A Dual Charge
Yesterday was a very special day for Jana and me.
In the Sabbath morning we accepted the call as pastor of the First Baptist Church of Desdemona, Texas, our little ranching community 90 miles southwest of Fort Worth.
In the Sabbath evening, we held the first worship celebration of Bread Fellowship, our new community of faith in Fort Worth.
We feel led to lend our pastoral energies to both of these Christian communities.
When my interim pastorate ended with the First Baptist Church of Brownwood in June, the folks in Desdemona invited me to preach. They had experienced numerous challenges in recent years. Attendance has dwindled to 8 worshippers. Discussions centered on closing the doors of this historic Texas church.
We have preached all summer, except for prior Sabbath commitments in other places, and have witnessed the power of the Word of God to convene—and reconvene— a community of faith, hope, and love. We have experienced lively and meaningful Sabbath services, with more and more worshippers week by week, to the happy point that the saints at Desdemona see new life and possibility in their fellowship again.
We are privileged to serve our own neighborhood church where our ranch is located and where Jana’s grandparents invested their lives.
In the Sabbath evening yesterday we had the first worship celebration of our exciting new ministry in Fort Worth called Bread Fellowship. We have been meeting in two small group Bible studies for the past year, and have a core group of 40 or so. Nothing fancy, just sitting in folding chairs arranged in a circle with the Lord's Table in the center.
Our sense of the Spirit's leadership is to focus on the Museum District/Montgomery Plaza area of our city, just west of downtown Fort Worth. We presently meet in the community room of the Monticello Apartments at the corner of North Bailey and White Settlement, but, with yesterday’s gathering, we have already run out of space. We are reaching out mainly to young adults who, for one reason or another, have an ambiguous relationship with the institutional church. (I always smile when I write this line, because we too will likely be institutional enough very soon!) We have no plans to own property or a building.
We are trying to keep this ministry highly inclusive, interactive, informal and intimate, building Christian community around Scripture, prayer, fellowship, and hands-on mission involvement. We have a two word mission statement: Eat. Feed.
I have joined two other fine ministers, Terry Austin and Paul Hood-Patterson, in a pastoral team. There will be others joining this pastoral circle; we are open to God-called ministers who feel led to build a ministry of radical inclusiveness and love.
Let me take a minute to ask you brothers and sisters a big favor:
If you have friends or family members who live in Fort Worth and who do not have a church home, and you feel comfortable providing us their names and contact information, we would be privileged to extend the invitation and friendship of Christ to these friends. You can find us on Facebook and Twitter.
Your prayers are the best gifts. Thank you for lifting us up to the Light of God's love and grace! And, do send us those contacts, as the Spirit leads.
So, Jana and I are now circuit-riding Sabbath preachers, glad and grateful to proclaim our Lord’s great good news in these two fascinating congregational contexts.
Monday, September 13, 2010
Sunday, May 02, 2010
Calling As Sign of the Kingdom
Today was a significant day in the little piece of God’s garden I’ve been given to hoe in as three churches I have served staked claim on two of its fine young ministers.
33 year old Ryon Price was called unanimously as the fifth Senior Pastor of the Second Baptist Church of Lubbock and 21 year old Ben Harrison was licensed unanimously to the ministry of the Gospel by the First Baptist Church of Brownwood.
In my spirit, it is no coincidence that the Body of Christ affirmed these two young ministers on the same Sabbath day.
When Lubbock native Ryon Price was a student at Texas Tech University, he began a conversation with me, Hardy Clemons, and others about what it means to be a pastor. That conversation grew into an authentic claim by God on Ryon’s life for pastoral ministry. He has given evidence of that call by his graduation Magna Cum Laude from Duke Divinity School in 2004, and his pastoral ministry in churches in North Carolina and Vermont from 2003 to the present.
When Ben Harrison was boy growing up in Trinity Baptist Church in San Antonio, he listened to the preaching of his pastors with uncanny understanding and attentiveness. He comes by his call naturally as his father, Steve Harrison, is a gifted lay Bible teacher at Trinity, and his grandmother is an ordained Episcopal priest. As one of his professors at Howard Payne University told me recently about him, “This young man doesn’t just study. He seeks and questions.”
Two years ago, I and others recommended Ryon to Second B as senior minister for that special congregation, explaining to the search team that he possessed an affinity for pastoral proclamation and ministry far beyond his age and experience. Both he and the church conducted themselves in the discernment process with patience and prudence, waiting for the Spirit to disclose a sense of divine will and purpose at the right moment. That moment came today in what numerous friends said was a Spirit-filled service as Ryon preached in view of a call and the congregation joyously confirmed that call.
Ben joined the First Baptist Church of Brownwood shortly after I began my interim ministry here last July. At that time, we began meeting on Sunday afternoons for conversation about the life and work of a pastor. This evening, Ben preached a masterful sermon—only his second preaching event ever and his very first in a Sabbath service-- from John 4 about a marginalized Samaritan woman touched by the love of Christ. Afterwards, the First Baptist Brownwood congregation spoke their response to Ben, a moving celebration of hope and promise in a precocious young servant of Christ. At the benediction, we all encompassed Ben in a circle of love, our hands outstretched and resting on him in affirmation. The venerated pastor Dr. Robert Smith led us in a prayer of dedication, the oldest minister in the congregation voicing our—and God’s-- blessing to the youngest.
In this remarkable season of change for the churches of Christ, and the accompanying stress and upheaval of that change, it is a great goodness to witness the age-old Spirit’s call on Ryon and Ben for service to the Church. Why would two bright young adults, and countless others like them, submit themselves for that peculiar, nerve-wracking service unless a Power beyond themselves so radically compelled them that they could no more resist that call than resist breath itself?
It is no less than a sign of the Kingdom of God for me.
My cup is full tonight.
Wednesday, February 17, 2010
Baptist Confusion
My friends on the Baylor University Board of Regents are urging patient understanding from our Texas Baptist family concerning the appointment of Kenneth Starr as president of the university.
The call to reason and patience-- two clear Scriptural virtues-- is timely for those of us who are confused and dismayed by this appointment. Because we all, as St. Paul reminds us, “see through a glass darkly,” we must be open to perspectives different from our own, and possibilities other than those we can imagine.
But, given the consistent hijacking of Baptist soul freedom by the forces of conformity over the past 30 years, it seems to me that skepticism is the reasonable response to this decision.
The Baylor Board of Regents has been politicized and polarized. It has hired an individual who symbolizes that political polarization.
Kenneth Starr was born into the Church of Christ. He presently holds membership at a non-denominational church in Virginia—sea to shining sea away from his present home in California. Reports are that he will join a Baptist church upon relocating to Waco.
Texas Baptists are unfailingly polite, but we must sacrifice a dab of decorum to get Judge Starr's views candidly and publically established now on the following questions:
1.) Do you affirm for Baylor professors full freedom to pursue truth according to the leadership of God's Spirit?
2.) Do you endorse the complete equality of women under God to perform God's work in the world?
3.) Why should Texas Baptists continue collecting God's tithes and offerings for Baylor University? (The current annual $3 million from the Baptist General Convention of Texas is a pittance for Baylor, but would be pivotal for any number of other cooperative Texas Baptist missions and ministries.)
4.) Do you believe in separation of church and state?
5.) How will you appropriate your views on Christian citizenship in a way that honors both the republican and democratic (both lower case) visions for our national life, and strenuously upholds the historic Baptist conviction for religious liberty?
President Starr needs to host an all-day meeting ASAP-- as in next week, at the latest-- of all Texas Baptist preachers to hash out these questions and get his views on the record. And, I don't mean one of those perfunctory "get to know the new president" coffees in a church fellowship hall somewhere.
It is widely reported that Kenneth Starr is a decent, kind man; my own experience of sharing a table with him years ago confirms this. Precisely because of this decency, he needs to get before the Texas Baptist family-- his new family-- in honest disclosure of his heart. Christian accountability demands it.
Baylor isn't "Christian" just because it says so. Even the demons give such verbal assent. Baylor is Christian because it does the very things Jesus did, those odd, wonderful, peculiar, distinctive things that build the new rule of God.
My friends on the Baylor University Board of Regents are urging patient understanding from our Texas Baptist family concerning the appointment of Kenneth Starr as president of the university.
The call to reason and patience-- two clear Scriptural virtues-- is timely for those of us who are confused and dismayed by this appointment. Because we all, as St. Paul reminds us, “see through a glass darkly,” we must be open to perspectives different from our own, and possibilities other than those we can imagine.
But, given the consistent hijacking of Baptist soul freedom by the forces of conformity over the past 30 years, it seems to me that skepticism is the reasonable response to this decision.
The Baylor Board of Regents has been politicized and polarized. It has hired an individual who symbolizes that political polarization.
Kenneth Starr was born into the Church of Christ. He presently holds membership at a non-denominational church in Virginia—sea to shining sea away from his present home in California. Reports are that he will join a Baptist church upon relocating to Waco.
Texas Baptists are unfailingly polite, but we must sacrifice a dab of decorum to get Judge Starr's views candidly and publically established now on the following questions:
1.) Do you affirm for Baylor professors full freedom to pursue truth according to the leadership of God's Spirit?
2.) Do you endorse the complete equality of women under God to perform God's work in the world?
3.) Why should Texas Baptists continue collecting God's tithes and offerings for Baylor University? (The current annual $3 million from the Baptist General Convention of Texas is a pittance for Baylor, but would be pivotal for any number of other cooperative Texas Baptist missions and ministries.)
4.) Do you believe in separation of church and state?
5.) How will you appropriate your views on Christian citizenship in a way that honors both the republican and democratic (both lower case) visions for our national life, and strenuously upholds the historic Baptist conviction for religious liberty?
President Starr needs to host an all-day meeting ASAP-- as in next week, at the latest-- of all Texas Baptist preachers to hash out these questions and get his views on the record. And, I don't mean one of those perfunctory "get to know the new president" coffees in a church fellowship hall somewhere.
It is widely reported that Kenneth Starr is a decent, kind man; my own experience of sharing a table with him years ago confirms this. Precisely because of this decency, he needs to get before the Texas Baptist family-- his new family-- in honest disclosure of his heart. Christian accountability demands it.
Baylor isn't "Christian" just because it says so. Even the demons give such verbal assent. Baylor is Christian because it does the very things Jesus did, those odd, wonderful, peculiar, distinctive things that build the new rule of God.
