Monday Morning Music Ministry

4-15-24

This week I received a shocking response to a routine e-mail I sent to a friend. He told me that he had been sick and underwent surgery during which cancer in another organ was discovered. Factors have prevented chemotherapy treatment, and other palliatives evidently have failed. No number of his LOLs could mask the prognosis: perhaps mere months to live.

I pray, of course, that the diagnosis and timeline may be wildly off. But the news rocked me; and – as sometimes happens, “bad news coming in bunches” – I also learned this week of the passing of two professional associates. Sad for the quick and the dead, sad for their families. Sad for myself… as we tend immediately to internalize such news.

Thinking of mortality, I remember another friend who recently sustained two heart “episodes” that were dangerous and still threaten her. And I had a flashback to my own experience last Fall at an appearance for my new book, where I collapsed in front of some dignitaries and C-SPAN cameras (not yet rolling). I am fine, yet I still dwell on mortality, especially again this week.

Mortality is the title of Abraham Lincoln’s favorite poem. He committed William Knox’s verses to memory during one of his melancholic periods. Some of its quatrains are:

Oh! why should the spirit of mortal be proud? / Like a swift-fleeting meteor, a fast-flying cloud / A flash of the lightning, a break of the wave / He passeth from life to his rest in the grave….

Yea! hope and despondency, pleasure and pain / Are mingled together in sunshine and rain; / And the smile and the tear, the song and the dirge / Still follow each other, like surge upon surge.

‘Tis the wink of an eye – ‘tis the draught of a breath / From the blossom of health to the paleness of death, / From the gilded salon to the bier and the shroud: / Oh! why should the spirit of mortal be proud?

The poem indeed reflects Lincoln’s periodic and famous melancholia. He committed many things to his memory; we all do – for instance, song lyrics. I suppose we are attracted to lines and sayings because they appeal to our natural inclinations. This basically applies even to Bible verses. We are intrigued, or sometimes by God’s providence convicted, by passages. We not only want to, but need to, “hide them in our hearts.”

To return to the concept of mortality. I think it is true that when we hear of a friend’s bad health or mortal illness, or death, if we are honest, our thoughts are in a sense “selfish.” Self-ish. We have regrets for things we might have done. Or words never spoken. We think of chances we missed. Lost opportunities for visits or trips. We think of how we will miss the person. Our perspective.

I am reminded, especially this week, of resolutions I have broken: There are conversations – such as with my friend who shared his news – I never got around to having. There are calls I didn’t make and notes I had wanted to send to my children and grandchildren, that I postponed… again and again. There are relatives, and old friends, I have wanted to connect with, even for no specific reason.

Days turn into weeks, weeks turn into months, months turn into…

It is a short step from having mere regrets to condemning ourselves, which is the devil’s greatest trick. It is easy for any of us to fall into a mindset where we think we are lazy friends or bad parents. Self-condemnation can turn into self-fulfilling identities. It is the path of least resistance to keep traveling those byways… but those paths are really two-way streets. God allows U-Turns, as my friend Allison Bottke calls her ministry.

Don’t fall into the trap of thinking you are unworthy of family or friends, or yourself, or our Lord once we have accepted Him. Because that acceptance makes us worthy. You are issued a new ID card when you invite Christ into your life.

A new friend, Heather Renea Heaven, this week shared a truth: “God did not make a mistake when He created you.” Wow. Sit up straight!

Yes, God created you. You are His handiwork. He created your family members and friends too. It is your job – no, your glorious opportunity! – to fill in what is “in between” you and me and others. So many gaps to fill! Friendships, relationships, fellowship, concern, sympathy, support, nurture, encouragement, love.

We lose many things in life, sometimes forever… including a lot of things that we do not have to lose, yet we do. Money, we can cope with and regain. Jobs? We move on. Homes? We re-locate. Health? More serious, but we often can forestall, or manage, or battle. But…

Time – and some “relationships over time,” as the phrase goes – cannot be retrieved. When gone, forever gone. Does our priority become clear?

Cherish. While you can. Cherish what you have, who you are, and those whom you have. Hold them close, let them know. While you can.

And do not let loose the most important relationship of all. You might lose your friends, a great sadness. But remember that you will never be alone. You have a Friend who never leaves you… and that is a start toward redeeming what was lost!

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Click: Never Alone

10-23-23

Two weeks in a row, a “life story” with a practical message and a spiritual meaning. This one obviously is personal, so I should get it right, despite being barely conscious during some of it.

Some of you know that I write more than a weekly blog. Other blogs; roughly one magazine article a month; newspaper columns and op-eds; and books. It was my seventy-fifth published book that took me to New York last week. I have been doing interviews, recently the Charlie Kirk and Rita Cosby national radio shows / podcasts. The semi-official Book Launch of The Most Interesting American, Post Hill Press, my third book on Theodore Roosevelt, was scheduled on the campus of Long Island University / C W Post College. Close to Sagamore Hill, the Oyster Bay home of TR.

In addition to LIU, the events – press conference, reception, book signing, speech, public Q&A – was to be covered by C-SPAN for broadcast on its Presidential Books series. The events were co-sponsored by Theodore’s Books, the terrific Oyster Bay shop run by former congressman Steve Israel. For all the resourceful people involved, the real angel was Bernadette Castro, one of the nation’s great natural resources – furniture heiress; onetime New York candidate for the US Senate; 12 years the New York State Parks Commissioner in charge of historic preservation; and an amazing role-model of civic virtue and activism.

In short: I woke up woozy the morning of the events (forgive the technical and medical terms), but I had not eaten much in several days except for a grand dinner the previous evening; I had flown a hurried trip the week before; deadlines plagued me… who knows. It could not have been “stress” about my speech, because I have always said that I could talk about Theodore Roosevelt in my sleep. Inadvertently, here was to be my chance.

