Even a dog depends on its mom for good raising.

"Bow-wow, mommies here to help you."

I heard an interesting article on NPR this morning. A group of scientists did a study on what kind of canine mothers raise the best guide dogs. The dogs that assist sight impaired people with mobility have to be smart, obedient, and well-behaved, so if we can produce more dogs with that disposition it would be great. It turns out that the dogs who coddle their pups tend to produce the poorest guide dogs. Dogs are different than people, and successful people need traits that aren't all that useful to a companion animal and vice-versa.Still it is an interesting concept. I'll only allow myself one analogy. Parents matter. Mom, dad follow the guidance God gives us in His word. Be steady. Persist in offering thediscipline and instruction of the Lord. Love unconditionally.   It's STTA (Something To Think About).

The Click-track of life:

"Click . . . Click . . . Click . . ."

My grandson is a drummer. I'm not a musician, but I know from what other musicians say, and just from being able to tell when someone is good at something, that he is really good at it. I'm not into the type of music that his band plays, but I know that, as he puts it, It has to be "tight." I would describe They Will Fall's music as chaotic, but it is a very carefully planned chaos. In order to keep it together, they generally use a "click-track." A steady rhythm click, click, clicks in Christopher's ear to keep him on track, not to mention with "the track." In a recent Facebook post, Christopher commented, "I've noticed in myself after playing to clicks for years now that I've lost a lot of feel as a musician. I've lost a little bit of the ability to read the other musicians. It's easy to become a robot and forget that music is supposed to provoke emotion. . . . [S]ometimes it's refreshing to just rely on each other's individual artistic voice and not rely on a Macbook Pro to dynamically lead through a set." Though, as I said, I'm not a musician, I identify with the balance this sharp, young man talks about. My style is to take my ear-bud out and just respond to what is going on around me, fly by the seat of pants, just let it come, and live in the moment. If I let that tendency rule, though, I find, at the end of the day, that my "to do list" has become a record of all the things I didn't get done. If go into by-the-agenda mode, I walk by hurting people without helping, "click, click," and though others are rejoicing, I am oblivious to their joy. "click, click, click." The Apostle Paul we meet in the New Testament was an incredibly disciplined man, yet he was aware of, and responded to, those around him. “Rejoice with those who rejoice, and weep with those who weep.” (Romans 12:15, NASB95). The Lord Jesus, though clearly dedicated to a Divine timetable--“He had to pass through Samaria.” and, “When the days were approaching for His ascension, He was determined to go to Jerusalem;” (John 4:4, Luke 9:51, NASB95)--took time to reach out to children, was aware when a woman in need touched Himin a crowd, and reached out to her. Lord, I have things to do, things I believe You want me to do, and others are depending on me to accomplish, yet, I know, Lord, that all around me others are rejoicing, hurting, discouraged, exhilarated, weary, or bored with life. Don't let me ignore them. Help me remember that the most important things aren't things at all. They are people. People for Whom You, Christ, died. Keep me balanced. AMEN   It's STTA (Something To Think About).

Time Flies on Wings. It won't wait for you

I've thought a lot recently about a poem I read back in high school. I'm fairly sure that Andrew Marvell's intentions were not--how does one put it?--all together honorable, toward "his Coy Mistress." Still four lines from the poem have stayed with me for half-a-century, now:    But at my back I always hear Time's winged chariot hurrying near; Thus, though we cannot make our sun Stand still, yet we will make him run.  Events have conspired, of late, to make me acutely aware of times passage, and the eroded landscape it leaves behind. My little brother had a birthday. Two of the youngest senior citizens I know were just confronted with the reality of mortality. My younger grandson is now fourteen. Though you'd never know it by looking at my lovely wife, in a week and a day we celebrate our Forty-fifth Anniversary. Just this morning I talked to a friend considerably younger than me; we discussed his retirement. It was the second serious conversation I've had this week about age and mortality. I'm surrounded by people younger than me, not only the students at Pacific Islands University, but the staff. Some of them are younger than my sons.  As if that wasn't enough video footage of the winged chariot rolling, unhindered along. The subject matter this week, for the class I'm teaching was heaven. Finally, though I started the week with good intentions, here it is Fridayand I'm just now giving you something to think about. It's not nearly as poetic, but the following has some of the same sentiment and is more my style than the verse of the Cavalier Poet. "Life is not a journey to the grave with the intention of arriving safely in one pretty and well preserved piece, but to slide across the finish line broadside, thoroughly used up, worn out, leaking oil, and shouting GERONIMO!!!"    Whether you prefer the version from the literature book, or the doggerel from the Internet, there is something to be said for the sentiment. As a fellow preacher reminded us Don't waste your life. I could say more, but I think you've got it. Go live Life. Love Jesus. Like the great apostle "finish your race. It's STTA (Something To Think About).