Friday, January 29, 2010
Grace Abounds
Last Monday evening around 9:00 p.m., after a good and full day of pastoral ministry in Brownwood, I was stopped by an officer of the Texas Department of Public Safety.
I had just finished delivering the greeting and invocation for the 300 or so folks gathered at our church for the annual Brownwood High School Football Banquet, and was making my way home to our ranch in Desdemona.
It had been a good day of numerous meaningful visits, conversations, and prayers with the people in our fellowship. On such days, pastors sometimes slip into a reverie of reflection and thanksgiving about the goodness of our lives together in Christ, the friendship that connects us in Christian community, and the high purpose that is ours in building the Kingdom of God.
Such a trance of gratitude must have made the foot heavier on the accelerator. On Highway 16 north of Comanche, as I approached the Sabanna River, a southbound DPS officer stopped me. He clocked me exceeding the speed limit, flashed his lights, and turned around to ticket me.
My sweet hour of prayer became a frantic plea.
It was pitch dark, and the officer approached my car carefully on the passenger side, asked for my license, insurance, and registration, and sternly inquired as to where I had been and what I had been up to.
Shamelessly pulling the “pastor card,” I stammered something about Brownwood, First Baptist Church, and ministry.
Immediately, his entire demeanor softened. His face brightened. He began talking casually about the fine folks he knew in Brownwood, his own faith, and the spiritual importance of church in his life.
He handed my license back to me and started asking me about mutual friends and acquaintances. Far fewer than the theoretical “six degrees” separate folks in our part of Texas, so we had numerous relationships in common. Finally, he tipped his hat, admonished me to slow down and be careful on the way home. Then a theology: “Reverend, the Lord needs you.”
He extended his hand through the window to me, and introduced himself.
“I’m Officer Grace.”
My roadside conversations with law enforcement officers have not always ended so happily. Nor do I think ministers are entitled to any special consideration when it comes to traffic infractions. My friends have given me endless grief about my absurdly good fortune. One took a little exegetical liberty with Hebrews 4.16: “Let us therefore approach the throne of grace with boldness, so that we may receive mercy and find grace in our time of speed.”
But, on a dark night, on a lonely stretch of highway, in the face of my own violation, I encountered Grace. And I made it home.
Last Monday evening around 9:00 p.m., after a good and full day of pastoral ministry in Brownwood, I was stopped by an officer of the Texas Department of Public Safety.
I had just finished delivering the greeting and invocation for the 300 or so folks gathered at our church for the annual Brownwood High School Football Banquet, and was making my way home to our ranch in Desdemona.
It had been a good day of numerous meaningful visits, conversations, and prayers with the people in our fellowship. On such days, pastors sometimes slip into a reverie of reflection and thanksgiving about the goodness of our lives together in Christ, the friendship that connects us in Christian community, and the high purpose that is ours in building the Kingdom of God.
Such a trance of gratitude must have made the foot heavier on the accelerator. On Highway 16 north of Comanche, as I approached the Sabanna River, a southbound DPS officer stopped me. He clocked me exceeding the speed limit, flashed his lights, and turned around to ticket me.
My sweet hour of prayer became a frantic plea.
It was pitch dark, and the officer approached my car carefully on the passenger side, asked for my license, insurance, and registration, and sternly inquired as to where I had been and what I had been up to.
Shamelessly pulling the “pastor card,” I stammered something about Brownwood, First Baptist Church, and ministry.
Immediately, his entire demeanor softened. His face brightened. He began talking casually about the fine folks he knew in Brownwood, his own faith, and the spiritual importance of church in his life.
He handed my license back to me and started asking me about mutual friends and acquaintances. Far fewer than the theoretical “six degrees” separate folks in our part of Texas, so we had numerous relationships in common. Finally, he tipped his hat, admonished me to slow down and be careful on the way home. Then a theology: “Reverend, the Lord needs you.”
He extended his hand through the window to me, and introduced himself.
“I’m Officer Grace.”
My roadside conversations with law enforcement officers have not always ended so happily. Nor do I think ministers are entitled to any special consideration when it comes to traffic infractions. My friends have given me endless grief about my absurdly good fortune. One took a little exegetical liberty with Hebrews 4.16: “Let us therefore approach the throne of grace with boldness, so that we may receive mercy and find grace in our time of speed.”
But, on a dark night, on a lonely stretch of highway, in the face of my own violation, I encountered Grace. And I made it home.
Monday, January 18, 2010
Witness
When Martin Luther King, Jr. became pastor of the Dexter Avenue Baptist Church of Montgomery, Alabama, just up the road a hundred or so miles from my hometown of Monroeville, he was 25 years old and right out of graduate school. He was blessed to be called to that prestigious, middle class congregation right across the street from the statehouse of the Alabama capitol. He had absolutely no intention of getting involved in racial justice and equality. His only goal was to revitalize and grow the church. In fact, his predecessor in the pastoral office at Dexter Avenue was regarded as something of a hothead, a firebrand, and the good folks at Dexter did not want to repeat that kind of pastoral tenure. So, they called an erudite, groomed, well-educated, scholarly young minister right out of his doctoral program at Boston University.
The next year, as Providence would have it, the Montgomery Bus Boycott began. A godly Christian woman named Rosa Parks was arrested because she refused to move to the back of the bus where African-Americans were forced to sit. King was placed on the committee to look into the matter, but still steadfastly refused to take a leadership role.
On a fateful night in December of 1955, the elder pastors of the community came to Dr. King before the worship service that evening and commissioned him to speak to the congregation gathered there. He demurred. He thought he was too young, too inexperienced, too green and untried. He wanted one of the other ministers to take a leadership role. But those wise older pastors gathered around the young man and blessed and anointed him to lead the movement. He took to the sacred desk that night, and delivered a sermon that would mobilize the church of Jesus Christ and transform a nation.
Fast-forward thirteen brief years to a rainy night in Memphis in April of 1968. The Southern Christian Leadership Conference had organized a strike of garbage collectors in Memphis to secure a decent wage. Over a thousand folks had come from all over Memphis that night of April 3 to the Mason Temple to hear King preach. The famous preacher was exhausted. His travel schedule was merciless. The pressure on him was enormous. The FBI had him under surveillance. He was constantly away from his wife and family. The nation was in turmoil. And he did not feel like preaching that evening. He felt like he had nothing to say. He was empty, uninspired. He asked his dear friend, Ralph Abernathy, to take his place at the pulpit that night, but Dr. Abernathy gently rebuked his good friend, saying, “Martin, these people didn’t walk through this storm tonight to hear me.” King then made his way to the Temple and delivered his famous “Mountaintop” sermon that is seared into our consciousness. His only request was for the pianist that night to play, “Take My Hand, Precious Lord.”
Jana and I had the privilege to hear this account firsthand in 2008 as we received the highest honor of my pastoral career: induction into the Martin Luther King Board of Preachers at Morehouse College in Atlanta. The Rev. Billy Kyles, one of the three men last to see Dr. King alive, was the keynote speaker on that occasion. Rev. Kyles said that the entourage gathered at the Lorraine Hotel had been invited to the Kyles’ home for supper around 6:00 that evening; Mrs. Kyles had cooked a fried chicken supper, a favorite meal for a bunch of preachers. They stepped out on the balcony, an awful shot rang out, and Jerusalem had slain another prophet.
Rev. Kyles wondered aloud with us at Morehouse that day: “Why did God place me there with Dr. King on that April 4, 1968. All these years, I’ve asked God why he had me on that balcony that day. There is nothing special about me. I wasn’t a leader in that group. I couldn’t preach powerfully like King and Abernathy. I didn’t have the personal charisma of those men.” He spoke pensively, slowly, reflectively. Then his countenance brightened. He lifted his face to us, his eyes dancing, and he declared boldly to the eruption of the entire hall at Morehouse, “I now know why I was there: Because every crucifixion has to have a witness!”
There is so much work yet to be done. The dream is not yet reality but is still deferred. On this Martin Luther King, Jr. Day, 2010, let’s remember why God has us here.
When Martin Luther King, Jr. became pastor of the Dexter Avenue Baptist Church of Montgomery, Alabama, just up the road a hundred or so miles from my hometown of Monroeville, he was 25 years old and right out of graduate school. He was blessed to be called to that prestigious, middle class congregation right across the street from the statehouse of the Alabama capitol. He had absolutely no intention of getting involved in racial justice and equality. His only goal was to revitalize and grow the church. In fact, his predecessor in the pastoral office at Dexter Avenue was regarded as something of a hothead, a firebrand, and the good folks at Dexter did not want to repeat that kind of pastoral tenure. So, they called an erudite, groomed, well-educated, scholarly young minister right out of his doctoral program at Boston University.
The next year, as Providence would have it, the Montgomery Bus Boycott began. A godly Christian woman named Rosa Parks was arrested because she refused to move to the back of the bus where African-Americans were forced to sit. King was placed on the committee to look into the matter, but still steadfastly refused to take a leadership role.
On a fateful night in December of 1955, the elder pastors of the community came to Dr. King before the worship service that evening and commissioned him to speak to the congregation gathered there. He demurred. He thought he was too young, too inexperienced, too green and untried. He wanted one of the other ministers to take a leadership role. But those wise older pastors gathered around the young man and blessed and anointed him to lead the movement. He took to the sacred desk that night, and delivered a sermon that would mobilize the church of Jesus Christ and transform a nation.
Fast-forward thirteen brief years to a rainy night in Memphis in April of 1968. The Southern Christian Leadership Conference had organized a strike of garbage collectors in Memphis to secure a decent wage. Over a thousand folks had come from all over Memphis that night of April 3 to the Mason Temple to hear King preach. The famous preacher was exhausted. His travel schedule was merciless. The pressure on him was enormous. The FBI had him under surveillance. He was constantly away from his wife and family. The nation was in turmoil. And he did not feel like preaching that evening. He felt like he had nothing to say. He was empty, uninspired. He asked his dear friend, Ralph Abernathy, to take his place at the pulpit that night, but Dr. Abernathy gently rebuked his good friend, saying, “Martin, these people didn’t walk through this storm tonight to hear me.” King then made his way to the Temple and delivered his famous “Mountaintop” sermon that is seared into our consciousness. His only request was for the pianist that night to play, “Take My Hand, Precious Lord.”