At the event, I stumbled in late; I half-realized I was signing my name one and a half times, or just scribbling; I needed help getting to the dining room. It was all a strange sensation, but more so for those who beheld this, ahem, esteemed author. I am sure that the guests (many and distinguished) thought I was drunk or having a stroke. Bernadette assured them that I was quite sober, and if I were sentient I could have assured them… well, in fact, I was not sentient. Medics arrived; then an ambulance; and I blinked back to consciousness in the loving arms of St Francis (the wonderful hospital bearing his name in Port Washington, NY).

When the dust had settled, so to speak, the consensus was not demon rum (I scarcely drink) nor a stroke but a “simple” case of hypoglycemia. My blood-sugar level had dropped to 37. I am on two meds as a pre-diabetic (“pre”? I am never early for anything) and maybe the disruptions of the previous days put those meds into overdrive.

(I only had problems with hypoglycemia once before, but that was in a spelling bee in sixth grade. Seriously, my late wife had diabetes since age 13, so I should be aware of some of the collateral issues. I am more aware, again. I am dropping jokes here as often as nurses who wake you up to ask if you are asleep… but for the first time in my life I thought I was going to die.)

Several days in the hospital; canceled appointments to see old friends and hoped-for business partners; and, having been rushed from my events, no books or papers or laptop or even a phone-charger. But the word had gotten out, and almost 700 well-wishers reached out, between phone calls and texts and e-mails I eventually received. In my case, “well-wisher” usually means people who wish I would fall down a well; but this was very special, really touching.

Among all the outreach, my daughter Emily called from Ireland, once for 45 minutes. And my son Ted drove up from Washington DC, where he is a TV news producer, to “hang with Pop,” and drive me to the airport after a day in Manhattan, just like old times.

To the impatient reader who wonders where is the “practical message, the spiritual meaning,” it is here, thicker than a dose of glucose syrup. Jesus was real to me through this. Not only my faith and grounding, nor that I was in a Catholic hospital. He truly was present in myriad ways.

I had a friend who was a professional skeptic (a.k.a. wiseguy) who once challenged me after some troubles I had. He said, “You keep giving Jesus the credit for the help you got. That wasn’t Him… it was all your friends! Wake up!”

OK. Chapter 2: For all of our conversations about politics and TR, and common work on causes like fighting the attack on historic statues… my greatest bond with Bernadette Castro is when we share personal stories, frequently centering on faith. She showed her character again this week.

This week could have been National Anti-Cliché week, because many of those messages and e-mails were from people who left fervent prayers and shared encouraging verses… as we all are to do, sincerely; not throw off Hallmark-like “Feel Betters” in circumstances like these.

A new friend in Michigan had volunteered to drive me to and from the airport (of course not knowing these things would transpire), saving me parking fees for a week and – surely – a shaky solo drive home, otherwise. A blessing. A friend from another state, who had sent a “love offering” to help with expenses… could not have known how useful that card would be. A blessing.

The hospital staff… well, ‘nuff said. I had interaction with so many people those days who showed Jesus, it was a reinforcement about the Healer, our Ever-Present Help in times of trouble. The Holy Spirit, you see, is the means and the motivator when we share the Jesus who lives within us.

So, Chapter 3. To skeptics like my old friend who said it was not Jesus but merely nice friends who show themselves in such crises (and as he, sadly, must have learned by now) –

It is Jesus who “works” in these situations. The Savior often chooses to work through His people. What better way? – win-win for everyone who is touched. I was ministered to; friends yielded themselves to share Christ’s love; and – I pray – others who hear this Gospel message may be blessed.

Yes. Let’s “wake up!” indeed.

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Click: Where No One Stands Alone

9-4-23

The unofficial end of Summer: This weekend there will be the sounds of parades, the colors of flags, the sights of smiling friends and family, and if nothing else… the aromas of barbecues. Particularly dear to me as, these very weeks, my daughter Emily, who lives in Northern Ireland, is amping up her American-barbecue business in Ireland and the UK; the BBQueen of Derry. Appropriate Cultural Appropriation you can taste!

I have told this story before about summer get-togethers. When I skip it, I get letters asking “Where was that great song you post every summer?” On this Labor Day weekend, I remember a simple barbecue, but one of the most profound days of my life. A holiday far away from my home… but very close to my heart. It happened on a summer holiday almost 30 years ago.

And it always makes me wonder, Is an America we once knew disappearing?

I lived in East Texas back then for a few months, conducting interviews and research for a book I was writing. Once settled, I took out the Yellow Pages (remember them?) to chart the location of nearby Assembly of God churches, intent on visiting as many as I could through the summer. East Texas was in every way new to me, and I wanted to experience everything I could.

Well, the first one I visited was in Cut and Shoot. That’s a town’s name; you can look it up. A small white frame AG church was my first stop that summer… and I never visited another. In that tiny congregation, it was, um, obvious in three minutes that I was not from East Texas. I was born in New York City. Yet I was treated like family as if the folks had known me for decades. A fellow named Dave Gilbert asked me if I’d like to go to his farm for a barbecue where a bunch of people were just going to get together and “do some visitin’.”

I brought the biggest watermelon I could find as my contribution to the pot-luck. There were dozens and dozens of folks. I couldn’t tell which was family and who were friends, because everybody acted like kinfolk. When folks from East Texas ask, “How are you?” they really mean it. There were several monstrous barrel barbecue smokers with chimneys, all slow-cooking beef brisket. (Every region brags about its barbecue traditions, but I’ll fight anyone who doesn’t agree that low-heat, slow-smoked, no sauce, East-Texas barbecue is the best.) There was visitin’, surely; there were delicious side dishes; there was softball and volleyball and kids dirt-biking; and breaks for sweet tea and spontaneous singing of patriotic songs.

