Hope, It's a Choice

HOPE

I'm not that blind or stupid. I know I live in a world full of problems and pain, but as I look out on the world on this morning after Easter, I see reason to hope. As He has done since He created the cosmos, God has once again kept the earth rotating, and orbiting. Day follows night, and, though it doesn't mean as much where I am now, spring follows winter. A moment ago the sun was shining. The yard sparkles with the droplets from the rain that just fell. The grass is green and the flowers continue to bloom. As an example of flourishing amid hostility, a little blue flower--a tropical weed, I suppose--which I plucked from a rock--literally, it was growing in a chunk of coral--is still bright and pretty after a week of being stuck in an old Pepsi can. Though my surroundings make me feel hopeful, I do not hope because it feels right. They do, but that is not primarily why. On this day after Easter, I hope because it makes sense to hope. On Good Friday we remembered the supreme demonstration of love. "God so loved the world. . . ." Yesterday, I rejoiced in the marvelous account of the resurrection of Christ, the ultimate demonstration of power. If God loves me that much and If even death and all the forces of darkness cannot keep Jesus from His mission to seek and to save, Then it makes sense to hope. I choose to hope. Not every morning is as hopeful feeling as this one, but the facts that cause me to choose to hope are steadfast. It's STTA.

Listen for the Sounds of Hope

LISTEN!

In our temporary home on, what for us, is the other side of the world, Kathy and I generally awake to the sound of roosters. You'll note that is plural. I'm not talking about one proud male welcoming the sun, or arrogantly assuming that it rises at his command. No, I'm guessing there are well over a hundred of the birds next door. Not only do we awake to their announcement, "Cock-a-doodle-I'm-cock-of-the-roost . . . the-baddest-chicken-in-this-yard!" cries, but often we go to bed to it, and for reasons, yet hidden from me in chicken psychology, all during the day there are periods of intense racket. Using human logic, I figure one of the guys, who lost his cellphone and therefore doesn't know it's the middle of the day, let's out with a crow, which then demands a response from a neighbor, and so the auditory cascade begins. I don't speak Chicken, so I really don't what they are saying, but I can provide some context. Each bird is caged, or tied to a tether, so he cannot reach his neighbors. Everyone of them live with only a few desires: They want to eat. Their owner gives them what they need. He wants them to be strong for what is ahead. They desperately want to get with a hen. As far as I know that desire is frustrated in order to sharpen their lust for the one other thing they want. Each of those birds has a marble-sized brain filled with an all-consuming desire to kill every other rooster on the place. When we look at what is ahead, we know that they will have their opportunity. The chickens next door aren't being kept for eggs (I do know that roosters don't lay eggs), nor are they being raised to eat. The fowl next door are gladiators. They will die in fights arranged for the amusement of those who watch. Another striking feature of my temporary home is the near total absence of birds other than chickens. I've told you in the past about the Brown Tree Snake. It should not be here. The progenitors of the pests who eat every bird and egg they can swallow were brought here by another group with death on their minds. Apparently, a couple of snakes hitched a ride with the military during World War 2. In this cacophonous environment, marked by the by-products of death, a world where the beautiful is consumed by the ugly, and where those bent on death announce their intentions as loudly as possible, is there any hope? Most mornings I hear the soft call of a dove. Exactly how this gentlest of birds has avoided the predation of the serpent invader, I don't know. It's soft "coo" gives me hope. That, and for the past several days I hear the sounds of hammers, saws, and grinders. A short-term missions team is here doing some projects on our little campus. Pacific Islands Universityexists to push back against the darkness. We believe that if we send out women and men who see this sin-cursed, death-infected world through a Biblical lens, that they will be agents of change. They are part of that army who knows that the battle is not won by those who crow loudest, nor by those with the most agents of death on their side. Our message is one of peace in the midst of conflict, life in the face of death, light that overcomes darkness, and hope. Hope. HOPE. It's a message and a cause that is worth our best effort. It's STTA. I think if you read the first 10 verses of Ephesians 2, you'll see that my temporary home is not all that different from the place we all live, planet earth. Find out about how the Son of God redeems our past, gives purpose in the present, and hope for the future, here. One more thing: Got any good recipes for chicken stew?

