Our church teamed up with Westbury United Methodist Church to put on a wonderful concert Sunday night. Traci and I took the three kids and sat about halfway back so the younger two wouldn’t be a distraction to others.
Since the younger sister is taking violin lessons in the Suzuki tradition, she was especially attentive as the strings warmed and tuned to the pipe organ. Soon enough, the first conductor, a friend of mine named Randy Zercher, came out to introduce and direct a Schubert mass.
He came out in his tuxedo and as he expertly explained the importance of the piece we were about to hear, the Younger Sister grabs me by the arm to pull my ear down to her whispering mouth. She asked, “Is that man a president?”
I breathed my answer back in her ear, “Nope, he’s the conductor. All the musicians dress special to let us know how important the music is.”
“Oh.” She whispered. Her brown eyes turned back to him there on the stage and she pondered it a moment or two. Then, no longer whispering she asked, “Are president’s real?” She said it the same way a kid asks you, "Are dragons real? Are monsters real? Is the Easter Bunny real?"
“Yes,” I whispered back. “President’s are real.”
That’s the right answer for a six year old girl who doesn’t yet need to worry about the things I worry about. But the real answer is, “Yes, some of them are real, my child. And some you wish were only a nightmare that ends at daybreak.”
Wednesday, June 06, 2007
Saturday, May 26, 2007
The God of Evolution
The Creationists are at it again. In a news story I recently learned about a museum in Kentucky that has dioramas with Adam and Eve alongside dinosaurs "cavorting" together. In terms of exhibits, this is a pretty good one. I mean the photos just smack of realism.
The Creation Museum in Petersburg, KY is set to open next week. The museum has a theological agenda of teaching that the earth is about 6,000 years old and that dinosaurs roamed the lands at the same time as Adam and Eve. It's a jab at evolution, and it's a really good art instalation, but I still don't get it. What's the problem with believing in both the idea that God created the world we know (and a few we don't) and in the idea of natural selection/evolution as outlined by Darwin et al?
I grew up in the household of a father who was both farmer and chemist. Faith and science blended nicely before my eyes. I learned on the farm that a faithful planting, fertilizing, and watering mingled with a mysterious germination and miraculous growth to yield a fruit. The process called for something from both God and farmer.
But I also saw a scientific side to it, and never once saw a disconnect between The Farmer's Almanac with it's pithy and sometimes Biblical quotes and the Chemical Engineering News that graced our mailbox each month. There was God-mystery in both, and I discovered at an early age that God was a genetic engineer who used amazing processes to bring about the world as we know it and that those holy processes line up with the knowledge that scientific pursuit yields.
Leafing through the pages of my father's technical journals I didn't always understand the world but I never felt threatened. Similarly, my small hands would dig tunnesl in the dirt rows of the corn and soybean fields and knew that the earth was a precious and holy thing. Though I didn't understand why I perceived it as holy, I never felt threatened by it. So why do we Christians get wrapped around an axle by scientific theory?
I believe both ideas - that God made us and that evolution is accurate scientific theory. Some of my more conservative Christian brothers and sisters disagree and try to claim a place of primacy in the created order that we humans do not rightly deserve. I think they have a real problem not being the center of the universe, but if the Christian theology that so many rabid Christians espouse is true then it is God that is the center of the universe, not us. We are, in keeping with the imagery of Scripture, nothing more than clay in the hand of the Creator, and if the Creator chose to arrive at my bodily expression by way of clay-mation and evolution, then so be it. What's the conflict?
The Creation Museum in Petersburg, KY is set to open next week. The museum has a theological agenda of teaching that the earth is about 6,000 years old and that dinosaurs roamed the lands at the same time as Adam and Eve. It's a jab at evolution, and it's a really good art instalation, but I still don't get it. What's the problem with believing in both the idea that God created the world we know (and a few we don't) and in the idea of natural selection/evolution as outlined by Darwin et al?
I grew up in the household of a father who was both farmer and chemist. Faith and science blended nicely before my eyes. I learned on the farm that a faithful planting, fertilizing, and watering mingled with a mysterious germination and miraculous growth to yield a fruit. The process called for something from both God and farmer.
But I also saw a scientific side to it, and never once saw a disconnect between The Farmer's Almanac with it's pithy and sometimes Biblical quotes and the Chemical Engineering News that graced our mailbox each month. There was God-mystery in both, and I discovered at an early age that God was a genetic engineer who used amazing processes to bring about the world as we know it and that those holy processes line up with the knowledge that scientific pursuit yields.
Leafing through the pages of my father's technical journals I didn't always understand the world but I never felt threatened. Similarly, my small hands would dig tunnesl in the dirt rows of the corn and soybean fields and knew that the earth was a precious and holy thing. Though I didn't understand why I perceived it as holy, I never felt threatened by it. So why do we Christians get wrapped around an axle by scientific theory?
I believe both ideas - that God made us and that evolution is accurate scientific theory. Some of my more conservative Christian brothers and sisters disagree and try to claim a place of primacy in the created order that we humans do not rightly deserve. I think they have a real problem not being the center of the universe, but if the Christian theology that so many rabid Christians espouse is true then it is God that is the center of the universe, not us. We are, in keeping with the imagery of Scripture, nothing more than clay in the hand of the Creator, and if the Creator chose to arrive at my bodily expression by way of clay-mation and evolution, then so be it. What's the conflict?
Friday, May 25, 2007
What Kind of Death Are You Choosing?
This work week has been book ended by two different kinds of funerals.
The first, on Monday, was your basic "most dreaded" scenario for a minister. Part of the reason it's "most dreaded" is that I didn't know the man all that well. I've been pastor at his church for five years, but he's been bed-ridden for all of that time, refusing visits from me or our deacons who take communion to our homebound church family. That made it difficult to eulogize him gracefully or accurately.
The other part of it is that not many others knew him, either. Aside from his wife and two adult children, there were a total of 8 people at the funeral, counting me and the pianist. It was truly heart breaking for me to watch this widow grieve virtually alone. Perhaps he just outlived all his friends who might have come to his funeral. I don't think that's the case, though. The surviving family seemed so oddly out of synch in how they communicated with others that I suspected their eccentricity explained a little about why the chapel echoed when I spoke. I and they moved stiffly through the liturgy, we each speaking holy words of care and consolation ringing hollow in a relational vacuum. It was empty.
The second funeral was different. Not just because the main sanctuary was respectably full. Not just because I knew this woman more personally. Something was different, and I'm not able to put a finger on it. The liturgy lived, the holy words of care and consolation were spoken from a relational context, and those same words fell on ears that knew them to be true - not because they were spoken more eloquently or passionately, but because they were drawn from the same deep well common amongst our congregation.
Neither of these people chose their death, rather their type of death chose them. The man in the Monday funeral died in his sleep of old age, "not with a bang but a whimper." The woman in the Friday funeral died after a hard fought three year struggle with cancer. But whether they went gently into that good night or whether death was fought - well - to the death, the result is the same and neither of them could stop death's advent.
But more of us choose how we'll leave this life than you'd think. All of us want to end on a high note, a blaze of glory, or as a widely watched "season finale." My father says he wants to die at age 93 having been shot by a jealous husband. I suppose that's not a bad way to go. But most of us choose the death of a thousand cuts, making small decisions, taking tiny actions that lead us up to and over the brink of oblivion.
So this lonely afternoon in my study, I turned aside from preparing a sermon for the weekend to ponder - "What death am I choosing?" Is it bold and faithful? Or is it slow and timid? Or more importantly, what life am I choosing? Am I squandering precious moments and experiences, stuck in self-absorption, arrogance, and jealousy? Or am I choosing a life that means something, gives something, leaves something worthy behind?
The first, on Monday, was your basic "most dreaded" scenario for a minister. Part of the reason it's "most dreaded" is that I didn't know the man all that well. I've been pastor at his church for five years, but he's been bed-ridden for all of that time, refusing visits from me or our deacons who take communion to our homebound church family. That made it difficult to eulogize him gracefully or accurately.
The other part of it is that not many others knew him, either. Aside from his wife and two adult children, there were a total of 8 people at the funeral, counting me and the pianist. It was truly heart breaking for me to watch this widow grieve virtually alone. Perhaps he just outlived all his friends who might have come to his funeral. I don't think that's the case, though. The surviving family seemed so oddly out of synch in how they communicated with others that I suspected their eccentricity explained a little about why the chapel echoed when I spoke. I and they moved stiffly through the liturgy, we each speaking holy words of care and consolation ringing hollow in a relational vacuum. It was empty.
The second funeral was different. Not just because the main sanctuary was respectably full. Not just because I knew this woman more personally. Something was different, and I'm not able to put a finger on it. The liturgy lived, the holy words of care and consolation were spoken from a relational context, and those same words fell on ears that knew them to be true - not because they were spoken more eloquently or passionately, but because they were drawn from the same deep well common amongst our congregation.
Neither of these people chose their death, rather their type of death chose them. The man in the Monday funeral died in his sleep of old age, "not with a bang but a whimper." The woman in the Friday funeral died after a hard fought three year struggle with cancer. But whether they went gently into that good night or whether death was fought - well - to the death, the result is the same and neither of them could stop death's advent.
But more of us choose how we'll leave this life than you'd think. All of us want to end on a high note, a blaze of glory, or as a widely watched "season finale." My father says he wants to die at age 93 having been shot by a jealous husband. I suppose that's not a bad way to go. But most of us choose the death of a thousand cuts, making small decisions, taking tiny actions that lead us up to and over the brink of oblivion.