Why Must We Be So Mean?

I wish that those who claim to speak for our Lord would speak with His kindness.

I remember one of the many times I was caught with my foot in my mouth. It was Sunday morning and I was teaching Sunday School in the little building in which we worshipped back in those days. From where I was standing, I had a clear view of the front entrance to the building. A pastor friend of mine, from the next town, and his wife, came in. I figured they were on their way out of town on vacation, so I jokingly asked, "What's the matter Bob (not his real name), did they throw you out. The look told me, and later conversation confirmed, that the answer was "Yes." No doubt my friend had made some mistakes, but the shabby treatment he received after his sacrificial service was totally undeserved.   Not long ago a pastor colleague announced his intent to retire after a lifetime of ministry in one church. Knowing the difficulty that the "next man" often has when following a long-term pastor, my friend asked the man who was taking his place if there were "anything he could do for him?" "Yes," came the reply,  "You can paint my house." My wife told me about a relatively young pastor. I don't know why he left his church, other than it wasn't for some kind of immorality. Sounding almost like a line out of an old Western, the leadership of the church told the young man that he had ten days to leave town. On the evening before He was crucified, Jesus told His followers, "By this will all men know that you are my disciples, by the love that you have for one another" (John 13:35). The examples I gave don't stand alone. If you ask around you can find plenty more. But I hope you won't. It's not a new syndrome. Nineteen-hundred years ago, John wrote, "I wrote something to the church; but Diotrephes, who loves to be first among them, does not accept what we say. For this reason, if I come, I will call attention to his deeds which he does, unjustly accusing us with wicked words; and not satisfied with this, he himself does not receive the brethren, either, and he forbids those who desire to do so and puts them out of the church” (3 John 9–10, NASB95).  I wrote recently that we could do with some more Epaphrodites. Likewise, we'd be better off with far fewer Diotrophenians. My late Father-in-law used to say about some folk that when they were around the Devil could take the day off. May their mean tribe diminish. It's STTA (Something To Think About).

An Entry on My "After the Bucket List"

I had forgotten that Uncle Ray and I shared the same name. I always knew him as "Uncle Ray." His full name was Howard Ray Hargrove. He was Luther Howard Hargrove's eldest son, and I was the oldest grandchild, so we both ended up with Luke's--that what he went by--middle name. I'd like to think I've kept it a good name. I know my uncle did. He was my mom's little brother. He was the last of her family. All my aunts and uncles are gone, now. That's how life is down here. Time relentlessly erodes even granite, and we humans are much more fragile. James reminds us that we "are just a vapor that appears for a little while and then vanishes away" (Jas 4:14). Uncle Ray restored old cars, he looked better than new long after others of that vintage had been crushed and recycled. Keeping an old human young isn't as easy. I remember when I was a youngster my family would travel five-hundred miles to the south to visit extended family. We'd always stop to see Uncle Ray and Aunt Jennie Lou. I don't think there was a single time that we went to their house without having a batch of home made ice cream. Uncle Ray was seventeen years older than me, so, when as a little guy, I'd visit Grandpa and Grandma's house he was still living at home. Before he joined the Army he worked on the farm with his dad. He took delight in trying to get me to "walk like a farmer." According to him, I never got it right. The last time I saw Uncle Ray was a few months after Aunt Jennie Lou had died. She was the epitome of Southern charm and hospitality and clearly the love of his life.  I had never talked to my Uncle about the Lord. Talking about Aunt Jennie Lou and her kindness and grace led naturally to a discussion of that which matters supremely. I look back on that conversation with encouragement. I figure in a while I'll go for a walk with my uncle. We'll both walk like farmers. He'll approve. We'll both laugh. We'll find a comfortable place, and we'll crank out a great batch of heaven-made ice cream. I figure even in heaven it'll be better if you actually turn the crank. Some people have a bucket-list. I'm developing an after-the-bucket-list. Ice cream with Uncle Ray is definitely on it. It's STTA (Something To Think About).    Kathy in Uncle Ray's '57 T'bird