Hope, With A Side Of Hash-browns

Hope, With A Side Of Hash-browns / Thankful:

"Usually, it works like a well-oiled machine."   There was plenty of oil and grease in the Waffle House where we stopped for lunch on the way to my son's home, but that's not what makes the team that dishes out waffles, eggs, burgers and hash-browns work.  I'll get back to that in a moment. November 8th a bunch of my fellow-citizens, having concluded our country is going to the place of Divine, eternal retribution in a hand-basket shocked the world by electing a complete outsider to the highest office in our land.  On Wednesday morning, another group of Americans knew for sure that the picnic container we are in was headed to the fire that won't be quenched.  Still others see the divide among our population, that the election confirmed, and just know that the two-sided wicker tote, with all its contents--that would be we Red-White-and-Blue types--is about to plunge into the pit with no bottom. There were about eight folk in a roadside restaurant who apparently hadn't gotten the memo. Kathy and I didn't intend to stop at Waffle House.  As we were making our way across Georgia I saw a sign on the interstate for a different restaurant.  When we got there, though, we found that it was only a carry-out place.  We needed a break from the Honda, so we went in search of something else.  Before we even got into the diner, we were glad that we had stopped.  A black gentleman I would take to be eighty met us in the lot, greeted my wife as a "young lady," and escorted us in.  Our waitress was a middle-aged Caucasian gal.  If I had to guess, I'd say her early life had had it's share of "drama."  Her job as a server was probably part of her having gotten it together, after some years that had produced their share of grief.  Manning the grills were a young black man who looked like he had played offensive line on his high-school football team, and a youngish white woman, tattooed, and appearing  like she wouldn't take any nonsense.  I've seen clones of them on TV news, yelling at each other from opposite sides of street demonstrations.  The guy who called out orders to the food handlers looked to have roots in the Middle East.  His man-bun, ear rings and general bearing said "college student" to me.  Most of the rest of the staff had a salt-of-the-earth, blue-collar appearance.  It would have been hard for a Hollywood casting agent to put together a better cross-section of America. It was lunchtime.  The little dining-room was full.  Others were waiting for carry-out orders.  The operation was functioning to the max.  When our waitress brought some more coffee, Kathy commented about how impressed she was with the way they worked together.  That's when we heard the "well-oiled machine" line.  Not only did the staff do their jobs well, they were having fun while they were doing them.  A woman who moved from task to task, kept up a running dialog with our friendly greeter,  Everyone else chuckled at their schtick.  You could pay a lot more at a dinner-theater and not get as good a show. Not only did people have to do the job at hand, they had to dodge their associate as she or he did assigned duty.  A couple of times one worker made her way through the hive of activity carrying a load of hot parts from the grill that needed to be cleaned.  The waters parted, and then settled back, leaving hardly a ripple. I hadn't intended to say any more about the recent election and the divisions in our nation that it revealed.  More capable commentators than me are speaking on the issue.  At lunch, however, in a restaurant where the Cleaver family would feel at home, I saw a model that gives me hope in the world where Beaver's grandkids live.  I doubt that anyone, on either side of the counter, has any idea about how to solve our national and international problems.  But they do know how to feed a room full of hungry customers, and have fun while they're at it.  Here are some observations distilled to do this points: Get a job, do it well, and take pride in your work. Treat those around you with respect.  Know that if they do well, they'll help you succeed. Put forth the effort to get along.  It makes it more likely that others will do so for you. Don't forget to have fun along the way. Listening to the news from the power-centers of the world causes me to be concerned.  Watching the crew at the Waffle House off of I-85 in the Peach State give me hope. Thank You, Lord for that encouragement.  It's STTA.

What Happened While I Was Away?