I sat back in a folding chair, and I thought, “This is America.”

As the sun set, the same food came out again – smoked brisket galore; all the side dishes; and desserts of all sorts. Better than the first time. Then the Gilberts cleared their house’s porch. People brought instruments out of their cars and trucks. Folks tuned their guitars; some microphones and amps were set up; chairs and blankets dotted the lawn. Dave Gilbert and his brothers, I learned, sang gospel music semi-professionally in the area. Pastor Charles Wigley of that local church, during the summer had opened for Gold City Quartet at a local concert, playing gospel music on the saxophone.

In some churches, in some parts of America, you sing solo every once in a while. You’re not only expected to – you want to. So into the evening, as the sun went down and the moon came up over those farms and fields, everyone at that picnic naturally sang, together or solo or in duets or quartets. Spontaneously, mostly. Far into the night, exuberantly with smiles, or heartfelt with tears, singing unto the Lord.

I sat back in the folding chair, and I thought, “This is Heaven.”

I have grown sad for people who have not experienced the type of worship where singers, and people who pray, do so spontaneously. From the congregation. Moving to the front. Sharing their hearts. Crying tears of joy or conviction. Loving the Lord, and each other, freely. If you have not… then visit a church where this is commonplace. Even witnessing it is an uplifting balm to the soul, where there is freedom and joy in singing spontaneously.

I attach a video that very closely captures the music, and the feeling – the fellowship – of that evening. A wooden ranch house, a barbecue picnic just ended, a campfire, and singers spontaneously worshiping, joining in, clapping, and “taking choruses.” Smiling, hugging. There were cameras at this particular get-together, but it took this city boy back to that holiday weekend, finding himself among a brand-new family, the greatest barbecue I ever tasted before or since… and the sweetest songs I know.

And I think to myself, nervously shedding a tear… “THIS is the America we are losing.”

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Click: The Sweetest Song I Know

6-19-23

It will not surprise those who know me that I went through a rebellious streak in my younger days. I remember it well – it lasted 15 or 20 minutes back in the…

No – of course, no. Anyone with a pulse experiences certain changes. Winston Churchill supposedly said that anyone in his 20s who is not a liberal has no heart; and anyone older who is not a conservative has no brains. Well, I was never a liberal, but I get his point. We do evolve… because the world around us revolves.

I suppose, if “rebellion” has a cousin, I have always been a contrarian.

Back in my high-school days I did go through a cynical stage. Recently I recalled to a friend that when I was a high-school junior I memorized about a third of The Rubáiyát of Omar Khayyám, as beautiful but as cynical, worldly, and secular a group of quatrains one could find under this inverted bowl we call the sky. (Oddly, I then rattled off several dozens of them, despite not having thought of them in decades. “Oddly,” because half the time I go to the supermarket these days I forget what the heck I needed to buy…)

But during that mildly cynical phase of my life, it was time go off to college. I was allowing skepticism to creep into my faith, and I wanted to discuss it with my father. Our conversation is vivid in my “mind” because it was a Saturday afternoon, and he was flat on his back, a captive audience, fixing something under his bathroom sink.

“And why are you telling me this?” he asked.

Now I realize that I really wanted him to talk me out of my doubts, but I shared the other reason: “I have these thoughts on my own. I don’t want you think down the road that college filled my head with these ideas.”

Did he get angry? Did he laugh at my youthful foolishness? Did he sit up and reason with me?

No, no, and no. He hardly moved an inch, except to tighten the valve or something. “Oh, it’s a phase,” said. “You’ll grow out of it.”

I almost felt offended. Years later, I identified with Elaine Benes: “Don’t you care if I go to hell?” But at that moment, I asked, “Dad… Don’t you believe in Jesus?”That’s when he sat up.

“Of course I do. You know that. I believe you do, too, but if you don’t test your faith it won’t grow stronger. I’m not worried. I trust God, and I trust you.”

He asked if anything triggered my doubts. There was one book I recently had read, a disputed Mark Twain book that was anti-God, not funny, and featured a character named Satan. He had begun The Mysterious Stranger three times through his life, its final version (perhaps doctored by someone else after he died) written after his daughter’s death when Twain was more cynical than he routinely was.

I told Dad about the Mark Twain book. Then he chuckled. Despite my processing of its valid challenges to Scripture, Dad said, “I think you’re safe.”

Then he went back to the monkey wrench. And I went back to… my thoughts. I think I was insulted that he didn’t go full-bore and call the Scriptural Rescue Squad. We used to debate everything – politics, philosophy, literature, classical music. Why not this, I thought.

He trusted me.

And he let me know that God trusted me. Now, you might think that was a risky strategy. But it was a winning strategy. I felt respected; honored; trusted. That trust meant more, and stayed with me, than a weekend full of arguments, than a briefcase full of tracts, than weekly calls, tracking my behavior.

When it comes to it, our Heavenly Father trusts us too. He has revealed His Truth; He has sent teachers and prophets; He even sent His Son to die so that we might live.

He loved us first, before we loved Him.

In fact, He trusted us before we trusted Him.

Does that inspire love, and trust, in you?

Remember, on Father’s Day, that we should honor… love… and trust… our Heavenly Father too.

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Click: Like Father, Like Son

12-25-22

As we have shared here, often, the birth of Jesus, His ministry and even His death and Resurrection, were not events that took place in a vacuum.