Jana and I had the privilege to hear this account firsthand in 2008 as we received the highest honor of my pastoral career: induction into the Martin Luther King Board of Preachers at Morehouse College in Atlanta. The Rev. Billy Kyles, one of the three men last to see Dr. King alive, was the keynote speaker on that occasion. Rev. Kyles said that the entourage gathered at the Lorraine Hotel had been invited to the Kyles’ home for supper around 6:00 that evening; Mrs. Kyles had cooked a fried chicken supper, a favorite meal for a bunch of preachers. They stepped out on the balcony, an awful shot rang out, and Jerusalem had slain another prophet.
Rev. Kyles wondered aloud with us at Morehouse that day: “Why did God place me there with Dr. King on that April 4, 1968. All these years, I’ve asked God why he had me on that balcony that day. There is nothing special about me. I wasn’t a leader in that group. I couldn’t preach powerfully like King and Abernathy. I didn’t have the personal charisma of those men.” He spoke pensively, slowly, reflectively. Then his countenance brightened. He lifted his face to us, his eyes dancing, and he declared boldly to the eruption of the entire hall at Morehouse, “I now know why I was there: Because every crucifixion has to have a witness!”
There is so much work yet to be done. The dream is not yet reality but is still deferred. On this Martin Luther King, Jr. Day, 2010, let’s remember why God has us here.
Friday, September 18, 2009
Singing The Lord's Song
This past week I read a story about Max Fuchs, 87, of New York City. As an Army soldier in WWII, Mr. Fuchs led the first Jewish service on German soil after the rise of Hitler.
On October 9, 1944 in Aachen, Germany, as a 22 year old veteran of the Omaha Beach D-Day landing, Private First Class Fuchs served as the cantor for the open-air worship service. NBC Radio was on hand to broadcast the historic occasion to the entire world.
“I was as much scared as anyone else,” Mr. Fuchs told the New York Times in an interview. “But since I was the only one who could do it, I tried my best.”
Before the war broke out, Mr. Fuchs was studying to become a cantor in his synagogue, the equivalent of Minister of Music in our Baptist churches. But he left his studies and entered the Army when his country called. His family immigrated to the United States from Poland in 1932 when he was a 12 year old boy. Many of his family members were killed when Germany invaded his home country in 1939.
The two hymns he chose for that historic worship celebration rejoiced in the Providential care of Almighty God, and the hope for redemption in the hereafter. As the men sang them that day, there were artillery shells exploding nearby. You can hear this on YouTube: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=zZihm6VlYjo
This story reminds me of the importance of singing the Lord’s Song.
We are privileged to live in a country where we can celebrate our faith in peace, without the threat of oppressive forces seeking to destroy our freedom.
Each Sunday as we gather for worship, we sing songs declaring our God’s great power to save and redeem.
Whether or not we have innate musical talent like Mr. Fuchs, I hope we will sing them every Sunday with the same urgent and passionate faith those soldiers sang them on that Jewish Sabbath day long ago.
This past week I read a story about Max Fuchs, 87, of New York City. As an Army soldier in WWII, Mr. Fuchs led the first Jewish service on German soil after the rise of Hitler.
On October 9, 1944 in Aachen, Germany, as a 22 year old veteran of the Omaha Beach D-Day landing, Private First Class Fuchs served as the cantor for the open-air worship service. NBC Radio was on hand to broadcast the historic occasion to the entire world.
“I was as much scared as anyone else,” Mr. Fuchs told the New York Times in an interview. “But since I was the only one who could do it, I tried my best.”
Before the war broke out, Mr. Fuchs was studying to become a cantor in his synagogue, the equivalent of Minister of Music in our Baptist churches. But he left his studies and entered the Army when his country called. His family immigrated to the United States from Poland in 1932 when he was a 12 year old boy. Many of his family members were killed when Germany invaded his home country in 1939.
The two hymns he chose for that historic worship celebration rejoiced in the Providential care of Almighty God, and the hope for redemption in the hereafter. As the men sang them that day, there were artillery shells exploding nearby. You can hear this on YouTube: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=zZihm6VlYjo
This story reminds me of the importance of singing the Lord’s Song.
We are privileged to live in a country where we can celebrate our faith in peace, without the threat of oppressive forces seeking to destroy our freedom.
Each Sunday as we gather for worship, we sing songs declaring our God’s great power to save and redeem.
Whether or not we have innate musical talent like Mr. Fuchs, I hope we will sing them every Sunday with the same urgent and passionate faith those soldiers sang them on that Jewish Sabbath day long ago.
Thursday, August 20, 2009
Carol Brown Johnson
1925-2009
Carol Brown Johnson, age 84, went to be with the Lord on Tuesday, August 18, 2009, after an extended and courageous struggle with lung disease.
She was born on April 14, 1925 in Repton, Alabama to Clarence and Abigail Brown. After graduating from Repton High School, she moved to Mobile to work as a secretary in the shipyard industry during World War II. She met and married Francis Johnson of Franklin, Alabama in 1950. In addition to her primary vocation of raising four sons, she worked as a bank teller, church secretary for the Gadsden Street United Methodist Church, and an administrative assistant for over twenty years for both the Pensacola Educational Program for resident physicians and the Escambia County Medical Society, retiring in 2001. She cared valiantly for her husband during the last years of his life as they struggled together with Alzheimer’s and Parkinson’s diseases.
She was a faithful member of the First Baptist Church of Pensacola.
She is preceded in death by her beloved husband, Francis.
She is survived by her four sons, Langdon of Mobile, Alabama and wife Cheri; Francis of Mobile and wife Rose; Charles of Fort Worth, Texas and wife Jana; and Dennis of Louisville, Kentucky and wife Tracy; eight grandchildren, Chad, Cliff, Will, Peter, Chris Anne, Langdon, Nathan, and Anabeth; one great-grandchild, Corley of San Angelo, Texas; brother Cecil of Houston, Texas.
Memorial services will be on Thursday, August 20, 11:00 a.m. in the Pleitz Chapel at the First Baptist Church of Pensacola, 500 N. Palafox Street, with the Rev. Dr. Barry Howard and the Rev. Charlie Wilson officiating. Visitation will precede the services at 9:30 a.m. Graveside services will be held later in the day at 3:00 p.m. in the River Ridge Cemetery of Franklin, Alabama.
Memorial gifts may be sent in lieu of flowers to the general ministry fund of the First Baptist Church of Pensacola, 500 N. Palafox Street, Pensacola, Florida, 32501.
1925-2009
Carol Brown Johnson, age 84, went to be with the Lord on Tuesday, August 18, 2009, after an extended and courageous struggle with lung disease.
She was born on April 14, 1925 in Repton, Alabama to Clarence and Abigail Brown. After graduating from Repton High School, she moved to Mobile to work as a secretary in the shipyard industry during World War II. She met and married Francis Johnson of Franklin, Alabama in 1950. In addition to her primary vocation of raising four sons, she worked as a bank teller, church secretary for the Gadsden Street United Methodist Church, and an administrative assistant for over twenty years for both the Pensacola Educational Program for resident physicians and the Escambia County Medical Society, retiring in 2001. She cared valiantly for her husband during the last years of his life as they struggled together with Alzheimer’s and Parkinson’s diseases.
She was a faithful member of the First Baptist Church of Pensacola.
She is preceded in death by her beloved husband, Francis.
She is survived by her four sons, Langdon of Mobile, Alabama and wife Cheri; Francis of Mobile and wife Rose; Charles of Fort Worth, Texas and wife Jana; and Dennis of Louisville, Kentucky and wife Tracy; eight grandchildren, Chad, Cliff, Will, Peter, Chris Anne, Langdon, Nathan, and Anabeth; one great-grandchild, Corley of San Angelo, Texas; brother Cecil of Houston, Texas.
Memorial services will be on Thursday, August 20, 11:00 a.m. in the Pleitz Chapel at the First Baptist Church of Pensacola, 500 N. Palafox Street, with the Rev. Dr. Barry Howard and the Rev. Charlie Wilson officiating. Visitation will precede the services at 9:30 a.m. Graveside services will be held later in the day at 3:00 p.m. in the River Ridge Cemetery of Franklin, Alabama.
Memorial gifts may be sent in lieu of flowers to the general ministry fund of the First Baptist Church of Pensacola, 500 N. Palafox Street, Pensacola, Florida, 32501.
Wednesday, July 01, 2009
A Hindered Gospel
The youth of the Broadway Baptist Church of Fort Worth, Texas were scheduled to embark this coming Friday, July 3, on a long-scheduled music and mission tour to eastern Kentucky to sing praise to Almighty God and build decent housing for Appalachian poor people—two very basic things biblical faith commands followers of Christ to do.
They had carefully planned to work with Mountain Outreach, a mission associated with the University of the Cumberlands located in Williamsburg, Kentucky, and to stay in dormitories on the university campus.
On Monday of this past week—two days ago— Broadway received a phone call from the university informing us that the youth group was not welcome at University of the Cumberlands. The subsequent facsimile sent to Broadway Minister of Youth Fran Patterson, in its entirety, said this:
“In light of the recent decision at the Southern Baptist Convention regarding your status and affiliation with the convention, we have determined that we must resend (sic) our invitation to participate in our summer program with Mountain Outreach beginning July 5 through the 11th. We regret any inconvenience that the situation has caused especially in such short notice.
“Any inquiries in this matter may be directed to the office of the President of the University of the Cumberlands.”
Presumably, only those affiliated with the Southern Baptist Convention are qualified to do the work of the Lord at Cumberland.
Perhaps poor people who live in substandard housing in eastern Kentucky care about the denominational affiliation of those partnering with them in improving their lives. I lived and ministered in that lovely part of the world from 1986-1989 as Pastor of the First Baptist Church of Albany, Kentucky, but I simply do not remember any such concern.
What I do remember is that the good people of Kentucky conducted themselves with the highest standards of Christian grace and hospitality.
When I delivered the Franklin P. Owen lectures on the campus of the University of the Cumberlands last September, during my tenure as Interim Pastor of Broadway, I received nothing but a respectful, gracious reception from the fine faculty, staff, and student body there.
Indeed, I discovered that the University of the Cumberlands mission statement, “to offer promising students of all backgrounds a broad based liberal arts program enriched with Christian values,” is put amply into practice.