Something to Think About What Happened While I Was Away:

I need to begin with a disclaimer--bad style, but good honesty--There have been a lot of changes in my personal life over the past year, so maybe I'm not seeing things clearly.  I don't, however, think that is it.  It took a lot longer than four months for these things to happen, but when I got back to the USA a couple of weeks ago, I could see clearly that it isn't the same country I left at the beginning of the year.  A usually reliable culture watcher, Al Mohler, confirmed my observation in a recent blog post.  Actions and attitudes that not too long ago were considered wrong, even antisocial, are now considered commendable.  Choices that my countrymen have made in the political realm include vast support for a socialist, and the apparent choice of a candidate whose chief asset appears to be what he is not.  Apparently, what matters most to many people is that someone say what they think, what they think is less important.  I'd love for my nation to be great again.  It would be outstanding if my grandkids could go to college free.  I'd love for someone qualified to lead my country.  I wish I could say otherwise, but all of the slogans I hear appear to be that and nothing more.  I'd like for someone to step up and lead us in the right direction.  What I see, instead, are folk furiously running to get in front of where big crowds are already headed.  They aren't leading; they're apt get run over. I figure that by this point this sounds more like something to be depressed over than some thing to think about.  Actually, though, I find myself quite hopeful.  My optimism doesn't come from the political or cultural realm,  rather, to quote the words of an old hymn, "My hope is in the Lord, Who gave Himself for Me." Don't get me wrong.  I'm not surrendering.  I'm seeking to make my land and my world a better place.  I just realize more clearly than I did five months ago, that in the final analysis this isn't where I belong.   It’s STTA.

Hope & Despair, Side by Side:

Something To Think About, An Odd Mix:

Small church pastoral work is one of the last bastions of generalism.  You never know what's going to happen next.  Yesterday I had two meetings within just a couple of hours.  Both sessions had to do with young adults. Meeting one was full of hope and promise.  The scene before me and the narrative that led to the meeting are the stuff of a Hallmark movie.  There is every reason to believe that in the end they all will live happily ever after. The tragic element in the second gathering was thick enough to be suffocating.  Any thoughts of bliss at the end of the story had been abandoned long ago.  The conversation had nothing to do with producing a good outcome.   All of us will be satisfied if we can bring about an ending that is less-bad--something just this side of absolutely awful. In short, at 10:30 Hope came in and permeated my office.  At 1:00 it was like someone had hooked up a huge hope-sucker to the room.  Every good prospect was gone--or at least it seems that way. There was a time not long ago when all of the young people involved in my two gatherings were equal.  If we had a photo album we could look and "OOOH, and AAAH" at how cute they were.  We could look into those eyes and see great promise.  We'd see pictures of kids smiling, wearing crooked hats and proudly holding trophies, bright-eyed on Christmas morning, and having fun with family. If you took a picture of the mood of each of the meetings I hosted yesterday, one would continue that bright tone, the other would appear as one big, black splotch. I don't know enough to say just when, but if we could trace the time-thread backward we would find choices, maybe even one critical choice, choices made by parents, friends, teachers, the young people, themselves.  After those two meetings yesterday this guy in my head was yelling, "How you choose and what you do are important.  You are building the life you will live."  Not every decision I make is critical and irreversable (THANK YOU, LORD!), but some are, and I seldom know which one one, or ones, are defining decisions.  Wisdom counsels me to be careful with all my choices.  Down the line there will be a meeting about me.  Will it be full of hope, or dark with despair? It's STTA Here is a site where you can find out about Jesus Christ and His plan for you.  You'll find several opportunities to explore.  If we can help you, let us know.  covingtonbiblechurch.com