So this lonely afternoon in my study, I turned aside from preparing a sermon for the weekend to ponder - "What death am I choosing?" Is it bold and faithful? Or is it slow and timid? Or more importantly, what life am I choosing? Am I squandering precious moments and experiences, stuck in self-absorption, arrogance, and jealousy? Or am I choosing a life that means something, gives something, leaves something worthy behind?
Thursday, May 17, 2007
Falwell's Farewell
I'm probably going to get criticized, but I have to say this. I think it's a good thing for the Christians in the United States that Jerry Falwell has gone on to the next thing for him. While I'm positive that many Christians were aided by his brand of religion, I'm also confident that many non-Christians were driven away from the faith because of his divisive, insipid, and frequently ungraceful commentary.
There was something about his career of mixing politics and religion that created a noxious aphrodisiac of power and contributed to an overall loss of gentility in public discourse in our country. Forget his offensive conservatism. Forget his embarrassing abuse of the Scriptures I consider sacred. Forget the whole idea that his spiritual heritage as a Baptist includes countless men and women who have died for the separation of church and state that he tried to destroy. Forget the hatred he promoted toward gays and lesbians. The bottom line is that his public persona had a swagger of arrogance completely contrary to the humility that I find in Jesus. He fanned flames of hate-mongering and tacitly approved the abuse of humans in the name of Christianity.
I know what many of his supporters will say - look at all the good he did. But good at what cost? Isn't there a point in time at which we have to ask if the hatred he incited was an offense to the Gospel? Isn't there a sense in which his attempts at a prophetic word were an abuse of his ordination?
I never met Dr. Falwell personally, but I did live in his shadow. My first pastorate was in Skipwith, Virginia. It's about 90 miles or so from Lynchburg. The name of my church was Liberty Baptist Church, and folk often confused my church for his. I guess they thought that since he was president of the university that his church would be Liberty Baptist.
About three times a year I would receive mail addressed to my church intended for Thomas Road Baptist Church. The letters always contained money, usually a pretty good sum of it. One of the checks I remember in particular was for $1,000.00 and the "For" line on the check said something like this: "Political action fund against gays."
I wanted to shred it up, but I did the right thing. I properly forwarded it on to the Thomas Road Baptist Church, assuming they would know which designated church fund for which that was intended.
I haven't thought about that misdirected mail in years. But today I am thinking about it and wishing the people of this world - especially the Christians in our world - were a lot less hate-filled. I don't know your religious views on the gay question, and I'm not sure I'd want to know, anyway. But I do know that what Anne Lamott once wrote is true:
You can safely assume you've created God in your own image when it turns out he hates all the same people you do.
I don’t know the private Jerry Falwell, I’m sure like all leaders of mass movements he would be charming and disarming in an intimate conversation. But I do know the public Fallwell, and he was not a gentleman. He did not display the grace of God very well.
There was something about his career of mixing politics and religion that created a noxious aphrodisiac of power and contributed to an overall loss of gentility in public discourse in our country. Forget his offensive conservatism. Forget his embarrassing abuse of the Scriptures I consider sacred. Forget the whole idea that his spiritual heritage as a Baptist includes countless men and women who have died for the separation of church and state that he tried to destroy. Forget the hatred he promoted toward gays and lesbians. The bottom line is that his public persona had a swagger of arrogance completely contrary to the humility that I find in Jesus. He fanned flames of hate-mongering and tacitly approved the abuse of humans in the name of Christianity.
I know what many of his supporters will say - look at all the good he did. But good at what cost? Isn't there a point in time at which we have to ask if the hatred he incited was an offense to the Gospel? Isn't there a sense in which his attempts at a prophetic word were an abuse of his ordination?
I never met Dr. Falwell personally, but I did live in his shadow. My first pastorate was in Skipwith, Virginia. It's about 90 miles or so from Lynchburg. The name of my church was Liberty Baptist Church, and folk often confused my church for his. I guess they thought that since he was president of the university that his church would be Liberty Baptist.
About three times a year I would receive mail addressed to my church intended for Thomas Road Baptist Church. The letters always contained money, usually a pretty good sum of it. One of the checks I remember in particular was for $1,000.00 and the "For" line on the check said something like this: "Political action fund against gays."
I wanted to shred it up, but I did the right thing. I properly forwarded it on to the Thomas Road Baptist Church, assuming they would know which designated church fund for which that was intended.
I haven't thought about that misdirected mail in years. But today I am thinking about it and wishing the people of this world - especially the Christians in our world - were a lot less hate-filled. I don't know your religious views on the gay question, and I'm not sure I'd want to know, anyway. But I do know that what Anne Lamott once wrote is true:
You can safely assume you've created God in your own image when it turns out he hates all the same people you do.
I don’t know the private Jerry Falwell, I’m sure like all leaders of mass movements he would be charming and disarming in an intimate conversation. But I do know the public Fallwell, and he was not a gentleman. He did not display the grace of God very well.
Monday, May 14, 2007
Bonoprah
Bono and Oprah are two of the most powerful figures in the entertainment business. So naturally, it caught everyone’s attention when they “went red.” They are two key celebrities affiliated with the RED campaign, an idea to brand products and give proceeds from the sales to fight diseases – specifically HIV-AIDS - in third world nations. On the surface it seems like a good idea to “do the Red thing,” but I have my questions.
Bono explained the campaign this way, “Some people won’t put on marching boots, so we’ve got to get people where they are at, and they’re in the shopping malls. Now you’re buying jeans and T-shirts, and you’re paying for 10 women in Africa to get medication for their children with HIV” (quoted in Relevant Magazine, May/June, 2007).
My concerns are several-fold. First, I believe I can make a pretty good Biblical case that buying more “stuff” isn’t good for a nation of people who already live in a culture of excess. Then there’s the whole false sense of having done good. Have I really done something special by buying a “RED” iPod rather than the white one? And lest we miss this little ethical quandary, there’s the mix of consumer frenzy, corporate profit, and fund raising. Aren’t the big corporations just riding a “feel good for buying” wave to sell more of their stuff and increase their bottom lines?
As people who allegedly build our lives based on Biblical principles, we Christians are called to care for the world by taking up a cross like Jesus, not by taking up our shopping bags. I was troubled by this same issue when President Bush told us the very best thing we could do for our nation in the wake of 9/11/2001 was to continue spending. Even in the church, this is present. The issue is similar, yet even more theologically complicated in the church by “Prosperity Gospel” preachers of the cable-TV ilk and the mega-church on the corner that has turned our faith into one more consumer choice to make.
Commitment to following Christ is something more than our consumer choices. Following Jesus has to be something more than the “hip” church we choose, or how our T-shirt touts our cause in some chic/pop/relevant way. Commitment to Christ must mean something more than just the things we choose to buy, wear, eat, or drink. It must be more than all those things and yet include every one of those things.
In Matthew 10.32-42 Jesus talks about commitment to his cause. He gives startling and difficult words, saying, “Anyone who loves his father or mother more than me is not worthy of me.” In other words, commitment to Christ supersedes all things. He follows on by saying, “…anyone who does not take his cross and follow me is not worthy of me.”
Matthew 10.32-42
32"Whoever acknowledges me before men, I will also acknowledge him before my Father in heaven. 33But whoever disowns me before men, I will disown him before my Father in heaven.
34"Do not suppose that I have come to bring peace to the earth. I did not come to bring peace, but a sword. 35For I have come to turn
'a man against his father,
a daughter against her mother,
a daughter-in-law against her mother-in-law—
36a man's enemies will be the members of his own household.’
37"Anyone who loves his father or mother more than me is not worthy of me; anyone who loves his son or daughter more than me is not worthy of me; 38and anyone who does not take his cross and follow me is not worthy of me. 39Whoever finds his life will lose it, and whoever loses his life for my sake will find it.
40"He who receives you receives me, and he who receives me receives the one who sent me. 41Anyone who receives a prophet because he is a prophet will receive a prophet's reward, and anyone who receives a righteous man because he is a righteous man will receive a righteous man's reward. 42And if anyone gives even a cup of cold water to one of these little ones because he is my disciple, I tell you the truth, he will certainly not lose his reward."
Wednesday, May 02, 2007
My Theme Song
I've been to quite a few Astro's games over my five years in Houston. One of my favorite parts is when an Astro's batter comes up to the plate his favorite song is played to "juice" him up to hit. I spend too much time wondering how these hitters chose these songs, especially since it's not appearing to help them this season.
I've decided that it would be good liturgy to have the same thing happen when someone steps up to lead in worship. For example, the scripture reader for the day could have their favorite song played as they walk up to the pulpit. Imagine hearing Blondie's Rapture just before a reading from Revelation or Daniel. Or how about Money from Pink Floyd while the offering is collected? And for the deacon who prays that day, how about Me and Missus Jones? Even the pastor who stands up to preach can pick his or her favorite song.
I'm searching for my favorite song. Could you, my dear readers who NEVER leave comments, take a moment to pick a song that you think might be an appropriate segue into the sermon? Currently I've got Sexy Back on the top of my list, but I'm open.
I've decided that it would be good liturgy to have the same thing happen when someone steps up to lead in worship. For example, the scripture reader for the day could have their favorite song played as they walk up to the pulpit. Imagine hearing Blondie's Rapture just before a reading from Revelation or Daniel. Or how about Money from Pink Floyd while the offering is collected? And for the deacon who prays that day, how about Me and Missus Jones? Even the pastor who stands up to preach can pick his or her favorite song.