So, I am puzzled by this impoliteness.
Furthermore, I am fairly certain, even in my limited understanding of the mysterious ways of God, that the work of the Gospel is not helped but hindered by Cumberland’s reactionary decision.
So is this is what it all has come to in Southern Baptist life, a moral absolutism so airtight that is has no room for a bunch of kids who just want to do something good for God?
The decision has left Youth Pastor Fran Patterson scrambling to make other arrangements so that the young teenagers eager to serve their fellow human beings would not be disappointed. I received the following email correspondence from Fran just now:
“Thank you so much for your support and help in this difficult situation. I think I have finally found a place for us to stay and serve in the Nashville area. The whole trip was planned around the mission project in Kentucky, so I needed to find a place that wouldn't upset the rest of the schedule. It is nice to know that there are friends out there who love us and support us in what we do. I am meeting with the youth tonight to explain the happenings of the last few days.”
I wish that youth pastor did not have to make such an explanation to people in such a formative stage of their moral development. Even the wisest moral teacher would have a difficult challenge making sense of this to an adolescent understanding. I have had two days to reflect on it, and my adult mind is still confused.
Perhaps the President of the University of the Cumberlands should give the explanation. He would say that the recent disfellowship of Broadway by the Southern Baptist Convention put him in a difficult position with regard to his trustees and donors. He would say that he couldn’t risk association with a church that receives all persons, regardless of background or condition, into its life and fellowship. He would say that he simply had the best interests of the university in mind.
But when he finished speaking those kids still would be confused. So would the poor folks of Whitley County. So would I.
And, I suspect, so would Jesus.
So, on second thought, save the explanation. Issue an apology instead.
The youth of the Broadway Baptist Church of Fort Worth, Texas were scheduled to embark this coming Friday, July 3, on a long-scheduled music and mission tour to eastern Kentucky to sing praise to Almighty God and build decent housing for Appalachian poor people—two very basic things biblical faith commands followers of Christ to do.
They had carefully planned to work with Mountain Outreach, a mission associated with the University of the Cumberlands located in Williamsburg, Kentucky, and to stay in dormitories on the university campus.
On Monday of this past week—two days ago— Broadway received a phone call from the university informing us that the youth group was not welcome at University of the Cumberlands. The subsequent facsimile sent to Broadway Minister of Youth Fran Patterson, in its entirety, said this:
“In light of the recent decision at the Southern Baptist Convention regarding your status and affiliation with the convention, we have determined that we must resend (sic) our invitation to participate in our summer program with Mountain Outreach beginning July 5 through the 11th. We regret any inconvenience that the situation has caused especially in such short notice.
“Any inquiries in this matter may be directed to the office of the President of the University of the Cumberlands.”
Presumably, only those affiliated with the Southern Baptist Convention are qualified to do the work of the Lord at Cumberland.
Perhaps poor people who live in substandard housing in eastern Kentucky care about the denominational affiliation of those partnering with them in improving their lives. I lived and ministered in that lovely part of the world from 1986-1989 as Pastor of the First Baptist Church of Albany, Kentucky, but I simply do not remember any such concern.
What I do remember is that the good people of Kentucky conducted themselves with the highest standards of Christian grace and hospitality.
When I delivered the Franklin P. Owen lectures on the campus of the University of the Cumberlands last September, during my tenure as Interim Pastor of Broadway, I received nothing but a respectful, gracious reception from the fine faculty, staff, and student body there.
Indeed, I discovered that the University of the Cumberlands mission statement, “to offer promising students of all backgrounds a broad based liberal arts program enriched with Christian values,” is put amply into practice.
So, I am puzzled by this impoliteness.
Furthermore, I am fairly certain, even in my limited understanding of the mysterious ways of God, that the work of the Gospel is not helped but hindered by Cumberland’s reactionary decision.
So is this is what it all has come to in Southern Baptist life, a moral absolutism so airtight that is has no room for a bunch of kids who just want to do something good for God?
The decision has left Youth Pastor Fran Patterson scrambling to make other arrangements so that the young teenagers eager to serve their fellow human beings would not be disappointed. I received the following email correspondence from Fran just now:
“Thank you so much for your support and help in this difficult situation. I think I have finally found a place for us to stay and serve in the Nashville area. The whole trip was planned around the mission project in Kentucky, so I needed to find a place that wouldn't upset the rest of the schedule. It is nice to know that there are friends out there who love us and support us in what we do. I am meeting with the youth tonight to explain the happenings of the last few days.”
I wish that youth pastor did not have to make such an explanation to people in such a formative stage of their moral development. Even the wisest moral teacher would have a difficult challenge making sense of this to an adolescent understanding. I have had two days to reflect on it, and my adult mind is still confused.
Perhaps the President of the University of the Cumberlands should give the explanation. He would say that the recent disfellowship of Broadway by the Southern Baptist Convention put him in a difficult position with regard to his trustees and donors. He would say that he couldn’t risk association with a church that receives all persons, regardless of background or condition, into its life and fellowship. He would say that he simply had the best interests of the university in mind.
But when he finished speaking those kids still would be confused. So would the poor folks of Whitley County. So would I.
And, I suspect, so would Jesus.
So, on second thought, save the explanation. Issue an apology instead.
Monday, June 29, 2009
Glad Reunion
Jana and I were honored to be invited back to help celebrate the 60th anniversary of our beloved Trinity Baptist Church of San Antonio this past weekend.
New senior minister Les Hollon graciously extended an invitation to us weeks ago, and we eagerly accepted. I have returned to preach memorial services in the Trinity community on a number of occasions since I left three years ago this very week, but this is the first time I have had the privilege to preach a worship celebration.
It was an absolute delight, full with Trinity’s signature exuberance and warmth.
It was particularly thrilling to join in the dedication of the TriPoint community outreach center at St. Mary’s and Hwy. 281, just several blocks south of Trinity’s main campus at 319 E. Mulberry Street. Six years ago, God gave our congregation the vision to acquire the vacated Albertson’s Supermarket building at that location.
We were met in the parking lot of TriPoint by our good friend, Rene Balderas, the chief architect for the project. Rene and Liz and their three beautiful girls joined Trinity during our ministry there, and it is a great gratification to see his ample creative energies come to fruition in such a facility. My colleague Jaime Puente, who joined our ministry team at Trinity, and who was responsible for much of the concept and program development of TriPoint, gave us the tour. Isaac and Cindy Rodriguez, who also united with Trinity on our pastoral watch, operate the Grace Coffee Cafe.
Simply put, we were stunned. The place is breathtaking. What was a gigantic box a short time ago is now a dazzling recruitment center for the Kingdom of God.
After the dedication, we moved to the main campus for a barbeque supper and worship celebration. We hardly got to take a bite of our brisket because of our many wonderful friends greeting us, welcoming us back home.
Who needs food when there is such nourishing fellowship?
Then we moved down the Musselman Corridor to the sanctuary where we joined together in a rousing celebration of gratitude, remembrance, renewal, and hope. Through numerous testimonies and video presentations, we were reminded of Trinity’s rich 60 year history—and challenged to dedicate ourselves anew to the work of Christ through us far into the future.
The next morning, Pastor Les presented his inspired vision of a coordinated and interfacing ministry of Trinity Baptist Church in three locations—the main campus, the Ruble Community Center, and TriPoint—and gave insightful theological interpretation to this tripartite ministry around the doctrine of the Trinity: God the Creator, Redeemer, and Sustainer. It was imaginative pulpit work, and we left energized for the journey ahead.
God is good to give us this sweet time of reunion and reaffirmation. We are grateful.
Glad reunion, as my pastor John Claypool would say.
My little Trinity friend told his mother at bedtime Sunday night, as she tucked him in, “Mom, now I get to miss Pastor Charlie all over again.”
True. All reunions end.
But they would not be nearly so glad if they didn’t strike resonance within us for another place, provide us with intimation of another time, and lead us to T.S. Eliot's happy conclusion that we will someday “arrive where we started/And know the place for the first time.”
Jana and I were honored to be invited back to help celebrate the 60th anniversary of our beloved Trinity Baptist Church of San Antonio this past weekend.
New senior minister Les Hollon graciously extended an invitation to us weeks ago, and we eagerly accepted. I have returned to preach memorial services in the Trinity community on a number of occasions since I left three years ago this very week, but this is the first time I have had the privilege to preach a worship celebration.
It was an absolute delight, full with Trinity’s signature exuberance and warmth.
It was particularly thrilling to join in the dedication of the TriPoint community outreach center at St. Mary’s and Hwy. 281, just several blocks south of Trinity’s main campus at 319 E. Mulberry Street. Six years ago, God gave our congregation the vision to acquire the vacated Albertson’s Supermarket building at that location.
In one of the most notable outpourings of generosity I have ever witnessed from a congregation, Trinity raised almost $4 million in pledges to purchase that building in only two weeks’ time. Through the years, it has been used to house victims from Hurricane Katrina, host young and fledgling congregations at worship, and warehouse the San Antonio Junior League’s Christmas toy program.
But, the project cranked into high gear last year when the San Antonio YMCA agreed to partner with Trinity in moving their downtown facilities to the location. As a result, TriPoint now hosts a state-of-the-art fitness center its north side, and the Grace Coffee Café on its south side. Folks from all over the city are now gathering for exercise, fellowship, worship, and conversation because of Trinity’s remarkable vision of outreach.
But, the project cranked into high gear last year when the San Antonio YMCA agreed to partner with Trinity in moving their downtown facilities to the location. As a result, TriPoint now hosts a state-of-the-art fitness center its north side, and the Grace Coffee Café on its south side. Folks from all over the city are now gathering for exercise, fellowship, worship, and conversation because of Trinity’s remarkable vision of outreach.
We were met in the parking lot of TriPoint by our good friend, Rene Balderas, the chief architect for the project. Rene and Liz and their three beautiful girls joined Trinity during our ministry there, and it is a great gratification to see his ample creative energies come to fruition in such a facility. My colleague Jaime Puente, who joined our ministry team at Trinity, and who was responsible for much of the concept and program development of TriPoint, gave us the tour. Isaac and Cindy Rodriguez, who also united with Trinity on our pastoral watch, operate the Grace Coffee Cafe.
