a small child.     

        I started CPR and was soon relieved by EMS workers who took the child to the back of the ambulance as they tried desperately to restore his precious life.  The child responded and started to breathe on his own.  Within an hour he was airlifted to Chapel Hill where he later died. 

        I will never forget that moment.  It is frozen in time in my memory.  I am standing there holding a little child and trying to give him back the gift of life.  And I will never forget my fellow firefighters who courageously rushed into that burning house to save the life of a child.

        Fifteen years ago on September 11, 2001, we all watched in horror as the Twin Towers in New York City came crashing down taking 2,753 innocent lives.  Most of those victims were desperately trying to get out after the airplanes crashed into the buildings, but not everyone.  343 brave and courageous firefighters were going into the buildings while everyone else was rushing out.  Those firefighters were going up the stairs while the multitudes were rushing down.  All 343 firefighters were lost on 9/11.  They were doing what my two friends did that fateful morning in 1990; they were risking their lives to save the lives of others.

        This Sunday on September 11, I get to be a firefighter again.  I’m wearing my old Chaplain badge as I share in our community’s memorial observance of 9/11.  I have the great privilege of leading the bell ceremony, a 200 year-old tradition in firefighting as we honor those brave men and women who have answered the final call as they have given their lives to save the lives of others.  We will also honor all of our Lexington Firefighters in the ceremony on the Old Courthouse Square that begins at 12:11 p.m. 

        At some point in the ceremony I know I will recall that experience of my fellow firefighters going into that burning house to save the life of that small child.  I will be reminded that every time the alarm sounds, our firefighters never know if they are answering the call for the final time.  We thank God for our firefighters.  I am proud to be included in their family. 

Changing His Course for a Higher Calling

        One Sunday morning over 25 years ago Chad Killebrew walked into my office at First Baptist Church on West Third Avenue.  Chad was a young reporter at The Dispatch and I was still considered the “new” pastor of First Baptist.  Chad asked me if I would be interested in writing a religion column for the paper.  I hesitated because I knew I would be replacing the legendary Dr. Lee Jessup who wrote an animated weekly column.  Lee was Lexington’s pastor, a local icon, and I couldn’t imagine following in his storied footsteps.  I didn’t consider myself a gifted writer, but Chad explained I would only be writing once every four weeks.  The main reason I said yes was because of my respect and admiration for Chad.

        Chad grew up in Bryson City, North Carolina, where his family was deeply involved in the life and ministry of First Baptist Church.  The church was Chad’s second home and he has never taken his faith or his Baptist heritage lightly.  Even though Chad had been attending First Baptist in Lexington, he waited until he could meet the new pastor before he made a commitment to officially become a member.  I guess I passed muster because it happened soon after I arrived. 

        Through the years Chad and Sheila have been vitally involved in the life of our church. They are also good friends and it has been a joy to know them and watch their sons, Charlie and Andy, grow and mature. Neither Chad nor Sheila had Lexington roots, and Chad said he originally thought he would only be in Lexington a few years before moving to a larger paper, but life doesn’t always take us where we thought we were going.

        Chad’s gifts as a journalist were being recognized and he was moving up the ladder at The Dispatch.  His family was finding Lexington a wonderful place to call home.  Then Chad was named Executive-Editor, an honor he richly deserved.  One of the first major changes he made as Editor was eliminating the popular, yet controversial and anonymous, “Bricks and Bouquets,” from the Editorial page. His decision upset some people, but Chad believed if you were going to publically criticize someone by casting a “brick” you ought to have enough courage to sign your name. 

        That decision told us a lot about our new Editor.  He was always fair and balanced, always transparent and above-board.  The Editorial page was Chad’s pulpit.  His opinions were well researched, measured, and compelling.  He wrote with honesty, clarity, and integrity.  I have especially enjoyed his many editorials through the years on church and state.  Chad was “raised right” as a true Baptist and separation of church and state is one of our hallmark beliefs.  I could see his Baptist background and his foundational conviction to the First Amendment shining through his eloquent words, even as he knew many would take exception to his views. 

        In Chad’s last article before announcing his resignation, he talked about the importance of a free press in today’s volatile world.  He shared how the media is frequently maligned and journalists are easy fodder for politicians, but then added: “Readers don’t have to always agree with what we report, but I hope they will value the contributions we make to keeping people informed . . .”  

        Over 25 years after Chad enlisted me to write a religion column, I am still writing and yes, Chad, we greatly value your contributions through the years.  You have made a significant difference in our community.  You have not only kept us informed, but your editorials have kept us honest.  You have told the truth and your wisdom and insight have made us better people and a stronger community. 