I'm searching for my favorite song. Could you, my dear readers who NEVER leave comments, take a moment to pick a song that you think might be an appropriate segue into the sermon? Currently I've got Sexy Back on the top of my list, but I'm open.
And all the while the clock is ticking
A few Friday's ago I borrowed a classic drop-top from my friend Rusty. I could write bunches about that friendship, but that's for another post, probably to be published posthumously. Nonetheless, the occasion was the Belle Ball for the Older Sister. She had a dress, a date, and a corsage.
And I had the keys to a '77 Caddy Cabrio.
I drove the Older Sister and her boyfriend, along with another couple, down to the Aquarium restaurant for the dinner and dance. We met up on the front step of her
boyfriend's Bellaire mini-mansion, and we went through all the rituals of picture taking in various poses and pairings. But of all the photos, this is my favorite. It just captures the whole "moment" for me. The dress, the corsage, the Caddy.
She's almost 16.
We went to the Department of Public Safety yesterday to get her Instructional Driving Permit so I can teach her how to drive. We have to go back on Friday because she didn't have all the documentation to prove she is who she says she is.
She was bummed, justifiably so, but she didn't read the fine print about what she was supposed to bring to DPS, so it was only right she has to go back. She was so bummed out that she actually let me hold her hand across the armrest on the way home, just like when she was a little girl. I kissed her hand and told her I was truly sorry. It was just a little lie.
Like any parent, I'd like to protect my kids from disappointment, but a part of me was glad she couldn't get the permit. Not because I'm vindictive or cruel, no. But because it makes it three more days before she can get her license to drive alone, three more days that she'll depend on me for something. Three more days that I can hold on to the idea that I'm younger than I really am, three more days I can sleep at night without worrying what time she'll get in, three more days I'll have some say over where she goes and with whom.
And yet. And yet I am eager for her to grow and thrive and change and mature and become independent. It's the horrible beautiful fine line of parenting that, when walked, strikes the balance between freedom and boundaries, sailing the open seas and staying near familiar shores. It makes me pray for my kids, and all the parents I know who are doing their dead-level best to make the most of every teachable moment in the hopes that our kids won't repeat our mistakes, will build on what we give them, and learn that the ever-present clock is all the while ticking.
And I had the keys to a '77 Caddy Cabrio.
I drove the Older Sister and her boyfriend, along with another couple, down to the Aquarium restaurant for the dinner and dance. We met up on the front step of her
boyfriend's Bellaire mini-mansion, and we went through all the rituals of picture taking in various poses and pairings. But of all the photos, this is my favorite. It just captures the whole "moment" for me. The dress, the corsage, the Caddy.She's almost 16.
We went to the Department of Public Safety yesterday to get her Instructional Driving Permit so I can teach her how to drive. We have to go back on Friday because she didn't have all the documentation to prove she is who she says she is.
She was bummed, justifiably so, but she didn't read the fine print about what she was supposed to bring to DPS, so it was only right she has to go back. She was so bummed out that she actually let me hold her hand across the armrest on the way home, just like when she was a little girl. I kissed her hand and told her I was truly sorry. It was just a little lie.
Like any parent, I'd like to protect my kids from disappointment, but a part of me was glad she couldn't get the permit. Not because I'm vindictive or cruel, no. But because it makes it three more days before she can get her license to drive alone, three more days that she'll depend on me for something. Three more days that I can hold on to the idea that I'm younger than I really am, three more days I can sleep at night without worrying what time she'll get in, three more days I'll have some say over where she goes and with whom.
And yet. And yet I am eager for her to grow and thrive and change and mature and become independent. It's the horrible beautiful fine line of parenting that, when walked, strikes the balance between freedom and boundaries, sailing the open seas and staying near familiar shores. It makes me pray for my kids, and all the parents I know who are doing their dead-level best to make the most of every teachable moment in the hopes that our kids won't repeat our mistakes, will build on what we give them, and learn that the ever-present clock is all the while ticking.
Wednesday, April 25, 2007
At the Impulse of Thy Love
Not a Sermon - Just a Thought, April 20, 2007
In the movie Napoleon Dynamite, Pedro, a high school kid, is running for class president. In his election speech he promises, “If you vote for me, all your wildest dreams will come true.”
It’s a funny line because of the absurdity of the promise, and it’s not too far off from what some religious leaders will tell you in order to raise funds. I know of preachers who have actually said or written things like:
“If you give money to the church all your financial problems will disappear.”
“If you tithe to the church, God will bless you.”
“God won’t bless you if you don’t bless God.”
It’s the same thing as Pedro’s impossible promise. I’m not saying that God won’t bless you if you give. What I am saying is that too many preacher-types have manipulated too many faithful people with empty promises. “Give so you will get.”
I believe that every Christian should financially support their church, but not because you’ve been beaten over the head with the Bible, the church budget, or the pleadings of a poor preacher. There are preachers who guilt you into giving money to your church. I’m not one of them. I’ll leave guilt up to you and the Holy Spirit. The bottom line for me is that if “God loves a cheerful giver” then you shouldn’t be manipulated into stroking a check for the church. Nor should you be tricked into giving so you will “get back” from God. You should give generously because you believe in the work of your church. You should give out of a realization of what God has done for you. In short, God gave, we give in return.
Frances Havergal had the same idea in mind when she wrote the great hymn Take My Life, and Let it Be Consecrated. One line reads:
Take my hands, and let them move at the impulse of thy love.
God made every resource that the planet earth has to offer, including that twenty in your wallet and the direct deposit your employer just dropped in your checking account. God has done some pretty cool things for you, including breathing life into you and sustaining you to this point. So when this preacher encourages you to give generously, either to my church or the church of your choosing, it’s because I want you to do it at the impulse of God’s love, not because of obligation or guilt or false hope.
That’s the sermon idea for this Sunday at Willow Meadows Baptist Church. I’ll be preaching a sermon entitled At the Impulse of Thy Love based on John 3.16-21. It is the beginning of a three part series about your finances, the church finances, and how the two should meet. We’ll also be praying for the families connected to the Virginia Tech tragedy and remembering those students. Join us, if you’re in Houston, at either 9am or 11:10am.
Impulsively,
Pastor Gary
Not a Sermon – Just a Thought is a weekly e-column written by me, Gary Long. You can subscribe by emailing me at glong@wmbc.org.
John 3.16-21 – NIV
16"For God so loved the world that he gave his one and only Son, that whoever believes in him shall not perish but have eternal life. 17For God did not send his Son into the world to condemn the world, but to save the world through him. 18Whoever believes in him is not condemned, but whoever does not believe stands condemned already because he has not believed in the name of God's one and only Son.19This is the verdict: Light has come into the world, but men loved darkness instead of light because their deeds were evil. 20Everyone who does evil hates the light, and will not come into the light for fear that his deeds will be exposed. 21But whoever lives by the truth comes into the light, so that it may be seen plainly that what he has done has been done through God."
In the movie Napoleon Dynamite, Pedro, a high school kid, is running for class president. In his election speech he promises, “If you vote for me, all your wildest dreams will come true.”
It’s a funny line because of the absurdity of the promise, and it’s not too far off from what some religious leaders will tell you in order to raise funds. I know of preachers who have actually said or written things like:
“If you give money to the church all your financial problems will disappear.”
“If you tithe to the church, God will bless you.”
“God won’t bless you if you don’t bless God.”
It’s the same thing as Pedro’s impossible promise. I’m not saying that God won’t bless you if you give. What I am saying is that too many preacher-types have manipulated too many faithful people with empty promises. “Give so you will get.”
I believe that every Christian should financially support their church, but not because you’ve been beaten over the head with the Bible, the church budget, or the pleadings of a poor preacher. There are preachers who guilt you into giving money to your church. I’m not one of them. I’ll leave guilt up to you and the Holy Spirit. The bottom line for me is that if “God loves a cheerful giver” then you shouldn’t be manipulated into stroking a check for the church. Nor should you be tricked into giving so you will “get back” from God. You should give generously because you believe in the work of your church. You should give out of a realization of what God has done for you. In short, God gave, we give in return.
Frances Havergal had the same idea in mind when she wrote the great hymn Take My Life, and Let it Be Consecrated. One line reads:
Take my hands, and let them move at the impulse of thy love.
God made every resource that the planet earth has to offer, including that twenty in your wallet and the direct deposit your employer just dropped in your checking account. God has done some pretty cool things for you, including breathing life into you and sustaining you to this point. So when this preacher encourages you to give generously, either to my church or the church of your choosing, it’s because I want you to do it at the impulse of God’s love, not because of obligation or guilt or false hope.
That’s the sermon idea for this Sunday at Willow Meadows Baptist Church. I’ll be preaching a sermon entitled At the Impulse of Thy Love based on John 3.16-21. It is the beginning of a three part series about your finances, the church finances, and how the two should meet. We’ll also be praying for the families connected to the Virginia Tech tragedy and remembering those students. Join us, if you’re in Houston, at either 9am or 11:10am.
Impulsively,
Pastor Gary
Not a Sermon – Just a Thought is a weekly e-column written by me, Gary Long. You can subscribe by emailing me at glong@wmbc.org.
John 3.16-21 – NIV
16"For God so loved the world that he gave his one and only Son, that whoever believes in him shall not perish but have eternal life. 17For God did not send his Son into the world to condemn the world, but to save the world through him. 18Whoever believes in him is not condemned, but whoever does not believe stands condemned already because he has not believed in the name of God's one and only Son.19This is the verdict: Light has come into the world, but men loved darkness instead of light because their deeds were evil. 20Everyone who does evil hates the light, and will not come into the light for fear that his deeds will be exposed. 21But whoever lives by the truth comes into the light, so that it may be seen plainly that what he has done has been done through God."