Simply put, we were stunned. The place is breathtaking. What was a gigantic box a short time ago is now a dazzling recruitment center for the Kingdom of God.
After the dedication, we moved to the main campus for a barbeque supper and worship celebration. We hardly got to take a bite of our brisket because of our many wonderful friends greeting us, welcoming us back home.
Who needs food when there is such nourishing fellowship?
Then we moved down the Musselman Corridor to the sanctuary where we joined together in a rousing celebration of gratitude, remembrance, renewal, and hope. Through numerous testimonies and video presentations, we were reminded of Trinity’s rich 60 year history—and challenged to dedicate ourselves anew to the work of Christ through us far into the future.
The next morning, Pastor Les presented his inspired vision of a coordinated and interfacing ministry of Trinity Baptist Church in three locations—the main campus, the Ruble Community Center, and TriPoint—and gave insightful theological interpretation to this tripartite ministry around the doctrine of the Trinity: God the Creator, Redeemer, and Sustainer. It was imaginative pulpit work, and we left energized for the journey ahead.
God is good to give us this sweet time of reunion and reaffirmation. We are grateful.
Glad reunion, as my pastor John Claypool would say.
My little Trinity friend told his mother at bedtime Sunday night, as she tucked him in, “Mom, now I get to miss Pastor Charlie all over again.”
True. All reunions end.
But they would not be nearly so glad if they didn’t strike resonance within us for another place, provide us with intimation of another time, and lead us to T.S. Eliot's happy conclusion that we will someday “arrive where we started/And know the place for the first time.”
Wednesday, June 24, 2009
Disfellowship and Dismay
The decision of the Southern Baptist Convention to find Broadway Baptist Church not in friendly cooperation is a missed opportunity for the denomination to reverse its regressive slide and take a small, safe step in the direction of inclusiveness.
For a year now, both Broadway and Southern Baptist leaders have worked diligently to maintain its historic, 127 year relationship. The ties that bind the church and denomination are strong and numerous, particularly given Broadway’s close relationship with Southwestern Seminary. Though archaic today, the Southern Baptist Training Union was launched in Broadway Baptist Church. (Anyone who has ever actually had to endure Training Union classes might conclude Broadway deserves to be ousted for introducing such an uninteresting program to Baptist life.)
Last summer a motion was made by a North Carolina pastor to remove Broadway from the Southern Baptist Convention on the grounds that the church was in violation of Article III of the SBC Constitution which prohibits churches from taking any action “to affirm, approve, or endorse homosexual behavior.” How he concluded such a thing is a mystery; he has never had any formal communication with the church.
Nevertheless, the motion was referred to the Executive Committee of the Convention which opened up a dialogue that was largely respectful and gracious. A spirit of concord and mutual understanding prevailed in our conversations and correspondence. A number of Southern Baptist leaders were helpful and constructive in behind-the-scenes ways to bring the matter to the positive conclusion of Broadway’s continued friendly cooperation with the SBC.
It became clear early on that the Executive Committee did not wish to disfellowship Broadway. They seemed painfully aware of the negative, intolerant image of the SBC in American public life, and were determined not to do anything more to contribute to that image. Furthermore, the Committee appeared to embody more diversity and complexity than I had imagined.
We explained before the Committee that Broadway has never entertained any formal order of business before the congregational body that constitutes an endorsement of homosexual behavior. We further explained that church membership and congregational service in no way denotes ratification of the behavior of the individual holding that membership and performing that service.
Discussions were candid and thorough. More conservative voices on the Executive Committee wanted Broadway to do something clearly not required by the SBC Constitution: take formal congregational action to condemn homosexual behavior. This extraordinary measure has not been required of any other SBC church. It would be unprecedented and unauthorized. Such requirement repeatedly surfaced in our deliberations, and each time the Executive Committee backed off it.
Our presentations were thoughtfully and hospitably received. A spirit of Christian reconciliation emerged. Several Executive Committee members privately questioned the SBC’s authority to pursue the matter. I felt we had a historic opportunity to move the denomination in a progressive direction. It seemed that the Committee was prepared to receive our direct, good-faith testimony of continued cooperation rather than scurrilous allegations from unnamed sources outside our congregation. (Perhaps when we finish purging our church roles of homosexual persons, we can get to work on weeding out the gossips.)
The breakdown came when those advocating the more rigorous constitutional test won the day. It became clear several weeks ago from the Executive Committee that Broadway would have to implement measures to identify, isolate, and distinguish our gay and lesbian members from the rest of the congregation in order to be found in friendly cooperation. Of course, conscience, congregational autonomy, and common decency prohibit us from doing so.
Now, it appears that the constitutional language as presently stated in Article III is not sufficient. It is not enough for cooperating Southern Baptist churches simply to take no action to affirm homosexual behavior. They must now take formal action explicitly to disapprove such behavior.
Every Southern Baptist church of any size has homosexual members. These friends pray with us, sing with us, give with us, serve with us, and take the Body and Blood of Christ at the table of the Lord with us. Will the test imposed upon Broadway by the denomination now be required of all the churches?
The recommendation to disfellowship Broadway was unanimously passed in the Executive Committee. It was approved by the Convention without discussion. Not even one lone solitary dissenting voice. Such uniformity of thought and silence of conscience means that the SBC remains Baptist in name only.
The moral legalism inherent in the Southern Baptist Convention’s decision indicates the spiritual disease infecting and destroying our Baptist body today. Instead of focusing our energies of love on a lonely and hurting world, we are obsessed with endlessly parsing out arcane legalities designed to assert our own moral purity and superiority.
It is a sound and fury signifying nothing.
The decision of the Southern Baptist Convention to find Broadway Baptist Church not in friendly cooperation is a missed opportunity for the denomination to reverse its regressive slide and take a small, safe step in the direction of inclusiveness.
For a year now, both Broadway and Southern Baptist leaders have worked diligently to maintain its historic, 127 year relationship. The ties that bind the church and denomination are strong and numerous, particularly given Broadway’s close relationship with Southwestern Seminary. Though archaic today, the Southern Baptist Training Union was launched in Broadway Baptist Church. (Anyone who has ever actually had to endure Training Union classes might conclude Broadway deserves to be ousted for introducing such an uninteresting program to Baptist life.)
Last summer a motion was made by a North Carolina pastor to remove Broadway from the Southern Baptist Convention on the grounds that the church was in violation of Article III of the SBC Constitution which prohibits churches from taking any action “to affirm, approve, or endorse homosexual behavior.” How he concluded such a thing is a mystery; he has never had any formal communication with the church.
Nevertheless, the motion was referred to the Executive Committee of the Convention which opened up a dialogue that was largely respectful and gracious. A spirit of concord and mutual understanding prevailed in our conversations and correspondence. A number of Southern Baptist leaders were helpful and constructive in behind-the-scenes ways to bring the matter to the positive conclusion of Broadway’s continued friendly cooperation with the SBC.
It became clear early on that the Executive Committee did not wish to disfellowship Broadway. They seemed painfully aware of the negative, intolerant image of the SBC in American public life, and were determined not to do anything more to contribute to that image. Furthermore, the Committee appeared to embody more diversity and complexity than I had imagined.
We explained before the Committee that Broadway has never entertained any formal order of business before the congregational body that constitutes an endorsement of homosexual behavior. We further explained that church membership and congregational service in no way denotes ratification of the behavior of the individual holding that membership and performing that service.
Discussions were candid and thorough. More conservative voices on the Executive Committee wanted Broadway to do something clearly not required by the SBC Constitution: take formal congregational action to condemn homosexual behavior. This extraordinary measure has not been required of any other SBC church. It would be unprecedented and unauthorized. Such requirement repeatedly surfaced in our deliberations, and each time the Executive Committee backed off it.
Our presentations were thoughtfully and hospitably received. A spirit of Christian reconciliation emerged. Several Executive Committee members privately questioned the SBC’s authority to pursue the matter. I felt we had a historic opportunity to move the denomination in a progressive direction. It seemed that the Committee was prepared to receive our direct, good-faith testimony of continued cooperation rather than scurrilous allegations from unnamed sources outside our congregation. (Perhaps when we finish purging our church roles of homosexual persons, we can get to work on weeding out the gossips.)
The breakdown came when those advocating the more rigorous constitutional test won the day. It became clear several weeks ago from the Executive Committee that Broadway would have to implement measures to identify, isolate, and distinguish our gay and lesbian members from the rest of the congregation in order to be found in friendly cooperation. Of course, conscience, congregational autonomy, and common decency prohibit us from doing so.
Now, it appears that the constitutional language as presently stated in Article III is not sufficient. It is not enough for cooperating Southern Baptist churches simply to take no action to affirm homosexual behavior. They must now take formal action explicitly to disapprove such behavior.
Every Southern Baptist church of any size has homosexual members. These friends pray with us, sing with us, give with us, serve with us, and take the Body and Blood of Christ at the table of the Lord with us. Will the test imposed upon Broadway by the denomination now be required of all the churches?
The recommendation to disfellowship Broadway was unanimously passed in the Executive Committee. It was approved by the Convention without discussion. Not even one lone solitary dissenting voice. Such uniformity of thought and silence of conscience means that the SBC remains Baptist in name only.
The moral legalism inherent in the Southern Baptist Convention’s decision indicates the spiritual disease infecting and destroying our Baptist body today. Instead of focusing our energies of love on a lonely and hurting world, we are obsessed with endlessly parsing out arcane legalities designed to assert our own moral purity and superiority.
It is a sound and fury signifying nothing.
Friday, February 06, 2009
Corley Elizabeth
The southern poet, James Agee, said: "Every time a child is born the potentiality of the human race is born again."
Our first grandchild, Corley Elizabeth McCormick, arrived on the planet this afternoon around 2:00. She came in weighing a sturdy 8 lbs., 7 ozs. and sporting thick shocks of black hair. She takes the maiden name of her paternal grandmother.
Proud parents are our son, Chad, and his lovely wife, Mary Beth. Chad manages the 100,000 acre Cargile Ranch near Mertzen, Texas and Mary Beth teaches middle school in San Angelo.
Jana and I are beside ourselves with joy. Universal testimony to grandparenthood said we would be, but such reports were understated. Joy like this cannot be spoken.