        The print media has faced unprecedented challenges over the past decade.  I know it has been extremely frustrating for Chad as The Dispatch has been blown and tossed like a small ship in a great storm at sea.  But now Chad is changing his own personal course. 

        I will miss Chad at The Dispatch.  I will miss his folksy Saturday articles.   But as former Editor Larry Lyon left The Dispatch for a higher calling, so has Chad.  Now he will be investing in the lives of young people.  He will be using his vast knowledge and experience in journalism to prepare a future generation.  The students of Central Davidson High School will be blessed by his presence.  And who knows, maybe the next best selling Pulitzer Prize-Winning author may be waiting for a teacher like Chad to unlock her potential!

        Thank you Chad!  Job well done!

From Adventure, to Serendipity, to Blessing in Our Nation's Capital

“Are you ready to embark on a great adventure?” I asked our youth before we left Lexington for the Salisbury Amtrak station bound for Washington, D.C.  Travel is always a great adventure.  Venturing out of your comfort zone to explore historical sites and discover new truths, travel is the best education.  The greatest and most memorable blessings of travel come from the serendipities that you can never plan—those amazing moments of profound encounter that will become legendary before you return home. 

        The focus of our journey was Religious Liberty and we started our tour on sacred ground at Arlington National Cemetery where the high price of freedom is transparent.  Using the ANC App, we were able to locate the grave of our hometown hero, Josh Harris.  Standing before his grave was a profound experience of humility and gratitude.  Freedom is never free. 

        The Jefferson Memorial is my favorite place to meditate on religious liberty.  Standing in the imposing rotunda, reflecting on those eloquent words that sparked a revolution and defined a nation, and realizing that our founding fathers really were placing their lives on the line for freedom, this is the perfect place to talk about what true liberty means.  When we arrived at the Jefferson we were not alone.  We were greeted by an amazing choir—a 1,300 voice choir!  The Millennial Choir, based primarily in western states, had traveled to DC to present several concerts and they were filming stirring religious and patriotic songs on the steps of the Jefferson Memorial.  As we stood in the rotunda and looked at Jefferson’s words, “Almighty God hath created the mind free,” the angelic chords of Amazing Grace echoed throughout the memorial.  Oh my!

        A little later in the morning we arrived at the Korean War Memorial to a somber observance commemorating the 66^th anniversary of the beginning of the war.  Korean leaders were reading the names of every South Korean solider killed in the conflict, a ceremony that would last until almost midnight.  I saw an old Korean man with a War Veteran cap on.  I shook his hand and commented on the fact that he fought in the war.  I could tell he didn’t understand English very well, but he understood what I said and nodded his head.  Then I told him my father fought in the Korean War.  When he realized what I was saying, he stood erect as if at attention and then he humbly bowed before me.  I was overwhelmed, deeply touched!  My father never thought his service amounted to much.  The Korean War was the forgotten war.  But on this day, this Korean man’s act of gratitude was a powerful expression of grace that I wished my father had lived to see. 

        Later that afternoon we were standing on the northern end of the Ellipse, looking at the White House.  It was evident by all the activity that something was taking place.  We heard a noise behind us and turned to see three mighty Marine helicopters flying in by the Jefferson Memorial, passing to the west of the Washington Monument.  Two of the helicopters peeled away while one flew right over our heads and hovered over the South Lawn of the White House, gracefully turning and gently landing as soft as a feather.  The President of the United States had just come home!

        These are difficult days for our nation.  Political discourse is toxic; there is little confidence in our government; we are a polarized and divided people.  But the lofty principles of freedom and democracy that founded this great nation have not diminished.  As long as we remain faithful to our foundational values and teach our children the lessons of liberty, as long as we honor those who paid the ultimate price for freedom by giving their last full measure of devotion, as long as our youth visit the sacred temples of democracy and dream great dreams, and as long as God’s amazing grace continues to echo throughout the rotunda of this blessed land, we will have great hope and promise for the future. 

        Our great adventure was filled with serendipities and sealed with great blessing!  Blessed is the nation whose God is the Lord!

Recalling a Father's Lesson in Words of Shame

     "Just wait until your father gets home!”  Those words, even today, strike a sense of fear and foreboding deep down within my soul. 

        Corporal punishment was a way a life, a rite of passage, in the non-politically correct world of the 1950s and 60s.  While I only recall a few times receiving an all-out, down-home, honest-to-gosh “whooping,” the mere threat of such a cataclysmic occurrence was enough to keep me walking the straight and narrow most of the time.

        But without question, the most severe punishment I ever received from my father came not from the force of his hands but in his words of shame when I acted most inappropriately at a football game. We had traveled to an out-of-town game one Friday night; I must have been around 12 or 13.  I saw some of my friends and asked my dad if I could go and see them.  “Just be back in time for kickoff,” he said.  Football was like church, when the main event started you were expected in be in your seat paying close attention. 