Tuesday, April 17, 2007
A Hokie Prayer
To our friends in Virginia and those connected to the Virginia Tech tragedy: the Long family mourns with you and prays for you. I have no words and even if I did they would not be adequate.
Sleep Sweetly, My Children
So we're prepping dinner tonight and the whole family is gathered. It's a sweet time of the day in our house when the work is done for the day and we're all just happy to "be." Traci is dishing up some beautiful tortellini and I'm slicing fresh bread while the kids are munching on a salad.
The Youngest Sister randomly pops out with, "I know why you and Mom can watch grown up movies."
We're on the edge of insight here, I just know it.
"Why is that?" I inquire.
"Because you two sleep together and don't get scared," she replied.
"Why do you say that?" I pried.
"Because when I'm scared I get in your bed and after a while I'm not scared anymore because we cuddle," she said, big brown eyes dancing and delightful.
"Yeah, I used to come in your room when I had bad dreams and lay with you a while," added the Brother. "That made it better."
Good advice. Maybe the best we can do, even as adults, is to cuddle up with someone when we're scared.
Today I almost wrecked Dora the Explorer when a rear tire blew out on the Gulf Freeway, just outside the I-610 loop. I was moving along at 70 mph, in the middle of heavy traffic when I felt the rear end start coming around on me. For some unknown reason I did what they said to do way back in Driver's Ed. I steered into the skid and only when I regained control did I slowly hit the brakes. The other drivers must have seen the swerve and the ensuing smoke because they gave me room and I managed my way across three lanes to get to the shoulder.
I came to a stop, got out, and in a cloud of tire smoke I assessed the damage. Quickly, I began the tire-changing process, with a portion of my SUV's rear end sticking out into the passing lane of the freeway. I was sweaty scared.
Traffic was swerving around me, horns were blaring, and I knew I was in trouble. I'd hardly pulled out the jack and begun to lower the spare when I heard a revving Harley behind me and looked back to see an HPD mounted cop. He was soon joined by a Motor Assistance Patrol and we were shielded from the traffic while I went about my fearful chore with a little more calm than before.
I hurried along competently, but I certainly didn't earn a spot on a NASCAR pit crew. Finally done, I trotted down the shoulder to the HPD officer, eager to thank him for getting there very quickly. I began to speak but he cut me off, "Let's move on before we both get hit."
His eyes betrayed him. They said: This is dangerous. Let's get out of here. If I'd known how scared that policeman was, I'd have been more scared.
One day I'll tell the Sisters and the Brother how scared I really was, but for a while, it's probably best that they don't know. In this season of life they need someone around them who doesn't seem scared. Someone who can blanket them strongly and take away the fear. Someone in the night-land they can go to when the dreams are as dark as a new moon.
You know, someone they can cuddle with.
Sleep sweetly my children, while you can, for I'm afraid that someday you will understand my words.
The Youngest Sister randomly pops out with, "I know why you and Mom can watch grown up movies."
We're on the edge of insight here, I just know it.
"Why is that?" I inquire.
"Because you two sleep together and don't get scared," she replied.
"Why do you say that?" I pried.
"Because when I'm scared I get in your bed and after a while I'm not scared anymore because we cuddle," she said, big brown eyes dancing and delightful.
"Yeah, I used to come in your room when I had bad dreams and lay with you a while," added the Brother. "That made it better."
Good advice. Maybe the best we can do, even as adults, is to cuddle up with someone when we're scared.
Today I almost wrecked Dora the Explorer when a rear tire blew out on the Gulf Freeway, just outside the I-610 loop. I was moving along at 70 mph, in the middle of heavy traffic when I felt the rear end start coming around on me. For some unknown reason I did what they said to do way back in Driver's Ed. I steered into the skid and only when I regained control did I slowly hit the brakes. The other drivers must have seen the swerve and the ensuing smoke because they gave me room and I managed my way across three lanes to get to the shoulder.
I came to a stop, got out, and in a cloud of tire smoke I assessed the damage. Quickly, I began the tire-changing process, with a portion of my SUV's rear end sticking out into the passing lane of the freeway. I was sweaty scared.
Traffic was swerving around me, horns were blaring, and I knew I was in trouble. I'd hardly pulled out the jack and begun to lower the spare when I heard a revving Harley behind me and looked back to see an HPD mounted cop. He was soon joined by a Motor Assistance Patrol and we were shielded from the traffic while I went about my fearful chore with a little more calm than before.
I hurried along competently, but I certainly didn't earn a spot on a NASCAR pit crew. Finally done, I trotted down the shoulder to the HPD officer, eager to thank him for getting there very quickly. I began to speak but he cut me off, "Let's move on before we both get hit."
His eyes betrayed him. They said: This is dangerous. Let's get out of here. If I'd known how scared that policeman was, I'd have been more scared.
One day I'll tell the Sisters and the Brother how scared I really was, but for a while, it's probably best that they don't know. In this season of life they need someone around them who doesn't seem scared. Someone who can blanket them strongly and take away the fear. Someone in the night-land they can go to when the dreams are as dark as a new moon.
You know, someone they can cuddle with.
Sleep sweetly my children, while you can, for I'm afraid that someday you will understand my words.
Friday, April 13, 2007
T.G.I.M.
Not a Sermon - Just a Thought, April 13, 2007
The call to be a professional minister has sometimes been a struggle for me because I enjoy being an entrepreneurial businessman. I had a lemonade stand as a kid, and sold greeting cards door to door beginning in the third grade. I have moved in and out of the church and business worlds having owned a restaurant/coffee shop and a landscaping business. These experiences have formed my theological conviction that ministry does not happen exclusively inside the walls of a church building.
For example, when I owned the restaurant I found that I did far more pastoral care for my “regulars” than I did as a pastor. I learned that a short exchange over the counter with a regular customer provided me an excellent opportunity to bring a word of grace or to help someone going through a hard time by reminding them, “God is on your side.” I learned that I could do more to influence public policy in my small town as a business owner than as a pastor. I learned that providing a place of social interaction for teens was not only good for business, it was good for their safety and development. It was wild and liberating to do ministry in Jesus’ name and in my own way, free of the traditional boundaries the church naturally makes between herself and the culture.
Now I’m a pastor and most of my work is tame by comparison. I deal mostly with people who are already Christian and I try to equip them for doing ministry outside the church. Some days I feel like a caged tiger, antsy to be earning my bread in ways that allow me more interaction with people who are outside the influence of a local church. At times I am jealous of you who don’t get paid to do ministry, but do it anyway. There are things you can do that I can’t do as a pastor. As a part of your daily living and daily job, you stretch calling to mean more by taking your faith into the public forum.
Maybe you’re stuck in a dead-end job, or maybe you’re just frustrated by the system. Maybe your career is great and your future’s so bright you have to wear shades. I want you to know that God can use you in all those situations, so see where God is working and see your work as a way of joining God’s work. All around you are people who are knee deep in a river and yet dying of thirst. You can help people to find the true water for which they thirst by being Christ’s presence and by being attentive to God’s leading. When you see work through those lenses the mantra becomes T.G.I.M. “Thank God It’s Monday!”
T.G.I.M is the title of the sermon this Sunday and it’s about finding God’s calling out of the sanctuary and into the work place. It’s based on scripture from I Peter 3.13-22, with a special focus on the sentence, “Always be prepared to give an answer to everyone who asks you the reason for the hope you have.” I hope you’ll take a Sabbath rest this Sunday and worship God with the local church of your choice. If you are in Houston, join us at Willow Meadows Baptist Church at either 9am or 11:10am.
Taking care of business,
Pastor Gary
Not a Sermon – Just a Thought is a weekly email written by me, Gary Long, pastor at Willow Meadows Baptist Church in Houston, Texas. You can subscribe or unsubscribe to this list by contacting me via email at glong@wmbc.org and you can learn more about my church at www.wmbc.org.
The call to be a professional minister has sometimes been a struggle for me because I enjoy being an entrepreneurial businessman. I had a lemonade stand as a kid, and sold greeting cards door to door beginning in the third grade. I have moved in and out of the church and business worlds having owned a restaurant/coffee shop and a landscaping business. These experiences have formed my theological conviction that ministry does not happen exclusively inside the walls of a church building.
For example, when I owned the restaurant I found that I did far more pastoral care for my “regulars” than I did as a pastor. I learned that a short exchange over the counter with a regular customer provided me an excellent opportunity to bring a word of grace or to help someone going through a hard time by reminding them, “God is on your side.” I learned that I could do more to influence public policy in my small town as a business owner than as a pastor. I learned that providing a place of social interaction for teens was not only good for business, it was good for their safety and development. It was wild and liberating to do ministry in Jesus’ name and in my own way, free of the traditional boundaries the church naturally makes between herself and the culture.
Now I’m a pastor and most of my work is tame by comparison. I deal mostly with people who are already Christian and I try to equip them for doing ministry outside the church. Some days I feel like a caged tiger, antsy to be earning my bread in ways that allow me more interaction with people who are outside the influence of a local church. At times I am jealous of you who don’t get paid to do ministry, but do it anyway. There are things you can do that I can’t do as a pastor. As a part of your daily living and daily job, you stretch calling to mean more by taking your faith into the public forum.