The ancestry of Mary and Joseph are delineated in the Gospels, generation by generation. Myriad prophecies were fulfilled in the person of Jesus in so many aspects that would baffle statisticians. Hundreds of years before Bethlehem, the Book of Isaiah described things like the betrayals Jesus would suffer; even his physical appearance.

Whether from ignorance of Scripture or the Hallmarkization of our culture, a lot of us think that Mary looked up one evening and wondered “Who’s that angel?” Oh, she was surprised. She certainly was humbled. But… she knew Bible prophecy.

She knew that God had planned that a virgin would conceive in the City of David… that the Baby would be the Incarnation of God… that His purpose would be to serve as the Salvation of His people. His job description, we might say today.

And she knew – as she knew Bible prophecy so thoroughly; as did her betrothed, Joseph – that her baby Boy was destined to be the Servant King. And also the Man of Sorrows. She was humbled; she was full of joy; she knew there would be smiles, and tears. Perhaps the lot of all mothers. But Mary knew.

Her response to the angel, and with her cousin Elizabeth, has become known as The Magnificat. It is one of the Gospel’s tenderest and most profound passages, part of many liturgies and church music, including one of J S Bach’s foremost works.

My soul doth magnify the Lord.

And my spirit hath rejoiced in God my Savior.

For He hath regarded the lowliness of his handmaiden: For behold, from henceforth: all generations shall call me blessed.

For He that is mighty hath magnified me: and holy is His Name. And His mercy is on them that fear Him, throughout all generations.

He hath showed strength with His arm: He hath scattered the proud in the imagination of their hearts.

He hath put down the mighty from their seat: and hath exalted the humble and meek. He hath filled the hungry with good things: and the rich He hath sent empty away.

He, remembering His mercy, hath helped his servant Israel: As He promised to our forefathers, Abraham and his seed, forever.

Mary knew, because she knew prophecy, because an angel had visited her, that her beautiful, innocent baby Boy would do great miracles; heal the sick; comfort the afflicted; indeed, save His people and be the Savior of humankind.

And she knew no less that her beautiful baby Boy would grow up to be despised and rejected; acquainted with grief; wounded, smitten, and whipped for the punishment sinners deserved; brought like a lamb to the slaughter; put to death with the wicked. Mary knew.

She rejoiced to be used of God in such a role. But how excruciating nonetheless to be a mother in all these moments. Mary knew.

So she prayed her Magnificat – “my soul doth magnify the Lord” – and she planned with Elizabeth the birth of their babies; and traveled with Joseph (again fulfilling prophecy) to the spot where Scripture said the Messiah would be born. Humankind’s Messiah. Her baby.

No room in the inn? We know the story. So humanity’s Savior was born in a manger. Once again, try to erase the greeting-card scenes from your mind. “Manger,” from the Latin “to eat,” is where the animals chomped their hay, and it is reasonable to assume that the Christ Child came into His world amidst a few bugs and some animal spittle. A little town, a crowded hotel, the backyard where cattle and sheep slept and ate. Mary thought she already knew “humble.”

But that evening, the rough manger piled with straw became a King-sized bed. Mary knew.

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Click Video Clip: Mary, Did You Know?

10-31-22

I was planning to write a message about Reformation Day, but this has been a week with many distracting events, some sad; and thoughts about reforming the church, confronting corruption, does not need an anniversary-day to assert its relevance. Next week.

Among the sad events of this week was the death of Jerry Lee Lewis.

Somewhat anticipated, even the subject of false rumors, Jerry had a stroke a couple of years ago and, with the lifestyle he led – often on death’s door; in some ways tempting death many times through the years – he was, in the words of one of his recent nicknames, the Last Man Standing.

That reference is to the class of talented Southern boys who burst on the American musical scene in the mid-1950s. They were all unique, with utterly distinct styles, yet their common roots and similar stories was a most astonishing coincidence. Jerry Lee Lewis, Elvis Presley, Johnny Cash, Carl Perkins, Charlie Rich, Roy Orbison… and others: all born in the mid-1930s; all dirt-poor Southerners; all of Pentecostal or Fundamentalist faiths; all attracted to, and amalgamating in their music, the traditions of country music, Gospel, white and black blues; all separately showing up on the doorstep of a small recording studio in Memphis, hoping to find an audience. Remarkable.

When I was a kid and rock ‘n’ roll was young too, it was Jerry Lee Lewis who caught my ear, so to speak, and I never looked back. Through the years I interviewed him maybe a dozen times; traveled over half the continent to attend concerts and see him backstage; and eventually met, and became friends with, some of his relatives – cousin Mickey Gilley; sister Linda Gail Lewis; other cousins like Rev David Beatty; band members like Ken Lovelace; associates like Jack Clement.

In his hometown of Ferriday, Louisiana, I worshiped in the Assembly of God Church where the cousins grew up; and spent time with Jerry and Linda’s colorful other sister Frankie Jean. I became a follower of Jimmy Swaggart, I suppose first hooked by the “bait” of the music, and have worshiped and interviewed in Baton Rouge, Louisiana, too. Closing the circle, I interviewed Mickey and other Gilleys, too.

I am in the process of putting all those meetings and interviews to work, and to share with the world a book that will profile them, principally Jimmy Lee and Jerry Lee – why I am putting aside thoughts on Martin Luther’s Reformation five-hundred years ago.

In a sense, however, there is a connection. The rediscovery of Bible-based belief and worship that Luther promoted has its current manifestation in Fundamentalist and Pentecostal churches. Of course many people will think this is unlikely – an affinity between nascent Protestantism of the 1500s, and the subsequent majesty of the Baroque master Bach; and the perfervid preaching in white-frame rural churches and the back-beat, three-chord exuberant music of Southern Gospel. But, Amen – so be it. The scarlet thread of redemption is actually a ribbon of many threads.