9/11

Something To Think About 9/11

Those who were born on 9/11--The 9/11-- are thirteen years old today.  When the planes hit the Pentagon, the Twin Towers, and another airliner, because of the heroism of the passengers, crashed in a field in Pennsylvania,  my grandson was just starting his school career.   Now, he is a young man who is on his own.  President Bush had just begun his first term as president.  On this anniversary, Barack Obama is in the middle of second term.  It's been a while, yet the news is still current. Thirteen years after the attack America has again been insulted, if not assaulted. The Islamic extremists  who have recently beheaded two of our countrymen go by a different name, but their ideology is the same. Not just in a patriotic way, or in the sense of military preparedness, it is important that we remember.  Lessons learned from 9/11 need to be a permanent part of our thinking.   Not all religions are the same.  Christianity rests on the foundation of Jesus Christ, Who gave His life so that others might truly live.  Millions of Christians have followed in their Lord's path, willingly giving their lives so that others could hear the life-giving message.  The brand of Islam represented by ISIS considers themselves bound to take life--even of children--in the pursuit of earning their salvation.  It is clear.  Somebody is wrong. This world is not a safe place.  While God is sovereign, He has made this world in such a way that the decisions of people, even horrible decisions like those that led to 9/11, have real consequences, sometimes deadly consequences. If we put our hope in this world, even in the parts of this world that seem indestructible, our hope is terribly misplaced.  Everything in this world will be reduced to fine ash.  Unless we have a hope and purpose that goes beyond this mortal life and the crumbling world where we live our lives, we really have no hope and purpose. All of us desperately need a soul-satisfying, time-defying, totally real hope.  We need something in our heart that will keep us from doing horrible things in a vain attempt to find peace, and that will secure us against the attacks of those who carry depravity to its logical conclusion.  People need the Lord. It's Something to Think About.

Learning from a funny man's sad death:

I've spent my life in what used to be called "fly over country."  The big power-brokers are on the East Coast and the trend setters on the West.  Reporters just fly back and forth over our heads looking for news from the edges of our continent.  To be honest, a lot of the news that comes from DC, NY, and L. A. just flies over our heads out here in the hinter-land.  Some Hollywood starlet was arrested for the twenty-fifth time for DUI--"Ho-hum."   A politician on the take?  "Aren't they all?" Sometimes, though, something cuts through the clutter & kicks me in the gut.  Robin Williams death was like that.  Maybe it is because he was about the same age as me.  He enjoyed biking, as do I.  When he was on, he was devastatingly funny.  I figure nobody can be that funny unless they are serious about it.  I like humor.  I appreciate its power. Bottom-line, the news of Williams's death made me think.   In spite of the vast differences between the movie star comic and the small town preacher, there was enough that Williams and I had in common that I found myself responding to the tragic news of his death with, "There but for the grace of God, go I." There is a Solomon-esque Ecclesiastes-like, very un-amusing  quality to the comics death. "WHY?" Solomon had his gardens, palaces, zoos, and harem.  Speaking about his cycling obsession, Bicycling Magazine said, Williams loves bikes. The actor doesn't own one of the best bikes you can get-he owns them all, packed into a San Francisco mega-garage. He can, and does, without hesitation, indulge one of the most intense cases of gear lust in two-wheeled history. If the urge to pedal a favorite back road in Montana hits, no problem: He loads his bike into a private jet and is there in a flash. And while a spin with Lance Armstrong may be just a sweat-soaked chamois dream for most cyclists, the comic counts the Texan as a riding buddy. When Williams attends the Tour, he's a turbo-VIP, following the action from a U.S. Postal support vehicle. You read this and probably ask, "What would I do with a warehouse full of bikes?"  I think I know.  You'd sell them--maybe I'd buy one--and then you'd buy a warehouse full of something that floats your boat.  There is no maybe to this.  I'm sure.  Whatever you or I would fill our store-house full with, would not, will not, can not satisfy.  By God's grace Solomon or Howard, nor you--since you are reading this--did not/have not come to the bitter end that was the last moment of Williams's life.  Let's use our reprieve to learn some very serious lessons from the very sad end of a very funny man's life.  We are are fallen people in a fallen world. The same brokenness that effects the rest of creation, impacts us to our core.  All of us are born with a birth-defect, sin  (seePsalm 51, esp. v.5).  We help those who struggle with congenital blindness, or weak hearts.  Let's help those who struggle with emotional disorders most of us don't understand. I don't care how much you have, when it comes to satisfying your soul it will never be enough.  Don't be like the rich fool, who tried to fill a spiritual hole with stuff.n this fallen world. We often envy the wrong people for the wrong reasons.  I remember reading the article I referenced above.  I had to deal covetousness.  Now, I look again.  I see nothing that makes me want to change places. We desperately need the Lord.  Only He can truly help.     “For what will it profit a man if he gains the whole world and forfeits his soul? Or what will a man give in exchange for his soul?” (Matthew 16:26, NASB95)     Indeed It's Something to Think About.