Maybe you’re stuck in a dead-end job, or maybe you’re just frustrated by the system. Maybe your career is great and your future’s so bright you have to wear shades. I want you to know that God can use you in all those situations, so see where God is working and see your work as a way of joining God’s work. All around you are people who are knee deep in a river and yet dying of thirst. You can help people to find the true water for which they thirst by being Christ’s presence and by being attentive to God’s leading. When you see work through those lenses the mantra becomes T.G.I.M. “Thank God It’s Monday!”
T.G.I.M is the title of the sermon this Sunday and it’s about finding God’s calling out of the sanctuary and into the work place. It’s based on scripture from I Peter 3.13-22, with a special focus on the sentence, “Always be prepared to give an answer to everyone who asks you the reason for the hope you have.” I hope you’ll take a Sabbath rest this Sunday and worship God with the local church of your choice. If you are in Houston, join us at Willow Meadows Baptist Church at either 9am or 11:10am.
Taking care of business,
Pastor Gary
Not a Sermon – Just a Thought is a weekly email written by me, Gary Long, pastor at Willow Meadows Baptist Church in Houston, Texas. You can subscribe or unsubscribe to this list by contacting me via email at glong@wmbc.org and you can learn more about my church at www.wmbc.org.
Saturday, April 07, 2007
No Bones About It!
Not a Sermon - Just a Thought, April 6, 2007
The Lost Tomb of Jesus aired on March 4, 2007, on the Discovery Channel. The documentary asserts that five bone boxes found in southern Jerusalem in the early 1980’s are the mortal remains of Jesus and his family. If the claim is true, it has the potential of upending the claims of Christianity about Jesus and his bodily resurrection, a belief which is central to the faith.
There is too little time here to critique the documentary from a scientific, archaeological, or historical view – after all, this a thought, not a sermon. I’ll leave that to other scholars who have done it exceedingly well because here’s the bottom line for me: You can’t prove the resurrection.
We can take a cue from the historical claims of those who witnessed the living Jesus after the event of the cross. But even the historical claims of the gospel writers and historians are not enough to completely fill in the blanks of this story.
Sure, lots of writers like Lee Strobel (The Case for Christ) make an intelligent and investigative claim that Jesus lived, died, and came to life again. But Strobel and the gang are nothing more than the opposite side of the coin to The Lost Tomb of Jesus, The DaVinci Code, or The Bible Code. They all aim to prove or disprove something that people of faith take as the work of God, something that we take on faith, not as head knowledge.
It all comes down to a person’s experience with the resurrected Jesus. It is a spiritual thing that surpasses objective knowledge. I take the central teachings of Christianity as true, not because a great scholar proved it to me, but because I once was a sinner who did not know about forgiveness and eternal life. But I had a religious experience that I can only describe as mysterious yet real. I can only tell you that I believe in the resurrected Jesus because I have personally experienced the resurrected Jesus.
We all lose our faith from time to time – I pray that this weekend’s celebration of the resurrection will be a resurrection of things dead or dying in your soul. I’ll be preaching a sermon from Matthew 28.1-15 entitled No Bones About It in worship at Willow Meadows Baptist Church this Easter Sunday. We gather at 9am and 11:10am and you are invited to join us.
Faithfully,
Pastor Gary
Not a Sermon – Just a Thought is a weekly e-column by me, Gary Long, pastor of Willow Meadows Baptist Church in Houston, Texas. You can subscribe or unsubscribe by emailing me at glong@wmbc.org.
The Lost Tomb of Jesus aired on March 4, 2007, on the Discovery Channel. The documentary asserts that five bone boxes found in southern Jerusalem in the early 1980’s are the mortal remains of Jesus and his family. If the claim is true, it has the potential of upending the claims of Christianity about Jesus and his bodily resurrection, a belief which is central to the faith.
There is too little time here to critique the documentary from a scientific, archaeological, or historical view – after all, this a thought, not a sermon. I’ll leave that to other scholars who have done it exceedingly well because here’s the bottom line for me: You can’t prove the resurrection.
We can take a cue from the historical claims of those who witnessed the living Jesus after the event of the cross. But even the historical claims of the gospel writers and historians are not enough to completely fill in the blanks of this story.
Sure, lots of writers like Lee Strobel (The Case for Christ) make an intelligent and investigative claim that Jesus lived, died, and came to life again. But Strobel and the gang are nothing more than the opposite side of the coin to The Lost Tomb of Jesus, The DaVinci Code, or The Bible Code. They all aim to prove or disprove something that people of faith take as the work of God, something that we take on faith, not as head knowledge.
It all comes down to a person’s experience with the resurrected Jesus. It is a spiritual thing that surpasses objective knowledge. I take the central teachings of Christianity as true, not because a great scholar proved it to me, but because I once was a sinner who did not know about forgiveness and eternal life. But I had a religious experience that I can only describe as mysterious yet real. I can only tell you that I believe in the resurrected Jesus because I have personally experienced the resurrected Jesus.
We all lose our faith from time to time – I pray that this weekend’s celebration of the resurrection will be a resurrection of things dead or dying in your soul. I’ll be preaching a sermon from Matthew 28.1-15 entitled No Bones About It in worship at Willow Meadows Baptist Church this Easter Sunday. We gather at 9am and 11:10am and you are invited to join us.
Faithfully,
Pastor Gary
Not a Sermon – Just a Thought is a weekly e-column by me, Gary Long, pastor of Willow Meadows Baptist Church in Houston, Texas. You can subscribe or unsubscribe by emailing me at glong@wmbc.org.
Thursday, April 05, 2007
I Can’t Make You Love Me
A Maundy Thursday meditation
Bonnie Raitt soulfully sang, “I can’t make you love me.” She’s right. You can’t make your heart feel something it won’t. I can’t make anyone love me, and wouldn’t want to try. I want my wife, my family, my friends to love me because they choose to. But Jesus took a different approach to this issue. At the Last Supper he tells his disciples “Love one another.”
He didn’t say, “Love one another if you feel like it.”
He didn’t say, “Love one another if it’s convenient.”
He didn’t say, “Love one another if the other is pretty.”
He didn’t say, “Love one another if they love you back.”
His mandate to love (hence the name Maundy Thursday) is not conditional and it is not optional. Christians are called to this higher kind of love. We are called to serve when we’d rather be served. We are called to give when we’d rather take. We are called to pour out when we’d rather drink down.
This is a difficult Word because not everyone is lovely or loveable. The reputation of Christianity is muddied by those of us who claim the name of Jesus and tried to close our eyes to love. Those of us who would follow Jesus must follow this rule of life, being mindful of the words of 1 John 4.8: “Whoever does not love does not know God, because God is love.”
If you’re in Houston, I invite you to join us at Willow Meadows Baptist Church at 7pm this evening as we observe communion and foot washing in honor of Jesus’ Last Supper during our Maundy Thursday Service. Our worship service will be a rehearsal for the real life of serving one another in the here and now world and in the kingdom of God to come.
In these final hours before the crucifixion,
Pastor Gary
Bonnie Raitt soulfully sang, “I can’t make you love me.” She’s right. You can’t make your heart feel something it won’t. I can’t make anyone love me, and wouldn’t want to try. I want my wife, my family, my friends to love me because they choose to. But Jesus took a different approach to this issue. At the Last Supper he tells his disciples “Love one another.”
He didn’t say, “Love one another if you feel like it.”
He didn’t say, “Love one another if it’s convenient.”
He didn’t say, “Love one another if the other is pretty.”
He didn’t say, “Love one another if they love you back.”
His mandate to love (hence the name Maundy Thursday) is not conditional and it is not optional. Christians are called to this higher kind of love. We are called to serve when we’d rather be served. We are called to give when we’d rather take. We are called to pour out when we’d rather drink down.
This is a difficult Word because not everyone is lovely or loveable. The reputation of Christianity is muddied by those of us who claim the name of Jesus and tried to close our eyes to love. Those of us who would follow Jesus must follow this rule of life, being mindful of the words of 1 John 4.8: “Whoever does not love does not know God, because God is love.”
If you’re in Houston, I invite you to join us at Willow Meadows Baptist Church at 7pm this evening as we observe communion and foot washing in honor of Jesus’ Last Supper during our Maundy Thursday Service. Our worship service will be a rehearsal for the real life of serving one another in the here and now world and in the kingdom of God to come.
In these final hours before the crucifixion,
Pastor Gary
Tuesday, April 03, 2007
The Lees of Desire and Yearning
I'm reading thirteen moons by Charles Frazier. The jury is still out on how good a story it is, but so far the writing is breath taking. Better than Cold Mountain; more alive, more poetic.
In the first chapter the main character, Will Cooper, is an old, old man, feeble and nearly bed ridden. "There is no scatheless rapture," he says. "...even when all else is lost, there is yearning. One of the few welcome lessons age teaches is that only desire trumps time."
I'm only 36, and though ancient to my children, I'm young to a lot of people. I feel young to me. I don't know what it means to be old, but I'm far enough along the journey now to understand what it means to age. I hope Will is right. I hope that yearning persists, that desire does trump time.
A lot of what I see as a pastor suggests otherwise, though. What I see suggests that most souls die long before their bodies, that desire and yearning are a commodity of the young. What I see suggests that passion proves faltering when dreams die. What I see suggests that vision and possibility seem less important for most of the aged than for the young.