My book has found a theme beyond the blood relations (a gene pool the size of a teardrop) and family tree (more like a tangled vine!), and it can be found in the title: “Cousins – The Saturday Nights and Sunday Mornings of a Remarkable American Family.” For, besides the abnormal, almost miraculous, musical talent and astonishing piano stylings that the Cousins possess, there is the common element of Pentecostalism.

Music and Christian salvation rescued and redeemed the branches of that family and many similar families in that region and that time. Of course the Pentecostal experience is as old as the Days of the Apostles, but has only reasserted itself in the past century. Now it is a worldwide phenomenon – to choose one proof, the number of Pentecostals in Brazil today is more than the Catholic population.

In Jerry Lee’s case, the preaching and music were part of his life. He attended Bible College in Texas until he was invited to leave because he would not (or could not, he told me) stop “juking” traditional Gospel songs like “My God Is Real.” Pastor Charles Wigley was a fellow student, playing sax in a little pickup band, and he told me that Jerry occasionally snuck out at night to listen to music at clubs in Dallas’s Deep Elem neighborhoods.

Jerry Lee’s virtually instant stardom when Sun Records heard his demos propelled him to what the public has known since then – TV appearances; multiple wives including one to his 13-year-old cousin; ups and downs; scandals; problems with drink, drugs, and taxes; movies and worldwide tours; and so forth. His cousins had somewhat similar experiences.

Yet all of the family, from the most casual church-goer to the world-famous evangelist Jimmy Swaggart, never rejected the “Sunday morning” component, no matter how many “Saturday nights” there were. You will understand the symbology.

The world might scorn (sometimes correctly) the repeated confessions of some folks; repentance, pleas for forgiveness, embracing the cross. Again and maybe again. But, we are all sinners. Some of us sin more loudly, or more colorfully, even more persistently, than others. But woe be to those who judge.

Many who sin never do desire to repent. Or never – God help them – feel the need for forgiveness; never really are conscious of their sin. Never knew, in the first place, a God who sees them and loves them and judges but has already provided a means of redemption in the cross – the shed blood of His Son.

Putting aside the massive talent and compelling music of Jerry Lee Lewis, his life on earth, now ended, can be seen as one hewing to the Gospel nevertheless, wracked with sin-consciousness when he strayed, having hundreds of conversations about his guilt; reforming, pledging, backsliding, interrupting some concerts to switch to Gospel music – working out his inner conflicts in public.

When he was training to be a preacher, he told me, a favorite theme was “the devil’s tail sticking out of houses” – when people had television antennas on their roofs. Ironic that his cousin Jimmy Lee Swaggart based a major portion of his ministry on televangelism. Ironic, too – or appropriate – that at the end of his life Jerry (once again… but clearly sincere) gave his heart to Jesus. Cousin Mickey Gilley did so, too, before his recent death. “Made things right with the Lord,” they each said.

Jerry Lee Lewis’s last recording project was a duet album with Jimmy Swaggart – long discussed over the years, but never produced. Traditional hymns and Gospel songs, it was released only months ago.

The world already is realizing that Jerry Lee was far greater than memorable hits and scandals and tabloid rumors. Even last month, before his death but after decades of snubs, the Country Music Hall of Fame finally elected him to its list of honorees.

Now he will be transformed from a popular personality to the true, exceptional icon he always was despite himself. His real story, as with many great figures in history, has come a full circle.

I pray that we can all have personal counterparts in our “walks,” and I don’t mean music or a particular lifestyle. Jerry Lee Lewis was taught the Truth of the Bible by his mother Mamie and Aunt Rene and in the First Assembly of God Church. He “hid the Word in his heart.” When he strayed he listened to the Holy Spirit, was troubled, and sought forgiveness. He shared his struggle with the world. In the end, it was not his new plaque in the Hall of Fame, but the old pew where he once sat, learning about Jesus and singing the songs of amazing grace, that was his real home. And where he was fulfilled.

“His” versions of those Gospel songs have prevailed after all. Whether there is a little more shaking going on in Heaven, we’ll understand it all by and by…

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Click Video Clip: In the Garden

Click Video Clip: Jesus, Hold My Hand

9-5-22

An emotional week around here, capped by a funeral this morning. “We’ve gotta stop meeting like this” – I have attended too many lately, and occasionally I have been inspired to share thoughts, with your indulgence. They all are not “funereal” these days, as services do not have to be maudlin. When my family conducted a hospital ministry, we were introduced to joyous “home-going” services in Black churches; and they altered our various perspectives.

But today’s instance was about the hardest of all challenges to a family and friends, because 17-year-old Aaron – not his name, but it will be here – decided himself that it was time for his home-going. Permit me the euphemisms.

Hard enough, of course, but the act was more jarring because only hours earlier he was out with friends, laughing in diners, taking selfies. Only weeks before he decided to be baptized, and even presented his testimony of renewed faith in Christ and the joy it brings. Only months before he had “graduated” from a program that works with youth who experience episodes of depression, sometimes having attempted extreme measures to escape the anxieties they felt.

Yes, Aaron had for several years been in and out of ugly depression and occasional feelings of rejection, self-loathing, irrationality. The world saw the happy kid – intelligent, handsome, popular, and always (counter-intuitively?) faithful to Jesus. A daily Bible reader. Keeper of theologically introspective journals.

Questions. Of course there are questions.