        There were several of us who were horsing around near the end zone while the teams warmed up.  We were having a grand-old time when the band marched out onto the field and prepared for the national anthem.  One of my friends had the bright idea that when the band started playing we should march like soldiers.  Then one of the guys said, “Hey, I know what would be even better.  Let’s do the goose step!” 

        The PA announcer asked the crowd to stand for the national anthem.  Everyone stood, placed their hands over their hearts, and faced the flagpole at the end of the stadium.  As the band began playing and the American flag started to ascend the rusted pole, a group of boys performed the goose step march for all to see. 

        We only marched two or three steps before we stopped in a fit of laughter, but it was a nervous laughter, because we immediately knew we had done something terribly wrong.  I hung my head and went back to the stands to sit beside my father.  I expected a harsh reprimand with a promise of a “whooping” when we got home, but my father didn’t say a word—he didn’t have to.    

        We sat through the entire game in total silence.  Like a condemned criminal on death row awaiting his execution, I somberly pondered by fate.  When the game was over we quietly walked to the car.  The tension was palatable.  I’m sure my dad was carefully choosing his words as he smoked a cigarette, the smoke being pulled out of the little vent window, the steady sound of the wind whistling through the car until my dad finished his smoke and pulled the window shut creating a sudden ominous silence.  My heart was about to burst. 

        “Son,” he said sadly.   “I was ashamed of you tonight—very ashamed.” 

        I tried to hold back the tears as my father spoke of the war veterans who had been at the game, including some who had been held by the Germans as a POW.  He told me how many of those men had seen their best buddies slaughtered by those goose stepping Germans.  He talked about the high price of freedom, of the blood that so many had shed.  He told me that I had disrespected every man who had fought for our freedom, and while he didn’t mention himself, he was one of those veterans, too. 

        His final words were, “Don’t ever make me ashamed of you again.” 

Whenever I honor our veterans in a worship service, write a newspaper article on the significance of Memorial Day, or speak on the precious gift of freedom I think of my father and the powerful lesson I learned that night.  I know there were many times I did not live up to his expectations after that painful event, but I don’t think I ever gave him a reason to be ashamed of me again.  He died 18 years ago.  I will be thinking of him tomorrow on Father’s Day.  I hope I have made him proud.

The Saga of a Light Momentary Weird Affliction

        Dear friends, for the past two weeks I have been wallowing in the valley of what the Apostle Paul termed as “a light, momentary affliction” on the road to glory.  And it all started with something that was just plain “weird.”

        About five years ago I noticed a small growth forming on my right wrist.  My first thought was, “This is what happens to old people.”  Then I remembered that I am one of the old people!  So I went to see my good friend, the founding father and grand potentate of all things orthopedic, Dr. Gordon Kammire who did a thorough examination and x-rayed that sucker before making his bona fide diagnosis.   “Ray,” he said.  “That thing is just plain weird.”  Now that I had the official medical ruling I decided to leave weird enough alone.

        Over time it grew larger and a second growth was forming.  I tried to recall if I had been abducted by aliens as I searched for a rationale for this enlarging weirdness.  People were starting to notice my abnormality and comforting me by saying:  “What is that weird thing on your hand!”  I went back to Dr. Kammire who said we could either whop that sucker with a big, heavy Bible (KJV-Red Letter Edition) or he could cut it out.  Not wanting to endanger a Bible, I opted for the latter.  The good doctor proceeded to prescribe some high octane pain killers and told me he would see me at the hospital.

        Now friends, I must tell you that I was treated like royalty when I arrived at Lexington Medical Center for my surgery.  They commenced to work me over from head to toe, telling me that everything was going to be all right, and asking me if I had any concerns.  “My only concern,” I said, “Is what my sermon is going to sound like after I take those heavy duty pain killers?”  They said they sure would like to be there to hear it!

 They explained that they wouldn’t be putting me to sleep, just my arm.  This was fine with me.  I could see myself back in surgery shooting the breeze with Dr. Kammire while he was whacking away on my hand.  They starting poking around in my shoulder and told me if my arm started twitching, that was a good sign.  Well before I could announce the hymn, my arm was flopping around like I was directing the choir. 

Everything was looking good, and I kept waiting for my arm to go night- night, but it didn’t happen.  They were getting ready to roll me into surgery and Dr. Kammire was raring to go, but my arm was no more asleep than a kid on Christmas Eve.  I mentioned it to a nurse who told me not to worry; they always had a backup plan. I could see them giving me a shot of whiskey and a leather strap to place between my teeth as I would say in my best John Wayne voice, “Start cutting Pilgrim, and don’t stop until we send that sucker back where he belongs.”