There are exceptions, of course. Take one of my church members. He is in his 70's, he dances competitively, and he visits our church members in the hospital every day. In many ways he's younger than me and passion still has a grip on him. But the average middle class American seems so lulled into complacency that living life is more maintenance than anything else. It is a taming by way of easy life.
This I cannot take. This way I cannot live.
- Desire means that no matter how many times you read The Old Man and the Sea, you still believe he might pull that fish in.
- Yearning means that no matter how many times you watch The Blues Brothers you laugh at the "Orange whip" line.
- Desire means that no matter how many times you've held her, you want to do it again.
- Yearning actually means that my favorite joke about the Scotsman and the steering wheel sticking out of his kilt is always going to make me laugh when I tell it.
- Desire means that no matter how sleepy I get, I'm always willing to shoot one more game of pool, linger in that conversation just a few ideas more, and to argue politics with you even when we agree.
I cannot imagine a life without yearning and desire. Will Cooper gives me hope that ahead of me still lies years of wanderlust, adventure, restlessness, and hope. When that ceases, someone please take me off of the ventilator. Until then, I want to live life to the lees.
In the first chapter the main character, Will Cooper, is an old, old man, feeble and nearly bed ridden. "There is no scatheless rapture," he says. "...even when all else is lost, there is yearning. One of the few welcome lessons age teaches is that only desire trumps time."
I'm only 36, and though ancient to my children, I'm young to a lot of people. I feel young to me. I don't know what it means to be old, but I'm far enough along the journey now to understand what it means to age. I hope Will is right. I hope that yearning persists, that desire does trump time.
A lot of what I see as a pastor suggests otherwise, though. What I see suggests that most souls die long before their bodies, that desire and yearning are a commodity of the young. What I see suggests that passion proves faltering when dreams die. What I see suggests that vision and possibility seem less important for most of the aged than for the young.
There are exceptions, of course. Take one of my church members. He is in his 70's, he dances competitively, and he visits our church members in the hospital every day. In many ways he's younger than me and passion still has a grip on him. But the average middle class American seems so lulled into complacency that living life is more maintenance than anything else. It is a taming by way of easy life.
This I cannot take. This way I cannot live.
- Desire means that no matter how many times you read The Old Man and the Sea, you still believe he might pull that fish in.
- Yearning means that no matter how many times you watch The Blues Brothers you laugh at the "Orange whip" line.
- Desire means that no matter how many times you've held her, you want to do it again.
- Yearning actually means that my favorite joke about the Scotsman and the steering wheel sticking out of his kilt is always going to make me laugh when I tell it.
- Desire means that no matter how sleepy I get, I'm always willing to shoot one more game of pool, linger in that conversation just a few ideas more, and to argue politics with you even when we agree.
I cannot imagine a life without yearning and desire. Will Cooper gives me hope that ahead of me still lies years of wanderlust, adventure, restlessness, and hope. When that ceases, someone please take me off of the ventilator. Until then, I want to live life to the lees.
Friday, March 30, 2007
The Problem with Palms
Not a Sermon - Just a Thought, March 30, 2007
I know you’re getting ready for Sunday. It’s April 1, the Day of Fools, a day for pranks and jokes and tricks. But don’t forget ‘tis Palm Sunday, too. This is the Sunday we remember Jesus’ triumphal parade into Jerusalem, when he was received with the shouts of “Hosanna!” It’s a good change of pace after five Sundays of Lenten suffering, woe, and weal. The choir and children will wave palms, and we’ll focus on Jesus’ popularity with the people. It’s like the feel-good movie of the year.
But not so fast.
There is a problem here and it has to do with what’s coming down the track for Jesus. Those palm branches are going to turn brown quick and the shouts of “Hosanna” are going to change by Friday to shouts of “Crucify him!” The crowd that adores throng will become angry mob. And yet, he moves on. Determination defines his moves. Jesus, now confident in who he is, presses on, casting a whole new meaning on “purpose driven life.” The real story is that crucifixion awaits him, even as the throngs adore him. What appears to be triumph in the fleeting moments of the parade is only a paper-thin veil over the real story. Yes, triumph belongs to Jesus, but not in the way the crowd expects. Not in the way the disciples expect. Perhaps not even in the way that Jesus expects.
The triumph comes later in the gritty shame of dying naked on a cross. The triumph comes later as blood pours from his head, “sorrow and love flow mingled down” says the hymn. The triumph comes later as the soldiers gamble over his garments and pierce his side. The triumph comes, not with a bang, but a whimper. No standing ovations, no walk-off home run, no flag unfurled. Not even an “amen.”
“It is finished” he says.
I must admit, my personal theology prefers Jesus’ triumphal entry to Jesus’ un-glorious exit. American Christianity prefers a paparazzi Jesus over the suffering God. Our religion is largely about the “show,” the “what’s in it for me” factor, the bigger numbers. We want the glory of the parade, not the shame of the cross. We want the feel-good breeze of the waving palms, but would like to pass on the bitter cup. Jesus calls us disciples to triumphal Christianity, but the way to triumph is going to be different that most of us expect.
Christ will call us to triumph with him, but be warned. We are called to act without guarantees, to sit down when we’d rather stand up and fight, to embrace paradox and mystery with little hope to understand. In our own ways, we must each pick up a cross and bear it in triumph.
This Sunday I’m preaching a sermon about all this entitled Triumphal Christianity, and it’s based on Matthew 21.1-11. We’ll gather for worship at 9am and 11:10am at Willow Meadows Baptist Church, if you’re in Houston this weekend, please join us!
No foolin’
Pastor Gary
Not a Sermon – Just a Thought is a weekly email column written by me, Gary Long. I’m pastor at Willow Meadows Baptist Church in Houston, Texas. You can learn more about WMBC at www.wmbc.org. You can subscribe to the weekly email by contacting me at glong@wmbc.org.
I know you’re getting ready for Sunday. It’s April 1, the Day of Fools, a day for pranks and jokes and tricks. But don’t forget ‘tis Palm Sunday, too. This is the Sunday we remember Jesus’ triumphal parade into Jerusalem, when he was received with the shouts of “Hosanna!” It’s a good change of pace after five Sundays of Lenten suffering, woe, and weal. The choir and children will wave palms, and we’ll focus on Jesus’ popularity with the people. It’s like the feel-good movie of the year.
But not so fast.
There is a problem here and it has to do with what’s coming down the track for Jesus. Those palm branches are going to turn brown quick and the shouts of “Hosanna” are going to change by Friday to shouts of “Crucify him!” The crowd that adores throng will become angry mob. And yet, he moves on. Determination defines his moves. Jesus, now confident in who he is, presses on, casting a whole new meaning on “purpose driven life.” The real story is that crucifixion awaits him, even as the throngs adore him. What appears to be triumph in the fleeting moments of the parade is only a paper-thin veil over the real story. Yes, triumph belongs to Jesus, but not in the way the crowd expects. Not in the way the disciples expect. Perhaps not even in the way that Jesus expects.
The triumph comes later in the gritty shame of dying naked on a cross. The triumph comes later as blood pours from his head, “sorrow and love flow mingled down” says the hymn. The triumph comes later as the soldiers gamble over his garments and pierce his side. The triumph comes, not with a bang, but a whimper. No standing ovations, no walk-off home run, no flag unfurled. Not even an “amen.”
“It is finished” he says.
I must admit, my personal theology prefers Jesus’ triumphal entry to Jesus’ un-glorious exit. American Christianity prefers a paparazzi Jesus over the suffering God. Our religion is largely about the “show,” the “what’s in it for me” factor, the bigger numbers. We want the glory of the parade, not the shame of the cross. We want the feel-good breeze of the waving palms, but would like to pass on the bitter cup. Jesus calls us disciples to triumphal Christianity, but the way to triumph is going to be different that most of us expect.
Christ will call us to triumph with him, but be warned. We are called to act without guarantees, to sit down when we’d rather stand up and fight, to embrace paradox and mystery with little hope to understand. In our own ways, we must each pick up a cross and bear it in triumph.
This Sunday I’m preaching a sermon about all this entitled Triumphal Christianity, and it’s based on Matthew 21.1-11. We’ll gather for worship at 9am and 11:10am at Willow Meadows Baptist Church, if you’re in Houston this weekend, please join us!
No foolin’
Pastor Gary
Not a Sermon – Just a Thought is a weekly email column written by me, Gary Long. I’m pastor at Willow Meadows Baptist Church in Houston, Texas. You can learn more about WMBC at www.wmbc.org. You can subscribe to the weekly email by contacting me at glong@wmbc.org.
Thursday, March 29, 2007
A Grief Observed - the Carolina Blues
I've moved through the denial stage of my grief.
With the added strength of my friends, I am able to admit that Carolina lost to Georgetown. I know the rest of the world has been able to talk about this since Sunday night, but I've been under a shroud of grief and wailing since the UNC loss in the Regional Finals this past weekend.
I'll even admit that it was a poetic win for the Hoyas, given the Ewings and the Thompsons in the second generation and all. I realize I sound like Friday night Prime Time TV - Who shot J.R.? Not Tyler Hansbrough!
And come on CBS radio, did you really have to have John Thompson Sr. call the game? Not only was it lopsided coverage, his speech is so slurred he sounds like a guy on a three day drunk, medicated, and on a ventilator.
And while I'm on CBS's choice of commentators, I just have to add my two cents worth. Billy Packer, please do us all a favor. Get on the circut to call Professional Bowling, badminton, or even the Olympics. Just get out of the March Madness business. I hate to break it to you, but nobody likes the way you call games. And Jim Nantz, if you have any dignity, put some Visine in Billy's drink on Saturday afternoon so we can all watch the game in peace! Not even switching to the radio works because of stupid satellite delays.