Mary Beth is resting now, doing quite well after her good work this day. We are grateful and humbled by this miracle of birth, and mindful that such a miracle is replicated generously and innumerably by God each day. Thank you all for the loving solidarity of prayer and celebration with us on this grand occasion.
The southern poet, James Agee, said: "Every time a child is born the potentiality of the human race is born again."It is Eden all over in our home tonight.
Wednesday, January 28, 2009
Why Don't Progressive Churches Do Evangelism?
One of the oddest ironies of contemporary Christianity in America is the inability-- or unwillingness-- of progressive churches to evangelize.
These are the churches with the most excellent values of inclusiveness and empowerment. It is axiomatic that openness of heart and mind to all people is a principle ingredient to congregational growth.
But, it is precisely these churches that are not only not increasing in membership but are actually in clear decline.
This is puzzling.
The core enterprise of original Christianity was to extend to the world an invitation to gather together in a New Community of Love.
It was the kerygma of that euanggelion around which the first disciples came together: the life, ministry, death, resurrection, and return of Christ. The very nature of news calls for it to be disseminated and announced. The very purpose of this news is to create something “new,” that is, the community of crucified and resurrected persons called the Church of Jesus.
The word we translate “evangelism” was initially used to herald the coming visit of Roman ruler to a far-flung province. The church, subversive movement that it was, co-opted that secular term to convey the arrival of the only true King, and the establishment of the only exhaustive and eternal kingdom. The concept at the point of its inception connoted a town crier, a communal notice, an open announcement, a public address.
There are old arguments for why progressive churches aren't evangelistic:
1.) Evangelism has been done so coercively and inauthentically by the fundamentalists, that progressives want little to do with it.
2.) Progressive churches have a style and methodology-- liturgical worship, scholarly Scripture study, etc.-- that do not appeal to the zeitgeist of of our day.
3.) Faith is an intensely private matter that is not properly addressed in public ways. Evangelism requires a necessary intrusion into this privacy.
4.) Demographic forces have adversely affected the progressive churches of our cities more than the conservative churches of our suburbs. "Red state/blue state" now means "red church/ blue church."
These strike me as tired dichotomies that are increasingly irrelevant. First, we no longer have a "Christ-haunted" culture, as Flannery O'Conner described the South of her day with its slam-bang, hard-boiled religious fervor. Second, it is precisely the historic, rich traditionism and symbolism that is increasingly attractive to emerging generations. Third, the old public/private divide is all but erased in our day of Oprah and reality TV. Fourth, it seems the election of President Obama reflects a growing dissatisfaction with the polarization of our hyper-sorted national community. Furthermore, economic dynamics are bringing families back into the centers of our cities and away from the sprawling suburbs.
So, why can't churches like ours be evangelistic? Is there some other reason?
One of the oddest ironies of contemporary Christianity in America is the inability-- or unwillingness-- of progressive churches to evangelize.
These are the churches with the most excellent values of inclusiveness and empowerment. It is axiomatic that openness of heart and mind to all people is a principle ingredient to congregational growth.
But, it is precisely these churches that are not only not increasing in membership but are actually in clear decline.
This is puzzling.
The core enterprise of original Christianity was to extend to the world an invitation to gather together in a New Community of Love.
It was the kerygma of that euanggelion around which the first disciples came together: the life, ministry, death, resurrection, and return of Christ. The very nature of news calls for it to be disseminated and announced. The very purpose of this news is to create something “new,” that is, the community of crucified and resurrected persons called the Church of Jesus.
The word we translate “evangelism” was initially used to herald the coming visit of Roman ruler to a far-flung province. The church, subversive movement that it was, co-opted that secular term to convey the arrival of the only true King, and the establishment of the only exhaustive and eternal kingdom. The concept at the point of its inception connoted a town crier, a communal notice, an open announcement, a public address.
There are old arguments for why progressive churches aren't evangelistic:
1.) Evangelism has been done so coercively and inauthentically by the fundamentalists, that progressives want little to do with it.
2.) Progressive churches have a style and methodology-- liturgical worship, scholarly Scripture study, etc.-- that do not appeal to the zeitgeist of of our day.
3.) Faith is an intensely private matter that is not properly addressed in public ways. Evangelism requires a necessary intrusion into this privacy.
4.) Demographic forces have adversely affected the progressive churches of our cities more than the conservative churches of our suburbs. "Red state/blue state" now means "red church/ blue church."
These strike me as tired dichotomies that are increasingly irrelevant. First, we no longer have a "Christ-haunted" culture, as Flannery O'Conner described the South of her day with its slam-bang, hard-boiled religious fervor. Second, it is precisely the historic, rich traditionism and symbolism that is increasingly attractive to emerging generations. Third, the old public/private divide is all but erased in our day of Oprah and reality TV. Fourth, it seems the election of President Obama reflects a growing dissatisfaction with the polarization of our hyper-sorted national community. Furthermore, economic dynamics are bringing families back into the centers of our cities and away from the sprawling suburbs.
So, why can't churches like ours be evangelistic? Is there some other reason?
Tuesday, January 20, 2009
Invocation
We offered this opening prayer in our worship on Sunday at Broadway Baptist Church:
O Lord, we come before you today to celebrate you in spirit and truth. But, just because we want to do that does not mean it will automatically happen. Help us, God. Guide our worship. Let the words of our mouths and the meditations of our hearts be acceptable in your sight.
We bring prayers before you today especially for our nation. We have sinned. We ask forgiveness for our pride, arrogance, naivete, materialism, idolatry and injustice.
Turn our hearts toward you, O God. We lift our nation up to you love and peace.
Hear our prayer for Mr. Bush and his family as they leave the presidency, and for Mr. Obama and his family as they enter it.
Capture Barack Obama's head with your wisdom. Deepen his heart with your compassion. Strengthen his hand with your courage.
Keep us and all the nations of the world in your protection and peace.
Through Jesus Christ-- King of all kings, Ruler of all rulers, Lord of all lords-- who lives and reigns with you and with the Holy Spirit, one God, now and forever.
Amen.
We offered this opening prayer in our worship on Sunday at Broadway Baptist Church:
O Lord, we come before you today to celebrate you in spirit and truth. But, just because we want to do that does not mean it will automatically happen. Help us, God. Guide our worship. Let the words of our mouths and the meditations of our hearts be acceptable in your sight.
We bring prayers before you today especially for our nation. We have sinned. We ask forgiveness for our pride, arrogance, naivete, materialism, idolatry and injustice.
Turn our hearts toward you, O God. We lift our nation up to you love and peace.
Hear our prayer for Mr. Bush and his family as they leave the presidency, and for Mr. Obama and his family as they enter it.
Capture Barack Obama's head with your wisdom. Deepen his heart with your compassion. Strengthen his hand with your courage.
Keep us and all the nations of the world in your protection and peace.
Through Jesus Christ-- King of all kings, Ruler of all rulers, Lord of all lords-- who lives and reigns with you and with the Holy Spirit, one God, now and forever.
Amen.
Saturday, January 10, 2009
Aerial Desdemona
Yesterday gave me a view of the ranch I haven't yet seen.
My friend James Adyelotte, faithful Broadway member and winsome metereologist for the NBC affiliate in Dallas/Fort Worth, flew me around greater Desdemona in his Cessna Cardinal.
James is a delightful spirit, quick with laughter but engaging in serious matters of faith also. For him, flying has a spiritual dimension, and he took it up several years ago as a step of courage at a difficult juncture in his personal life.
We met at the small airport in Stephenville, 25 miles east of our home, and in no time we were up in the air heading back west toward Desdemona.
So interesting seeing the ranch from the air. To look at the land panoramically, as a comprehensive whole, undemarcated in vision by road or fence or physical feature, plants a different topographical perspective in the mind. It is an impression of smallness, yet a significant smallness, and the critical need for stewardship of that particular small ground.
It had been some time since I last flew in small private aircraft, and the experience is invigorating. You become a bird.
Yesterday gave me a view of the ranch I haven't yet seen.
My friend James Adyelotte, faithful Broadway member and winsome metereologist for the NBC affiliate in Dallas/Fort Worth, flew me around greater Desdemona in his Cessna Cardinal.
James is a delightful spirit, quick with laughter but engaging in serious matters of faith also. For him, flying has a spiritual dimension, and he took it up several years ago as a step of courage at a difficult juncture in his personal life.
We met at the small airport in Stephenville, 25 miles east of our home, and in no time we were up in the air heading back west toward Desdemona.
Take off and landing got my attention, but the flight itself was smooth and relaxing. It was brilliantly clear weather, perfect for flying.
Jana informed me that she had taken out a million dollar policy on me just in case. Nothing like the reassurance of a devoted wife.
Jana informed me that she had taken out a million dollar policy on me just in case. Nothing like the reassurance of a devoted wife.
So interesting seeing the ranch from the air. To look at the land panoramically, as a comprehensive whole, undemarcated in vision by road or fence or physical feature, plants a different topographical perspective in the mind. It is an impression of smallness, yet a significant smallness, and the critical need for stewardship of that particular small ground.It had been some time since I last flew in small private aircraft, and the experience is invigorating. You become a bird.Friday, December 26, 2008
There Is A Place For You
The Christmas story holds endless fascination for us for many reasons. One of the characters who captures my imagination in this drama is the unnamed innkeeper.
As I see the movie playing in my head about this holy night, there are many thousands of folks on the roads of Judea that week, each returning to his or her hometown to be registered by the government for the census, as was the decree of the empire. Awful time for a pregnant woman to have to travel, but that was the law.
The trip from Nazareth to Joseph’s hometown of Bethlehem was over 60 miles, and took a number of days to travel. Mary was heavy with child and bone tired. Joseph had already approached several inns along the road that late afternoon, but they were all already full. No room. It was getting late and Mary couldn’t go much further.
The anonymous innkeeper of Luke’s immortal story sized up the situation instinctively. He too had no vacancy in his establishment, but instead of turning the young couple away, he performed a simple act of kindness: he made a place for them.
He asked the young couple to indulge him a few minutes. He disappeared to the stables where the livestock were boarded for the evening. He found one empty stall that he carefully swept. He placed fresh hay on the dirt floor. He cleared out a feed trough and lined it with the cleanest saddle blankets he could lay hold of. It wasn’t much, but it would be better than a cold hillside.
Then he led the holy family to the barn of Messiah birth.