Despite what our contemporary world insists we blithely believe, that “nothing matters anyway”… we need to ask questions, but there are no answers. Certainly not to everything; no Googling, no experts, not even – horrors, can I say it? – not even in the Bible. Listen: if we knew everything, we would be God. The Bible has answers for all that we need, but not every thing we want, or wonder about. And as soul-searing as some things are, even “sanctified” curiosity will remain mysteries until we gain Eternity.

That’s hard, but it’s true.

We ask, WHY?

And the world mockingly answers, Why not?

I think God answers, The important question is not Why, but What – in this instance, What did Aaron make of his life? What did he do in his life? What are the ways he touched people? What difference did he make?

The “why” questions involve a sort of permissible selfishness, as I recently discussed in this space. Of course we feel horrible for the soul who has “passed,” but the largest ingredient of Mourning is… mourning for ourselves. How we will miss our child, sibling, or friend. Mourning for the sudden hole in our lives. And that is OK.

But I had the thought during the service that every life means something. Every. Life. Modest people might think that’s true for others but not for them. No. That’s not life’s way. It’s not God’s way.

We all have meaning, we have effects. We can see this… or not. We can plan it… or not. It can be acknowledged… or not. Effects can live after us… No: they do live after us. Our lives matter; what we do matters. All of us, in little ways or big, actually want to make a difference.

So in that way, whether you live 17 years or 117 years, what you do matters. It matters to other people. It matters to God.

In that perspective, our friend Aaron packed a lot of “meaning” into 17 years. Impressing uncountable people with his good nature, adventurous spirit, and Christian activities. In a bizarre and seemingly cruel circumstance, it was precisely a year ago that his cousin and best friend, almost the same age to the day, was laid to rest after suddenly dying of a brain aneurysm; he also had packed an A+ personality and smarts and Bible study and social activity into a “brief” life.

I know it’s not a Bible verse, but we think of the phrase “Quality, not quantity” in the cases of young men like them.

In my own family’s hospital ministry mentioned above, the toughest questions we were asked by transplant-listed patients, families, or survivors was Why? Why me? Why my brother, why my son? I finally felt liberated – able better to minister in some small way – when one morning I answered, “I don’t know!!!”

The important and essential follow-up is, “Let’s pray about it. Let’s seek God.” Maybe we can cope a little bit better; maybe we can find peace; maybe there is healing indeed under the shadow of God’s wings (Psalm 36:7).

And maybe we can discern, and celebrate, and savor, the meaning of that person’s life… and as tough as it seems, choosing instead to look beyond only the length of his days.

If we can receive those blessings, we can start to make sense of things. And that’s a good road to travel when other paths lead to bitter tears and confusion and anger and resentment.

Life can be mean… but we must seek out the meaning. The seeking, itself, is a balm. And then we realize, as I asked above, that death can be a detail, but life is a fact.

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Video Click: Does Jesus Care?

8-15-22

A friend and neighbor of mine, Gary Mueller, died this week. He was in his 80s – a sweet, enthusiastic, generous white-haired gentleman of my church who became a buddy when I was a newcomer. We shared a hundred coffees in McDonald’s; we shuffled around farmer’s markets together; we talked religion and politics (agreeing, happily); I have laughed endlessly with his wife Edith; and I met his grandson Matt from Texas. We worked grills at many VBS days.

But mostly (in my memory, now) Gary loved Jesus. And it showed: he “reflected” the Savior. Gerhard was born in Jaegerndorf in central Europe; his German family had been separated and passed through West German towns, escaping Communism, working as they could; then to the United States. He met Edith, who had a similar life-path, and they were grateful to God and to America for the freedoms wherewith they were blessed.

Gary was always hale and healthy, on his jobs and especially, after retirement, in our church – anything that needed doing, it seemed that Gary was there before pros were called. But he got sick recently, and had a cancerous kidney removed. My late wife had a kidney transplant, so my prayers were focused (not that God requires the use of medical terms and medicines). As I understand it, he returned home somewhat uncomfortable and requested a follow-up. Cancerous tumors were found elsewhere through his body. All so quickly, Gary died.

It might seem odd that my grieving over Gary’s death brought me to think about selfishness, but please stick with me – and be merciful to me, as I have asked of God. I honor Gary; I grieve for Edith; I am grateful for our friendship. In fact, a week ago I wanted to hand-write a letter to Gary telling him (reminding him) of how I loved him, and what he has meant to me as a friend. But I never got around to writing that, much less mailing it (e-mails pretend to be personal, but never will be).

I have book deadlines. I had meetings. Yada yada, I had “things to do.” Hours turn into days; days turn into weeks; weeks…

When you are too busy to write a friend, or call; when you are too busy to connect with a friend, or to re-connect with an old friend; when you are too busy to “just say Hi”; when you are too busy to say you appreciate someone, or share a Jesus-moment, or ask “How are you?” and really mean it…

… you are TOO busy.

But this is not about scolding myself or anyone. Gary is gone, and maybe he never would have seen that note anyway. I was not trying to impress Edi. No, I found myself consumed about MY thoughts, MY regrets, MY tardiness. And eventually, MY grief, MY loss that I will feel. I realized I was being selfish. “Why are MY feelings so important?”

As I prayed for wisdom, I realized how strange grief and mourning are – when our loved ones are in the arms of Jesus, healed and glorified. Isn’t our grief, somehow, actually a bit of mourning for ourselves? How we will miss the husband, the grandfather, the friend?

And if so… is that bad?

Self. This life is not a dichotomy of self versus the rest of humanity. Not “either/or.” Not us and everyone else. God wants His children to be thinking of us AND everyone else. When Jesus went to the cross it was for all of humanity; all of the sins of “whosoever.” He looked into your eyes and mine. We as individuals were as important to Him as… all the other individuals! We should not feel guilty about our feelings, hurts, regrets in that view, because Jesus did not lay that on us. We must bear each other’s burdens, as He bore ours.