So about my dream. For three nights in a row I've had a haunting dream that Ellington made the last shot to win in regulation, Roy runs on the court to hug him, and the film fades to UNC Blue (2004/05 uniform colors, not 05/06 and beyond...sorry Ralph Lauren, you design great shirts but you suck at picking men's basketball uniform colors...end of rant). I'm up late tonight hoping if I get tired enough the dream won't come again.
It's a bad dream - not because UNC wins - but because I wake up each morning and UNC is still at home watching the Final Four, wondering exactly when Billy Donvan is going to annouce he's heading to Kentucky. Not even the Houston Rockets can pick me up out of this funk.
I know, maybe a day of sailing. Gee, I'll have to check into that. I know I won't be watching basketball this weekend. I know what's happening - the Kentucky coach is going to win it all.
With the added strength of my friends, I am able to admit that Carolina lost to Georgetown. I know the rest of the world has been able to talk about this since Sunday night, but I've been under a shroud of grief and wailing since the UNC loss in the Regional Finals this past weekend.
I'll even admit that it was a poetic win for the Hoyas, given the Ewings and the Thompsons in the second generation and all. I realize I sound like Friday night Prime Time TV - Who shot J.R.? Not Tyler Hansbrough!
And come on CBS radio, did you really have to have John Thompson Sr. call the game? Not only was it lopsided coverage, his speech is so slurred he sounds like a guy on a three day drunk, medicated, and on a ventilator.
And while I'm on CBS's choice of commentators, I just have to add my two cents worth. Billy Packer, please do us all a favor. Get on the circut to call Professional Bowling, badminton, or even the Olympics. Just get out of the March Madness business. I hate to break it to you, but nobody likes the way you call games. And Jim Nantz, if you have any dignity, put some Visine in Billy's drink on Saturday afternoon so we can all watch the game in peace! Not even switching to the radio works because of stupid satellite delays.
So about my dream. For three nights in a row I've had a haunting dream that Ellington made the last shot to win in regulation, Roy runs on the court to hug him, and the film fades to UNC Blue (2004/05 uniform colors, not 05/06 and beyond...sorry Ralph Lauren, you design great shirts but you suck at picking men's basketball uniform colors...end of rant). I'm up late tonight hoping if I get tired enough the dream won't come again.
It's a bad dream - not because UNC wins - but because I wake up each morning and UNC is still at home watching the Final Four, wondering exactly when Billy Donvan is going to annouce he's heading to Kentucky. Not even the Houston Rockets can pick me up out of this funk.
I know, maybe a day of sailing. Gee, I'll have to check into that. I know I won't be watching basketball this weekend. I know what's happening - the Kentucky coach is going to win it all.
Saturday, March 24, 2007
The Heels Had Me Sweatin'
I had a bet with my photographer friend on the UNC/USC game last night. If USC won I was going to wear an obnoxious USC shirt to preach in tomorrow. If UNC won, she would wear a UNC shirt of my choosing to sing her solo with our worship band.
My boys had me sweatin' last night, but they pulled it out. Looks like she'll be donning the Carolina Blue tomorrow in church!
My boys had me sweatin' last night, but they pulled it out. Looks like she'll be donning the Carolina Blue tomorrow in church!
Friday, March 23, 2007
Tough Call - Underoos or Cleats?
So Monday night I was out at the Westbury Little League field serving as a volunteer dad. The deal is this: I go over and umpire a baseball game for other teams when the Brother isn't playing. The dads from the other teams take a turn umping when the Brother's team is playing.
It's a pretty good system, but I have come to appreciate how hard it is to make a close call in any sport as an official. It's hard because occasionally you have to make a tough call.
I'm impressed by these little leaguers. They really do look like big-time ball players. They wear their cleats, their bright socks at the bottom of those short legged white baseball pants, and their jerseys tucked in just so. Pay attention to the part about the pants being "white," ok?
So there I am, standing on that infield/outfield margin about halfway between first and second base. The coach is yelling at a kid in right field about something, "Pay attention! Get your head in the game."
I turned around to see what the coach was yelling about and the kid was bent over picking clover and throwing it in the air. Dangerously, he was also facing away from the action. He bent over again, oblivious to the crowd now chuckling at him.
That's when I saw it.
Through his white pants it was easy to see that he is a fan of Spiderman. We know this because we could all see Spiderman Underoos shining through those white pants.
Underoo's and cleats.
Little boy trying to be a big man.
Tugged by time in two directions.
"Get your head in the game," the grown up is yelling, telling him to pay attention, be responsible, get on the ball, grow up, be mature.
"Let's play just a little longer," his Underoo's beckon, read comics, toss some clover, roll some matchbox cars on the floor, have a tickle fight, tease your sister.
Now that's a tough call says the man who wants to play just a little longer.
It's a pretty good system, but I have come to appreciate how hard it is to make a close call in any sport as an official. It's hard because occasionally you have to make a tough call.
I'm impressed by these little leaguers. They really do look like big-time ball players. They wear their cleats, their bright socks at the bottom of those short legged white baseball pants, and their jerseys tucked in just so. Pay attention to the part about the pants being "white," ok?
So there I am, standing on that infield/outfield margin about halfway between first and second base. The coach is yelling at a kid in right field about something, "Pay attention! Get your head in the game."
I turned around to see what the coach was yelling about and the kid was bent over picking clover and throwing it in the air. Dangerously, he was also facing away from the action. He bent over again, oblivious to the crowd now chuckling at him.
That's when I saw it.
Through his white pants it was easy to see that he is a fan of Spiderman. We know this because we could all see Spiderman Underoos shining through those white pants.
Underoo's and cleats.
Little boy trying to be a big man.
Tugged by time in two directions.
"Get your head in the game," the grown up is yelling, telling him to pay attention, be responsible, get on the ball, grow up, be mature.
"Let's play just a little longer," his Underoo's beckon, read comics, toss some clover, roll some matchbox cars on the floor, have a tickle fight, tease your sister.
Now that's a tough call says the man who wants to play just a little longer.
Don’t Waste Your Suffering
Not a Sermon - Just a Thought
The Holocaust Museum in Washington, D.C. is a mind-numbing depiction of the vast suffering of the Jewish people during Hitler's reign. A tour begins with a ride in an elevator of cold steel to the top floor. You slowly wind from top to bottom through the exhibit, spiraling downward as if you were tumbling into the collective Jewish conscious, sinking deeper and deeper into the darkness and evil of the holocaust. The walls are covered with images and artifacts of the terrible reign of power, as well as evidence of suffering and death for the Jewish people.
But on the very bottom floor you will find the powerful juxtaposition of evil and hope. Children's artwork captured on ceramic tiles forms a mosaic testament to the power of the human spirit to overcome even the darkest of evil and of suffering. Modern children have chosen to look at all the pain and suffering of the Holocaust and turn it into a beautiful work of art. It is not some unbridled optimism when I say this, but what we choose to do with evil and suffering matters. And we do have choices!
You may be stuck with a situation, condition, or illness that you cannot reverse, but what you choose to do in that situation can change the outcome of the story. You can choose to blame God, to blame others, to blame evil forces, to blame the government, to blame your parents, to blame yourself. You can choose to wallow in the mud of martyrdom, you can choose to allow your story of suffering to become your own little ad campaign for depression and constant wailing, you can choose to remain stuck and do nothing.
You can choose those things.
But you can also choose to draw closer to God in your suffering. For when you do, you are able to experience the mystery of a God who suffers with us. You can choose to draw closer to family and friends in your suffering. For when you do, you are able to experience the strength of true community that shares pain. You can choose to be the person God made you to be, writing a story that includes a chapter of suffering, but not be limited by suffering. For when you do, your life can be defined by your response to suffering.
This is not stoicism. I’m not saying to clench your jaw to “grin and bear it.” But do not let pain and suffering define you. Instead, define it. Allow God to use the pain like a tool to shape your final outcome, to shape your relief, to capture you as a portrait of perseverance. For you are a work of art, full of light and shadows, hope and struggle. Your suffering can be wasted or put to use in God’s reign, if you choose.
I’ll be talking about this in more depth this Sunday at Willow Meadows Baptist Church. We’ll gather at 9am and 11:10am for worship that will include a sermon entitled Don’t Waste Your Suffering. It’s based on that tricky Pauline passage, Romans 8.28-30. Hope to see you there.
Hopefully,
Pastor Gary
You can learn more about our church at www.wmbc.org and you can read more of my writing at www.tothelees.blogspot.com. You can subscribe to this weekly list by emailing me at glong@wmbc.org
Romans 8.28-30 – New International Version
28And we know that in all things God works for the good of those who love him, who have been called according to his purpose. 29For those God foreknew he also predestined to be conformed to the likeness of his Son, that he might be the firstborn among many brothers. 30And those he predestined, he also called; those he called, he also justified; those he justified, he also glorified.
The Holocaust Museum in Washington, D.C. is a mind-numbing depiction of the vast suffering of the Jewish people during Hitler's reign. A tour begins with a ride in an elevator of cold steel to the top floor. You slowly wind from top to bottom through the exhibit, spiraling downward as if you were tumbling into the collective Jewish conscious, sinking deeper and deeper into the darkness and evil of the holocaust. The walls are covered with images and artifacts of the terrible reign of power, as well as evidence of suffering and death for the Jewish people.