He could have easily and perhaps justifiably gone about his business. He was stretched to capacity that night with so many guests, distracted by so many needs. But, in the midst of all the stress and demand of that fateful evening, he took the time. He made a place.
The biblical texts of course do not mention an innkeeper. And make only a singular and brief notation of an inn. But, in our imagination we see an individual of exceptional moral compassion and sensitivity, who employed a simple kindness that played a critical role in the arrival of the Christ child.
I see another scene in the movie in my head: Jesus’ mother and father telling him this story over and over again throughout his boyhood moral formation, about a stranger’s generosity that made his birth possible, a surprising provision on a cold night, and a Divine Providence so ingenious that it transformed the unlikeliest of persons into an angel of mercy.
There are angels dispatched for us from on high right now, if we have the cinematic and sanctified imagination to believe it. They are busy acting on our behalf, bringing about our good, transforming our circumstances of scarcity into interventions of abundance. They are clearing out the refuse, preparing what Hemingway piercingly described as that “clean, well-lighted place” we all long for.
Long no longer. It’s Christmas. In Jesus, God has made room.
There is a place for you.
The Christmas story holds endless fascination for us for many reasons. One of the characters who captures my imagination in this drama is the unnamed innkeeper.
As I see the movie playing in my head about this holy night, there are many thousands of folks on the roads of Judea that week, each returning to his or her hometown to be registered by the government for the census, as was the decree of the empire. Awful time for a pregnant woman to have to travel, but that was the law.
The trip from Nazareth to Joseph’s hometown of Bethlehem was over 60 miles, and took a number of days to travel. Mary was heavy with child and bone tired. Joseph had already approached several inns along the road that late afternoon, but they were all already full. No room. It was getting late and Mary couldn’t go much further.
The anonymous innkeeper of Luke’s immortal story sized up the situation instinctively. He too had no vacancy in his establishment, but instead of turning the young couple away, he performed a simple act of kindness: he made a place for them.
He asked the young couple to indulge him a few minutes. He disappeared to the stables where the livestock were boarded for the evening. He found one empty stall that he carefully swept. He placed fresh hay on the dirt floor. He cleared out a feed trough and lined it with the cleanest saddle blankets he could lay hold of. It wasn’t much, but it would be better than a cold hillside.
Then he led the holy family to the barn of Messiah birth.
He could have easily and perhaps justifiably gone about his business. He was stretched to capacity that night with so many guests, distracted by so many needs. But, in the midst of all the stress and demand of that fateful evening, he took the time. He made a place.
The biblical texts of course do not mention an innkeeper. And make only a singular and brief notation of an inn. But, in our imagination we see an individual of exceptional moral compassion and sensitivity, who employed a simple kindness that played a critical role in the arrival of the Christ child.
I see another scene in the movie in my head: Jesus’ mother and father telling him this story over and over again throughout his boyhood moral formation, about a stranger’s generosity that made his birth possible, a surprising provision on a cold night, and a Divine Providence so ingenious that it transformed the unlikeliest of persons into an angel of mercy.
There are angels dispatched for us from on high right now, if we have the cinematic and sanctified imagination to believe it. They are busy acting on our behalf, bringing about our good, transforming our circumstances of scarcity into interventions of abundance. They are clearing out the refuse, preparing what Hemingway piercingly described as that “clean, well-lighted place” we all long for.
Long no longer. It’s Christmas. In Jesus, God has made room.
There is a place for you.
Tuesday, December 23, 2008
The Birth of a Baby
Of all the dangerous and miraculous stories of scripture, the story of the Virgin Birth has captured the imagination of the church in a unique way.
Historic Christianity insists on embracing the Virgin Birth precisely because it synthesizes brilliantly the core imagination of God becoming flesh. It calls us to an order only love can create.
A young Jewish woman is impregnated by the Holy Spirit, and carries a baby inside her out of wedlock, and then is informed by an angel that the baby she is carrying is the Savior of the world. A little illegitimate child as Messiah. A young woman who transcends the narrow confines of her social, economic, and cultural context to give birth to Messiah. It really is the quintessential impossible story. And that’s why the church has always insisted that we embrace it.
But, the story of the virgin birth is also about the equally high purpose of establishing Christ's humanity. The mystery of the incarnation is found in a Messiah who gestates in the belly of young Jewish peasant girl for nine months only to be delivered in a labor of love that changed the whole world. The doctrine of the virgin birth was originally developed to counter the Gnostic notion that Jesus was not fully human, did not develop from something so tiny and tenuous as a fertilized egg, did not grow as a fetus inside a teenage girl, did not cause that young mama to puke every morning for weeks, was not heaved out into the world in a painful and bloody birth like every other human on the planet—and in a smelly barn with livestock at that. You can’t get more physical and sensate than a birth.
Jana and I have big news: we are going to be grandparents in February. A little girl already named Corley Elizabeth will be born to Chad and Mary Beth. I give you fair warning right now—you won’t be able to live with me. Grandparent names have already been claimed. Jana will be ‘Nana’ and I will be ‘Papa Charlie.’ Of course, that little girl can call me anything she wants to! Our precious Mary Beth miscarried twice, so we see this baby as a miracle. But, then again, aren’t they all?
We cannot pay homage to the god of science, and worship at the altar of human rationalism, and celebrate the story of the virgin birth at the same time. We are called to suspend and bracket science, to trust that there is an order beyond what we can analyze.
We have to be embarrassed, because, as the great novelist Flannery O’Connor wryly commented, “Mystery is a great embarrassment to the modern mind.”
Of all the dangerous and miraculous stories of scripture, the story of the Virgin Birth has captured the imagination of the church in a unique way.
Historic Christianity insists on embracing the Virgin Birth precisely because it synthesizes brilliantly the core imagination of God becoming flesh. It calls us to an order only love can create.
A young Jewish woman is impregnated by the Holy Spirit, and carries a baby inside her out of wedlock, and then is informed by an angel that the baby she is carrying is the Savior of the world. A little illegitimate child as Messiah. A young woman who transcends the narrow confines of her social, economic, and cultural context to give birth to Messiah. It really is the quintessential impossible story. And that’s why the church has always insisted that we embrace it.
But, the story of the virgin birth is also about the equally high purpose of establishing Christ's humanity. The mystery of the incarnation is found in a Messiah who gestates in the belly of young Jewish peasant girl for nine months only to be delivered in a labor of love that changed the whole world. The doctrine of the virgin birth was originally developed to counter the Gnostic notion that Jesus was not fully human, did not develop from something so tiny and tenuous as a fertilized egg, did not grow as a fetus inside a teenage girl, did not cause that young mama to puke every morning for weeks, was not heaved out into the world in a painful and bloody birth like every other human on the planet—and in a smelly barn with livestock at that. You can’t get more physical and sensate than a birth.
Jana and I have big news: we are going to be grandparents in February. A little girl already named Corley Elizabeth will be born to Chad and Mary Beth. I give you fair warning right now—you won’t be able to live with me. Grandparent names have already been claimed. Jana will be ‘Nana’ and I will be ‘Papa Charlie.’ Of course, that little girl can call me anything she wants to! Our precious Mary Beth miscarried twice, so we see this baby as a miracle. But, then again, aren’t they all?
We cannot pay homage to the god of science, and worship at the altar of human rationalism, and celebrate the story of the virgin birth at the same time. We are called to suspend and bracket science, to trust that there is an order beyond what we can analyze.
We have to be embarrassed, because, as the great novelist Flannery O’Connor wryly commented, “Mystery is a great embarrassment to the modern mind.”
Tuesday, November 25, 2008
Thanksgiving Eating
I learned early on that eating was a major motif of the Christian experience. I’ve been trying to practice that part of the faith ever since.
As a child, every time I was at church I had something good to eat. It started out with cookies and Kool Aid in Sunday School and Vacation Bible School, then graduated to donuts and coffee later on, then progressed to world class pot lucks and marvelous summer ice cream suppers and now to the brilliant meals I get to enjoy here at Broadway Baptist. Broadway should win the Nobel Prize for eating.
When I was a young country preacher, the defining characteristic of a successful ministry had nothing to do with preaching or pastoral care, but rather with the way you could pack it in at the dinner table. I learned after I first arrived at the West Point Baptist Church of Matanzas, Kentucky, that if I simply “chowed down” I would likely make it in this new, strange, wonderful work I had been called to. One of my predecessors in that little rural fellowship possessed the fatal flaw of being a finicky eater and those country folks talked about him in serious, pitying tones throughout my entire tenure, as if he had contracted bubonic plague. I determined early on that I would not commit that mistake.
This holy centrality of food would move to a whole new level at revival time. The pastor and guest evangelist would attend a daily moveable feast of three huge meals a day, breakfast, lunch and supper. One alone would have been more than sufficient, but the celebration of meals in folks’ homes was a high spiritual value for country people. So, we rotated through the entire congregation in a week’s time and feasted like kings. Even my hardy indulgence for eating was severely tested. I learned to pace myself through these rituals and to apportion and position food on my plate in such a manner that I could not only gastronomically negotiate it but also satisfy and honor my ever-watchful hosts.
Thanksgiving poses a dilemma for us. On the one hand, we want to enter into the gratitude and warm-heartedness of the season, feeling the peace and goodwill that comes from our abundance of riches and provisions we are fortunate enough, simply by virtue of our national origin, to experience. But, on the other hand, the obscene bounty that I have just described presents an insurmountable contradiction and cruel irony in a world of deprivation and disease, want and hunger. This brilliant eating is the exception to the awful rule in our human family.
923 million people across the world are hungry. Every day, almost 16,000 children die from hunger-related causes--one child every five seconds. In the course of the sermon you hear this Sunday, 250 children will die because they don’t have enough to eat.
Most poor people who are hungry deal with chronic undernourishment and vitamin or mineral deficiencies. The result is stunted growth, weakness and heightened susceptibility to illness. Poor nutrition and calorie deficiencies cause nearly one in three people to die prematurely or have disabilities, according to the World Health Organization.
Children are the most at risk of undernourishment. In 2006, about 9.7 million children died before they reached their fifth birthday. Almost all of these deaths occurred in developing countries, 4/5 of them in sub-Saharan Africa and South Asia, the two regions that also suffer from the highest rates of hunger and malnutrition.