A Master of a Sacred Craft

Thank you, Haddon

“I heard Dr. Ironside tonight. Some people preach for an hour, and it seems like twenty minutes. Others preach for twenty minutes and it seems like an hour. I wonder what the difference is?” Haddon Robinson spent the rest of his life trying to answer that question.(https://www.dts.edu/read/truth-poured-through-personality-smith-steve/) Along the way he helped thousands of us become better preachers. Not great preachers, Robinson said there are no great preachers, only a great Christ. Robinson entered the presence of His Lord July 22. Not only did Robinson teach at Dallas Theological Seminary, Denver Seminary, and Gordon Conwell, he taught and encouraged many more of us through his books and articles. The thoughts of two capable preachers of a great Christ captures much of power his example and teaching had.   "“Preaching,” said Phillips Brooks, “is truth poured through personality.” Haddon Robinson understood that. “We affect our message,” he wrote in Biblical Preaching, his best-selling manual now taught in over 140 seminaries and colleges. “The audience does not hear a sermon, they hear a person—they hear you.”  And they have." (same artcile) Over the years, I have gained from Robinson's input on preaching. From him I learned that expository preaching is not only preaching from a given text of scripture, but allowing that Bible passage to guide me as I put the sermon together and shared it. I can't remember whether I heard him say it, or read it in an article, but he reminded me that everything in scripture is there for a reason. It is important. I've tried to remember that. I hope you won't think I'm disrespectful when I say that Haddon Robinson was one of three or four preachers who encouraged me because of what one would normally consider as a negative trait. Robinson didn't score very high on the good-looking scale. If anyone set out to draw a picture of a powerful spokesman and ended up with a picture that looked like Haddon, it would be because they weren't a very good artist. With all my shortcomings, I looked at Robinson, and thought, if that guy can stand in front of a group of people and effectively communicate the word of God, perhaps there is hope even for me. Though I never met him, Haddon Robinson encouraged me to be a better preacher. I hope in some small way I can encourage other communicators of the Word. I'm confident that there is coffee in heaven. I also figure we'll all be good looking in "up there," yet we'll retain an essence that makes it clear that we are who we are. I look forward to spotting Robinson along the golden street, sitting down over a steaming cup, and talking about the craft of uplifting the name of Christ in preaching. I don't see why a little thing like death should keep us from continuing to work on such a noble craft. It's STTA (Something To Think About).

I Can Walk. Where Am I Going?

I saw a man walking this morning with a gait I've seen hundreds of times. His slow, short steps, stooped posture and expressionless face reminded me of folk I'd seen in hospitals or nursing homes. Their doctor had just told them they could take a short walk. Usually pushing an IV pole, they would go a few yards down the hall and back. The combination of pain, stiffness, and concern not to do any harm eliminated any possibility of conversation. In those circumstances, it takes all of one's concentration to move one foot in front of the other and stay upright. This man wasn't in a hospital or a nursing home, though. He was at least a half a mile out on a walking route where my wife and I exercise, and he was going away from the starting line. Kathy and I walk fast. We are sort of proud of the record we have on that route--no walkerspass us--but that guy was way ahead of me. If I had to guess, I'd say he was dealing with the aftermath of a stroke. What impresses me is He is dealing with it. Not the other way around. He seemed to list to one side a bit, but his determination kept him moving straight ahead. As I walked by the man I thought about what he is dealing with, and all that I'm not dealing with, and all that I'm blessed with, and I asked myself,  "What am I doing with what I've got?" It's STTA (Something To Think About).