But on the very bottom floor you will find the powerful juxtaposition of evil and hope. Children's artwork captured on ceramic tiles forms a mosaic testament to the power of the human spirit to overcome even the darkest of evil and of suffering. Modern children have chosen to look at all the pain and suffering of the Holocaust and turn it into a beautiful work of art. It is not some unbridled optimism when I say this, but what we choose to do with evil and suffering matters. And we do have choices!
You may be stuck with a situation, condition, or illness that you cannot reverse, but what you choose to do in that situation can change the outcome of the story. You can choose to blame God, to blame others, to blame evil forces, to blame the government, to blame your parents, to blame yourself. You can choose to wallow in the mud of martyrdom, you can choose to allow your story of suffering to become your own little ad campaign for depression and constant wailing, you can choose to remain stuck and do nothing.
You can choose those things.
But you can also choose to draw closer to God in your suffering. For when you do, you are able to experience the mystery of a God who suffers with us. You can choose to draw closer to family and friends in your suffering. For when you do, you are able to experience the strength of true community that shares pain. You can choose to be the person God made you to be, writing a story that includes a chapter of suffering, but not be limited by suffering. For when you do, your life can be defined by your response to suffering.
This is not stoicism. I’m not saying to clench your jaw to “grin and bear it.” But do not let pain and suffering define you. Instead, define it. Allow God to use the pain like a tool to shape your final outcome, to shape your relief, to capture you as a portrait of perseverance. For you are a work of art, full of light and shadows, hope and struggle. Your suffering can be wasted or put to use in God’s reign, if you choose.
I’ll be talking about this in more depth this Sunday at Willow Meadows Baptist Church. We’ll gather at 9am and 11:10am for worship that will include a sermon entitled Don’t Waste Your Suffering. It’s based on that tricky Pauline passage, Romans 8.28-30. Hope to see you there.
Hopefully,
Pastor Gary
You can learn more about our church at www.wmbc.org and you can read more of my writing at www.tothelees.blogspot.com. You can subscribe to this weekly list by emailing me at glong@wmbc.org
Romans 8.28-30 – New International Version
28And we know that in all things God works for the good of those who love him, who have been called according to his purpose. 29For those God foreknew he also predestined to be conformed to the likeness of his Son, that he might be the firstborn among many brothers. 30And those he predestined, he also called; those he called, he also justified; those he justified, he also glorified.
Thursday, March 22, 2007
Bitter in My Stomach
This piece was written by a friend of mine named Mark Bethune. It is not particularly cheery, but it does seem to fit well with my latest phase of angst over death. It is well written and takes God to task. It also stops short of answering the question it asks, leaving that up to you, the reader, to think for yourself.
Mark is pastor of First Baptist Church, Eden, Texas. You can reach him at edenfbc1@wcc.net
March 2007
Rebekah cries.
My preteen daughter shouldn’t have to mourn the loss of a friend. Parents shouldn’t have to bury their children. And Sheol shouldn’t open her cavernous mouth and receive the Communion of a precocious spirit. But she is; they are; and she does without discrimination.
Rebekah, the second angel breathed from the Mark/Liz union, typically a child of awe inspiring wonder and boundless imagination, endowed with the spiritual gift of infectious laughter and happiness, today, is a broken soul. Last week, Brandyn walked with Rebekah to art class. Today, she walks alone, not for junior high drama that seems all-important in the sweet days of youth, but because last Sunday her companion left this mortal plane. Brandyn died. It’s real. And it should be the stuff of adults, but death is no respecter of persons or ages.
I hurt for my daughter. I did not experience the death of any of my contemporaries until I reached my late teens when Jay, fellow trombonist and 3 years my senior, decided to exit this life in a blaze of glory one Sunday morning as he sat in the office of our small-town grocery. Even then, we weren’t exactly close. Our intimacy consisted of sharing a bottle of Southern Comfort on a band trip. His death was a surreal experience; it is almost like my memories of him were Platonic shadows on the wall of my mind.
I am quickly approaching 40; death has steadily increased her pace. Sometimes, I hear her panting right behind me, and I gasp as I consider how near I am to losing my footing. She is beginning to overtake some of my friends, friends whom I intimately know, friends who are more real than my fleeting ethereal memories, friends whom I miss, friends whom I love. If God grants me another 40 trips around the sun, death will increase her stride exponentially. But if mind and body do not fail at 80, and I am granted another score, death’s sprint will fade to a crawl; not because her thirst is quenched, but because she has exhausted the corporal resources of the Class of ’85. This is how it should be. But today, death has lapped us and taunts as the runners’ cramp burns. Oh, that my daughter’s pain is a mere anomaly!
I am cursed, vocationally and paternally. In the soul-wrenching gloominess of the presence of the grave my children look to me with heads cocked and watery-eyed expressions that search for meaning and comfort. And I give them neither. I refuse to blame, question, or otherwise publicly impugn God’s character when I suffer from myopic selfishness and an abundance of ignorance, though I may be so bold or grief stricken to go a round or two in private. He is big enough to take care of himself. As for comfort – all that I can offer is my silent presence, hopefully Christ in flesh in bone, Christ with the name “daddy”. But, ultimately, Rebekah must recognize the face of Jesus on her own; he won’t shout for attention.
I refuse to enter into the debate. Well intentioned as it might be, ultimately it is a futile playing-with-words. We may defend God’s honor and coldly defer to God’s Inscrutable Will by reciting that “as Heaven is above the Earth, so are His ways higher than our ways,” or perhaps we might embrace the Potter/clay imagery and rest assured that it is his prerogative to crush vessels made by his hands. We could be carried away to the opposite pole and advocate humanity’s free will; but in doing so, God comes across as a charitable wimp who wants to help, really, he does, but just can’t overcome the force of our will. I judge both positions wanting.
It is my custom to leave you with a ray of hope. Well, the sun is not shining and a chill hangs in the air; in fact, I think it’s going to rain. But, as Little Orphan Annie sang out in that saccharine shrill, “The sun will come out, tomorrow. Bet your bottom dollar that tomorrow, there’ll be sun.” Even so, come dawn quickly.
Mark
Mark is pastor of First Baptist Church, Eden, Texas. You can reach him at edenfbc1@wcc.net
March 2007
Rebekah cries.
My preteen daughter shouldn’t have to mourn the loss of a friend. Parents shouldn’t have to bury their children. And Sheol shouldn’t open her cavernous mouth and receive the Communion of a precocious spirit. But she is; they are; and she does without discrimination.
Rebekah, the second angel breathed from the Mark/Liz union, typically a child of awe inspiring wonder and boundless imagination, endowed with the spiritual gift of infectious laughter and happiness, today, is a broken soul. Last week, Brandyn walked with Rebekah to art class. Today, she walks alone, not for junior high drama that seems all-important in the sweet days of youth, but because last Sunday her companion left this mortal plane. Brandyn died. It’s real. And it should be the stuff of adults, but death is no respecter of persons or ages.
I hurt for my daughter. I did not experience the death of any of my contemporaries until I reached my late teens when Jay, fellow trombonist and 3 years my senior, decided to exit this life in a blaze of glory one Sunday morning as he sat in the office of our small-town grocery. Even then, we weren’t exactly close. Our intimacy consisted of sharing a bottle of Southern Comfort on a band trip. His death was a surreal experience; it is almost like my memories of him were Platonic shadows on the wall of my mind.
I am quickly approaching 40; death has steadily increased her pace. Sometimes, I hear her panting right behind me, and I gasp as I consider how near I am to losing my footing. She is beginning to overtake some of my friends, friends whom I intimately know, friends who are more real than my fleeting ethereal memories, friends whom I miss, friends whom I love. If God grants me another 40 trips around the sun, death will increase her stride exponentially. But if mind and body do not fail at 80, and I am granted another score, death’s sprint will fade to a crawl; not because her thirst is quenched, but because she has exhausted the corporal resources of the Class of ’85. This is how it should be. But today, death has lapped us and taunts as the runners’ cramp burns. Oh, that my daughter’s pain is a mere anomaly!
I am cursed, vocationally and paternally. In the soul-wrenching gloominess of the presence of the grave my children look to me with heads cocked and watery-eyed expressions that search for meaning and comfort. And I give them neither. I refuse to blame, question, or otherwise publicly impugn God’s character when I suffer from myopic selfishness and an abundance of ignorance, though I may be so bold or grief stricken to go a round or two in private. He is big enough to take care of himself. As for comfort – all that I can offer is my silent presence, hopefully Christ in flesh in bone, Christ with the name “daddy”. But, ultimately, Rebekah must recognize the face of Jesus on her own; he won’t shout for attention.
I refuse to enter into the debate. Well intentioned as it might be, ultimately it is a futile playing-with-words. We may defend God’s honor and coldly defer to God’s Inscrutable Will by reciting that “as Heaven is above the Earth, so are His ways higher than our ways,” or perhaps we might embrace the Potter/clay imagery and rest assured that it is his prerogative to crush vessels made by his hands. We could be carried away to the opposite pole and advocate humanity’s free will; but in doing so, God comes across as a charitable wimp who wants to help, really, he does, but just can’t overcome the force of our will. I judge both positions wanting.
It is my custom to leave you with a ray of hope. Well, the sun is not shining and a chill hangs in the air; in fact, I think it’s going to rain. But, as Little Orphan Annie sang out in that saccharine shrill, “The sun will come out, tomorrow. Bet your bottom dollar that tomorrow, there’ll be sun.” Even so, come dawn quickly.
Mark
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