Most of these deaths are attributed, not to outright starvation, but to diseases that affect vulnerable children whose bodies have been weakened by hunger. Every year, more than 20 million low-birth weight babies are born in developing countries. The four most common childhood illnesses are diarrhea, acute respiratory illness, malaria and measles. These illnesses are both preventable and treatable.
It seems to me that the most authentic way for us to express our gratitude to God this Thanksgiving season is to give generously to hunger relief efforts so that we can bring some of these children to the table of provision. (Click on http://www.wvi.org/wvi/wviweb.nsf for a good, reputable organization called World Vision.)
Even—no especially—in this season of economic downturn, let’s show not only the ingenuity of eating, but also the ingenuity of giving so that others in our global family may enjoy a modicum of what we lavish in daily.
Franklin Roosevelt said, “The test of our progress is not whether we add more to the abundance of those who have much; it is whether we provide enough for those who have little.”
I learned early on that eating was a major motif of the Christian experience. I’ve been trying to practice that part of the faith ever since.
As a child, every time I was at church I had something good to eat. It started out with cookies and Kool Aid in Sunday School and Vacation Bible School, then graduated to donuts and coffee later on, then progressed to world class pot lucks and marvelous summer ice cream suppers and now to the brilliant meals I get to enjoy here at Broadway Baptist. Broadway should win the Nobel Prize for eating.
When I was a young country preacher, the defining characteristic of a successful ministry had nothing to do with preaching or pastoral care, but rather with the way you could pack it in at the dinner table. I learned after I first arrived at the West Point Baptist Church of Matanzas, Kentucky, that if I simply “chowed down” I would likely make it in this new, strange, wonderful work I had been called to. One of my predecessors in that little rural fellowship possessed the fatal flaw of being a finicky eater and those country folks talked about him in serious, pitying tones throughout my entire tenure, as if he had contracted bubonic plague. I determined early on that I would not commit that mistake.
This holy centrality of food would move to a whole new level at revival time. The pastor and guest evangelist would attend a daily moveable feast of three huge meals a day, breakfast, lunch and supper. One alone would have been more than sufficient, but the celebration of meals in folks’ homes was a high spiritual value for country people. So, we rotated through the entire congregation in a week’s time and feasted like kings. Even my hardy indulgence for eating was severely tested. I learned to pace myself through these rituals and to apportion and position food on my plate in such a manner that I could not only gastronomically negotiate it but also satisfy and honor my ever-watchful hosts.
Thanksgiving poses a dilemma for us. On the one hand, we want to enter into the gratitude and warm-heartedness of the season, feeling the peace and goodwill that comes from our abundance of riches and provisions we are fortunate enough, simply by virtue of our national origin, to experience. But, on the other hand, the obscene bounty that I have just described presents an insurmountable contradiction and cruel irony in a world of deprivation and disease, want and hunger. This brilliant eating is the exception to the awful rule in our human family.
923 million people across the world are hungry. Every day, almost 16,000 children die from hunger-related causes--one child every five seconds. In the course of the sermon you hear this Sunday, 250 children will die because they don’t have enough to eat.
Most poor people who are hungry deal with chronic undernourishment and vitamin or mineral deficiencies. The result is stunted growth, weakness and heightened susceptibility to illness. Poor nutrition and calorie deficiencies cause nearly one in three people to die prematurely or have disabilities, according to the World Health Organization.
Children are the most at risk of undernourishment. In 2006, about 9.7 million children died before they reached their fifth birthday. Almost all of these deaths occurred in developing countries, 4/5 of them in sub-Saharan Africa and South Asia, the two regions that also suffer from the highest rates of hunger and malnutrition.
Most of these deaths are attributed, not to outright starvation, but to diseases that affect vulnerable children whose bodies have been weakened by hunger. Every year, more than 20 million low-birth weight babies are born in developing countries. The four most common childhood illnesses are diarrhea, acute respiratory illness, malaria and measles. These illnesses are both preventable and treatable.
It seems to me that the most authentic way for us to express our gratitude to God this Thanksgiving season is to give generously to hunger relief efforts so that we can bring some of these children to the table of provision. (Click on http://www.wvi.org/wvi/wviweb.nsf for a good, reputable organization called World Vision.)
Even—no especially—in this season of economic downturn, let’s show not only the ingenuity of eating, but also the ingenuity of giving so that others in our global family may enjoy a modicum of what we lavish in daily.
Franklin Roosevelt said, “The test of our progress is not whether we add more to the abundance of those who have much; it is whether we provide enough for those who have little.”
Friday, November 07, 2008
New Posting at The High Calling
My latest posting for The High Calling can be found at:
http://www.thehighcalling.org/Library/ViewLibrary.asp?LibraryID=4592
Founded by my friend and fellow church member, Howard Butt, this fine website focuses on the presence of God in all respective vocational callings. I am privileged to write for this organization and encourage your frequent reading of their uplifting material.
My latest posting for The High Calling can be found at:
http://www.thehighcalling.org/Library/ViewLibrary.asp?LibraryID=4592
Founded by my friend and fellow church member, Howard Butt, this fine website focuses on the presence of God in all respective vocational callings. I am privileged to write for this organization and encourage your frequent reading of their uplifting material.
Wednesday, November 05, 2008
"The Arc of God's Justice Is Long, But It Does Touch the Earth."
I am particularly proud to be an American on this historic day.
As one who grew up in the bitter racism of a segregated society in south Alabama, I rejoice today that the final color barrier in American life has been broken by the election of the first African-American president in our nation’s history.
People of good will all over our nation, regardless of political party and electoral allegiance, are touched on this historic occasion.
We have endured a most grueling presidential campaign. The genius of democracy has once again been demonstrated in this simmering stewpot called America. 120 million Americans cast votes in calm and security, with not one single reported incident of reprisal. From sea to shining sea, red and yellow, black and white, rich and poor, old and young celebrated their most treasured civic resource: the right to vote.
As Senator McCain put it in his concession speech, with characteristic directness, “The American people have spoken and they have spoken clearly.” He seemed to sense the significance of the moment with his tone of remarkable graciousness and his dramatic conclusion, “Americans never hide from history. We make history."
Senator Obama struck a similar conciliatory note in his acceptance speech, saying of McCain, “He has endured sacrifices for America that most of us cannot begin to imagine, and we are better off for the service rendered by this brave and selfless leader."
As Barack Obama was being chosen by the American family to serve as its president for the next four years, we were holding renewal services in the First Baptist Church of Aliceville, Alabama. We were graced by the presence of numerous African-Americans in the congregation, over a couple of dozen. The pastor later told me that this was the most racially integrated worship celebration he has had the privilege of leading as pastor of this fine fellowship.
I have had a line from Dr. King in my mind all day long: "the arc of God's justice in long, but it does touch the earth."
We have come a long, long way on the journey toward justice in this country. Only a short time ago, that day when Americans would be judged “on the strength of their character rather than the color of their skin” remained only a distant dream.
But, today, that dream has become reality.
I am particularly proud to be an American on this historic day.
As one who grew up in the bitter racism of a segregated society in south Alabama, I rejoice today that the final color barrier in American life has been broken by the election of the first African-American president in our nation’s history.
People of good will all over our nation, regardless of political party and electoral allegiance, are touched on this historic occasion.
We have endured a most grueling presidential campaign. The genius of democracy has once again been demonstrated in this simmering stewpot called America. 120 million Americans cast votes in calm and security, with not one single reported incident of reprisal. From sea to shining sea, red and yellow, black and white, rich and poor, old and young celebrated their most treasured civic resource: the right to vote.
As Senator McCain put it in his concession speech, with characteristic directness, “The American people have spoken and they have spoken clearly.” He seemed to sense the significance of the moment with his tone of remarkable graciousness and his dramatic conclusion, “Americans never hide from history. We make history."
Senator Obama struck a similar conciliatory note in his acceptance speech, saying of McCain, “He has endured sacrifices for America that most of us cannot begin to imagine, and we are better off for the service rendered by this brave and selfless leader."
As Barack Obama was being chosen by the American family to serve as its president for the next four years, we were holding renewal services in the First Baptist Church of Aliceville, Alabama. We were graced by the presence of numerous African-Americans in the congregation, over a couple of dozen. The pastor later told me that this was the most racially integrated worship celebration he has had the privilege of leading as pastor of this fine fellowship.
I have had a line from Dr. King in my mind all day long: "the arc of God's justice in long, but it does touch the earth."
We have come a long, long way on the journey toward justice in this country. Only a short time ago, that day when Americans would be judged “on the strength of their character rather than the color of their skin” remained only a distant dream.
But, today, that dream has become reality.
Wednesday, August 27, 2008
August 27, 2008
Today is my father’s birthday. He would have been 90 years old.
Memory is a faculty so effective, that I sometimes feel my father’s presence is physical and immediate. His exuberance for life fuels that memory. Augustine, in his Confessions, has a lengthy reflection on the power of remembrance, asserting that faith would not be possible without memory. Certainly, love and hope would not be possible without it either.
Shortly before his own death, Robert Penn Warren wrote a poem about his grandfather entitled "Reinterment, " pursuing this mysterious and elusive idea that memory keeps something alive. He fixed his concern not on his own impending end, but on the death all over again of his beloved grandfather, whose memory would not be held by any living being once Warren died.
I had a good visit with Mom tonight about Dad, reliving a few episodes and occasions, laughing a little. And sharing in the sadness of his loss.
My brother, Francis, said something in passing about grief several days ago that I’ve thought much about since: We don’t get over a death. We get used to it.
Today is my father’s birthday. He would have been 90 years old.
Memory is a faculty so effective, that I sometimes feel my father’s presence is physical and immediate. His exuberance for life fuels that memory. Augustine, in his Confessions, has a lengthy reflection on the power of remembrance, asserting that faith would not be possible without memory. Certainly, love and hope would not be possible without it either.
Shortly before his own death, Robert Penn Warren wrote a poem about his grandfather entitled "Reinterment, " pursuing this mysterious and elusive idea that memory keeps something alive. He fixed his concern not on his own impending end, but on the death all over again of his beloved grandfather, whose memory would not be held by any living being once Warren died.
I had a good visit with Mom tonight about Dad, reliving a few episodes and occasions, laughing a little. And sharing in the sadness of his loss.
My brother, Francis, said something in passing about grief several days ago that I’ve thought much about since: We don’t get over a death. We get used to it.
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