I am not talking about sins of omission. I am talking about a proper discernment of what God would have us do. That is, to DO — not obsess over what was missed. “Look out for Number One”? If we are effective ambassadors of Christ, we cannot drag baggage around on our missions.

We can be faithful stewards if we serve God by serving others. And rely on the Bible, not Rules of Etiquette. I am talking about being bold for Christ who lives within you.

Think ahead and imagine the end of your life, without being morbid of course. I mean – do not let yourself be in a position where you had been too busy to to write a friend, or call; or you were too busy to connect with a friend, or re-connect with an old friend; or when you were too busy to “just say Hi”; when you were too busy to have said that you appreciate someone, or shared a Jesus-moment, or had asked “How are you?” and really meant it…

Jesus cares for you, not only “humanity.” Take heart, and take action.

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Please watch and be blessed —

Video Click: Does Jesus Care

8-8-22

I am risking censure to say that I am not an automatic fan of NGOs and a type of charity work that has become prevalent in our society. In fact I have a major problem with it.

So I must explain: first, I am not against charity per se, the impulse that God planted in our souls, Jesus taught us to act upon, and the Holy Spirit encourages. There are myriad commands, and many examples, of common people and sainted people in the Bible extending love.

Saint Augustine’s interpretation of “the poor ye always shall have with you” is not accepting the plight of unfortunate folks, but a reminder that others will always need our attention and compassion and action. And love.

We can find those folks in our very neighborhoods. And usually within our circles of friends, even our families. If we feel led to reach out to the lame, the halt, the blind; the needy, the sick, the endangered in other countries, there are amazing mission groups and charities that we can locate with little trouble. We can be Samaritans walking paths and encountering the abused and abandoned. Of course, vulnerable people are our neighbors in faraway lands too.

I have grown uncomfortable with corporations and governments, however, who decide on charitable works – perhaps quite commendable ones – without asking us. Sometimes there might be causes we decline to support; often they are handled by agencies without accountability; frequently we “donors” know little where the funds and efforts end up.

Enormous sums of government money are sent to victims of hurricanes and diseases, yes; but also as “aid” and “charity” to unknown destinations in unspecified places, with foggy accountability. “Oh, it’s for a good cause…” And how many TV commercials and product labels tell us that “a portion of every purchase…” will be sent who-knows-where; or “every sale will support..” such-and-such.

My objections are those of Augustine, and of Jesus. These myriad and coercive actions by government and the corporate world are as much about their marketing and public relations as about genuine charity.

Basically, day by day, year by year, they rob us of fostering our own charitable impulses. When governments take our money without permission and send it here or there, that is not the act of a caring public but, at best, a lazy public. When corporations earmark a portion of money we pay them, again without asking… it masks a sweet-sounding surcharge for their own tax breaks and image-campaigns.

In both cases people should be allowed to make their own donations as they see fit, and who soon will rediscover the beautiful impulses to give… to act… and to love.

The real definition of “charity,” after all, is love. In I Corinthians 13, Paul wrote: “Now abides faith, hope, and charity, these three; but the greatest of these is charity.” In the original translations, the word was “love.”

The NGOs (non-government organizations) I question are not the completely independent agencies, or even those who do work on the ground independently (increasingly, governments have bureaucratic and ideological strings attached…) – but there are many individuals and groups who are in all ways independent. They answer to their donors, to their consciences, to the recipients, and to God.

One such is Garden of Innocents which has many local chapters across America. Its volunteers provide dignified burials and memorials – sometimes “naming” ceremonies – for abandoned babies and children. “Dumpster babies” is the distasteful term but is the truth in many cases. The volunteers arrange with local cemeteries to apportion a dedicated area of a cemetery; the volunteers make the custom little wooden caskets themselves; and burials with markers honor those most helpless among us.

Another, of many I know, is Grand Staff Ministries, whose hearts are turned to eSwatini in Africa, the former Swaziland. It is a country of a million people with the highest incidence of AIDS in the world, perhaps half of the population with the disease. About 200,000 children have been stripped of their parents – fending for themselves, often with no adult to feed them or send them to school. Becky Spencer and her husband Tracy visit the land from their home in Kansas, supporting schools, ministering to health needs, and… providing love.

In the United Kingdom there is an organization that promotes awareness, does not engage in high-pressure fund-raising campaigns, but compels our attention… and our hearts. Missing People is a Not-For-Profit organization that focuses on the appalling number of children, who disappear or “go missing,” and the families and communities who miss them. There are hundreds of thousands in England each year, and millions, horrific to say, in the United States. Runaways? Abductions? Trafficking? Violent ends? Mental or emotional issues? Ill-advised escapes from family turmoil? – Any and all of the above.

Anguished loved ones suffer for these Missing every moment, sometimes years and years later. Missing People reaches out to the friends and families, engages in education and publicity, coordinates searches; and helps the “Left Behinds.”

Remembering the charitable/loving impulses we need to discover and cherish, all of us need to feel for abandoned and murdered babies; orphans enduring poverty and AIDS; and the runaways or trafficked, and grieving families. But we ought to extend that charity and love to ongoing needs in our midst, too, that perhaps are more prosaic.

A widowed father whose children have moved away and maintain sparse contact; grandchildren he seldom hears on phone calls or has seen in years despite living close by. His nightly tears are almost as bitter as parents in worse situations. The Gospel song says “Tears Are a Language God Understands,” but every morning is cold.