As they rolled me into the operating room I told everyone how much it reminded me of the embalming room where I used to work in my former life in LA (lower Alabama).  I remember saying that our patients never talked back.  That was when they put this mask on my face and told me to breathe deeply and I quit talking back.

Well friends, things got interesting after they hushed me up.  Dr. Kammire cut that growth wide open and what he found inside was weird.  He sent that sucker to pathology and after running a myriad of tests they agreed, it was just plain weird.  Meanwhile, I woke up to find my right arm bandaged up like an Egyptian mummy.   I’ve been totally helpless since my surgery which has been both humbling and enlightening.  Believing that God brings good out of every situation, even weird ones, I found this scripture:  “Behold, thou desirest truth in the inward parts: and in the hidden part thou shalt make me to know wisdom.”  (Psalm 51:6 KJV)

I could not have asked for better medical care.  Dr. Gordon Kammire and his colleagues are the best orthopedic surgeons you will find anywhere.  The entire outpatient staff was exceptional.  From the minute I walked in the door I was treated with kindness, respect, and compassion.  Everyone was friendly and showed genuine concern.  I’m healing up nicely and believe it or not, I haven’t taken a single one of those pain killers.  We are blessed in Lexington to have such an exceptional hospital and compassionate heath care professionals.

Celebrating Twenty-Nine Years of Faithful Service

Change doesn’t come often to venerable First Baptist Church on West Third Avenue. There have been two senior ministers in the past 54 years; Jean Ashley, the Martha Best Children’s Center director, has faithfully served for 33 years; and only two associate ministers have served in the past 40 years. But if you feel the Earth tilt next week it is because change is a coming, and this old preacher is having a hard time believing it is true.

Our associate minister, Tommy Wilson, my good friend and trusted colleague, is retiring after 29 years of faithful service to our church. For the first time in over 26 years, I will be flying solo; I’ll be sailing in unchartered waters, and right now, I can’t imagine life without Tommy. Ask any member of First Baptist who the glue is who holds our church together, the stabilizer who keeps us on an even keel, the navigator who keeps us on a true course, and they will quickly answer, Tommy Wilson.

When Dr. Hoke Coon called a young associate from First Baptist in Albemarle in 1987, the church was preparing for an ambitious building renovation and addition. Tommy had been trained to be a pastoral minister, but little did he know he was about to receive a new education in building construction, renovation, administration and maintenance. When Dr. Coon announced his retirement, Tommy was suddenly in charge of a multi-million-dollar building campaign. And he excelled in every way.

Not every minister can serve as an associate. In many ways, it is a thankless job. The senior minister is always in the spotlight, the associate is often hidden in the shadows. But Tommy had found his niche and settled comfortably into the role of the church’s business administrator that evolved from his experience in the renovation. People have commented that Tommy and I have always been a good team, and I think we have. Part of it is because our gifts have complemented one another, but the bigger part is total trust, respect and loyalty. And there is no place in teamwork for competition or inflated egos.

I could not have asked for a better associate. I was quick to tell people that Tommy ran the church, and I meant it. He ran our church with competency and efficiency. He guided us through the recession years with an artist’s precision to detail. But Tommy is much, much more than a business manager; he is a compassionate and accomplished minister, and that is a rare combination. Tommy faithfully visits the sick and those who are in nursing and rehab facilities. He performs weddings and funerals. He is a great preacher. He genuinely cares about his flock.

Having such an amazing associate has enabled me to focus on preaching, teaching and community service. There is no way I could be as involved in the community without such a trusted colleague. But that doesn’t mean Tommy hasn’t made a difference in our community. He has been a driving force behind Habitat for Humanity. He has chaired the CROP Walk for hunger, served as president of the Greater Lexington Area Ministerial Association and served on the boards of the Department of Social Services and The Life Center. Tommy’s wife, Sandra, works with Pastor’s Pantry, and he is also very involved in this vital community ministry.

Tomorrow is Tommy’s last Sunday as associate minister of First Baptist Church. We are having a celebration — a big celebration to commemorate Tommy and Sandra’s 29 years of faithful and dedicated service. Tommy and I have worked together so long that we can usually tell what the other is thinking. We have done so many worship services and funerals together that we could almost conduct them in our sleep. Throughout these 29 years, Tommy has never failed me or the church. He has been totally and unequivocally faithful and loyal. He has excelled in every way.

Sunday is a celebration, not a funeral — thank goodness! Tommy is still young, and he will find many more ways to use his gifts in God’s service. Tommy and Sandra will remain in Lexington and continue to be a part of our church. Life at First Baptist will never be the same, but our church is deeply grounded in the good soil thanks to Tommy. And I have been blessed for 26 years to have Tommy as my colleague, my confidant, my minister and my friend.