The Ultimate Answer? Hardly:

It was twenty years, or more, ago when I read the book on Depression by Don Baker and Emery Nester. Don was a busy and "successful" pastor. Emery helped him climb out of a near fatal depression. I can still feel my stomach tightening when I think about a conversation that Baker had with a counselor after he was hospitalized for depression. He had been thinking about killing himself; that was one reason he was now in a place where others could protect him from himself. In excruciating detail the counselor pulled out the plans Baker had. How would he do it? Where? When? Then the the counselor took him where he didn't want to go.

"Who would find you?" the counselor probed.
You can imagine where the conversation went from there. As he saw in his mind's eye, his sweet daughter discovering his deed, Baker begged his interrogator to stop, but he wouldn't. He wanted this loving man to know that suicide is not the end, not for the loved ones left behind. (The quotes are from my memory, not the book.)
I saw some of that pain recently as I looked into the eyes of a friend. A classmate of hers--she sang at the wedding--had taken his life. My friend's relationship with the man who so tragically died is several steps removed from the closest of attachments, yet the pain is real. How much greater when the connection is described by words like, parent, son, daughter, sibling, spouse, or closest of friends.

Arthur Miller said in "A View From the Bridge," "A suicide kills two people, Maggie, that's what it's for!"


Maybe more.


It is the living who have to pick up the pieces and go on. They are left with the "What if?"s. Perhaps that is not the immediate intention of the person who takes their own life. It is the reality. All of us on this side of the grave need to take note of the fact. Like it, or want it, or not, all of us are part of a fabric of relationships.
"[N]ot one of us lives for himself, and not one dies for himself." (Romans 14:7)




I'm not even going into what awaits the person who takes her/his life on the other side. Right now I'm just thinking of those left on this side. To take one's own life:
is not brave, or heroic.
isn't the result of living life honestly. (No one faced life in this world more squarely than King Solomon; look at his conclusion at the end of Ecclesiastes.)
is not the only alternative. There is hope.
is not autonomous. Others will be drastically affected.
is not the right thing to do!
For those, like my friend who, are dealing with that final act of selfishness, I have great sympathy. I am aware that your loved one may have had to deal with demons that I know not of. My goal is not speak ill of the dead. Rather it is to encourage the living to go on.
Look at those who love you.
There is good reason to find help.


It's STTA.

Could it be . . . ?

I don't know who first said it. I heard it attributed to the late George Burns, "People are impressed with sincerity. If you learn to fake that, you've got it made." Everyday, in the advertizing world, highly paid, very creative people get together and try to effectively "fake it."
Still, I'm impressed with a couple of ads I've been seeing lately. One is fairly drenched in sweat. It talks about how America used to make things--products produced with skill, ingenuity, creativity, pride, and hard work. The commercial builds to the punch line and shows pictures of its product. A voice that sounds like it is coming from someone who knows how to work, says something like, "This was once a country where we made things, beautiful things, and so it is again . . ."
The other ad features a voice I love. Sam Eliott must get up every morning and gargle with a mixture of broken glass and turpentine. It is just the voice to hark back to a time when men made deals based on a handshake. I have no doubt that if I went to buy the vehicle the gravely voiced spokesman is promoting there would be a lot of paper I'd have to sign, in addition to the hand-clasp, but, still I'm impressed that the ad looks back to a time when people's word was their bond.
It's highly possible--to the point of near certainty--that these ads are no more sincere than the quintessential promises about the used car owned by a "little-old-lady . . . ." Still, even if the commercials are smoke and mirrors, I see hope based on the buttons Madison Avenue is seeking to push. Could it be that there is a growing awareness that work--labor that actually results in something of value--and honesty are virtues worth preserving? And that our salvation as a nation depends not on more clever accounting, and even slicker speeches, but on hard work and honesty?
I hope so.
It's STTA.
(Here is an address to one of the ads.)