Troubled children – rather, children in troubled situations – might figure that running away can provide solutions. But we should be just as concerned with bringing peace to families while they are together, as much as grieving when they split apart. And the same should pertain to marriages.

Burying dead, anonymous babies is a precious act. But our society should be just as dedicated to preventing those tragedies; ministering to mothers before they make those decisions. Overseas ministries? Giving – to not-for-profits – is admirable, of course, but most agencies need volunteers too; workers; helpers; prayer partners.

We talk, here, of the vulnerable, the abandoned, the missing. Life. What we need to remember – and not let governments and corporations steal from us – is that our Savior Jesus Christ came to remind us of the same things, the same people.

In fact He came not only to have us love such people, but to see that we ourselves are such people. In so many ways each of us has been, or is in a larger sense, vulnerable, abandoned, missing.

Jesus looks for us. He finds us. He loves us. What is our response?

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Video Click: The Missing People Choir

6-20-22

Recently, here, on that other Hallmark Holiday (Mothers Day) I presented a view of motherhood that I fear is being lost in the shuffle of modern culture. To our cultural and physical DNAs, the role of mothers and the bonds between – let me be Politically Correct – between “Birthing Units” and their Tax Deductions are immutable.

I argued against the tugs of the Post-Modern lunacy that reigns today. The radical elements of the French Revolution actually tried to change clocks and calendars, not only religions and governments. Today’s revolutionaries attempt similar social atrocities. They are in our midst, not, as in “the best of times, the worst of times,” in barricades and city squares on the other side of Paris. They already run our government, the media, the entertainment industry, the education-industrial complex, and thanks to our electronic hypnotists called the internet, our minds.

… or nearly so, which is why we need yet another Great Awakening.

Before commencing a counter-revolution, and essential to it, is a basic rediscovery of our Christian heritage, and from a secular perspective at least, a commitment to its core values and disciplines. “To go forward we must first look back,” a Classical Italian thinker wrote. We are lost enough as a people without furthering the self-swindling lies that we can, and should, discard old values and discover – or invent – new ones.

I am not talking about… excuse me: I am not only talking about the Athenian Republic; nor Roman laws; nor the “Germ Theory” of self-governance that arose in Germanic forests; nor the Magna Carta; nor the Renaissance of art and thought in Florence; nor the mercantile and capitalist systems that arose in Augsburg; nor the Reformation explosion of literacy; nor the Enlightenment and Great Awakenings that inspired bourgeois revolutions and prosperity…

As magnificent as this March of Civilization has been, it seems incredible that a persuasive portion of our contemporary establishment despises its thrust. Liberal secularists seek to overthrow the basic premises of Christian society (not only to distort Christianity itself). As with most revolutions and revolutionaries, the proponents know what they hate; are dedicated to destroying institutions; and, typically, have an inchoate idea of what will constitute their brave new world.

So their imperative is to… CANCEL. Cancel what they can, tear down indiscriminately.

At the moment, in much of the world, especially Europe and America, they are quite successful. Are they clever, or are Christians, traditionalists, patriots lazy and defeated in spirit?

I began these thoughts by revisiting my Mothers Day message, and for a reason. On this Fathers Day. There is little that is more elemental to our essential selves than parenthood. The ties with our mothers and fathers. And for those so blessed, with children of the next generation. I tried to express my ineffable amazement of motherhood, the psychic (and all other) forces that exist, fierce, tender, and everything in between. That truth is what should make us despise and defeat those disordered social malefactors among us who want to destroy families, “change” sexes, and play God in uncountable ways.

But this is Dads’ Day. I did not, of course, disparage fatherhood by pausing to savor the role of mothers. But how unique is the inheritance fathers can bestow – literally, a patrimony. How special are the roles and duties God ordained: leading, providing, instructing. God Almighty has self-identified in Scripture as a He (which I am willing to concede is likely a construct of language’s limitations more than a description He must transcend as He does all matters of understanding) – which ultimately means that we are to look to His qualities with His children to form our relationships with our children.

So as a “point of personal privilege,” I am going to spill some attitudes of the best human father I knew, and share my appreciation and what I learned from his examples.

His own father was born in Germany (as were all my forebears) and was a gentle old man, yet I saw the razor strop in the closet by which he enforced discipline.

My father loved jazz as a boy, and his father let him listen and play (he was to perform with ensembles) but Sunday was the day restricted to hymns and… opera. My father developed a passion for Classic music too; as I did – through his example and the ubiquity of the music in our house, But never forced.

My father was a polymath, member of Mensa, interested in myriad things. I would not have become an obsessive collector, I think, without his example. On Saturdays he would bring me to Book Store Row in Manhattan, those ghettos of used-book stores. I caught the bug!

Dad never wrote, but when I became a journalist and author (now almost 80 books) I never have finished a piece without wondering what he would think or say.

He never drew, but he collected cartoon books and subscribed to a dozen papers so he could read – and save – the color comics. He charted my course without intending it, as cartoon work became a vocation.

He was a chemist, but never urged that profession on me (to the world’s relief, believe me). We used to argue politics until my mother cried – but it was never substantive: Mom never understood how we always flipped a switch to chat about Jack Benny or the latest best-seller. He taught me disputation, and to defend my ideas. And have them. (He became a conservative…)

He was a dedicated churchgoer, a Lutheran. Our family prayed daily and attended church weekly, but like many ‘50s families my parents smoke and drank and partied in suburbia. When I was to leave for college I told Dad my faith was getting shaky, and I wouldn’t want him to think that college would be changing my mind. “Oh, it’s just a stage,” he said. “You’ll stick with Jesus.”

At the time I thought he was a lazy Christian or indifferent about my soul! But I knew it was his brand of confidence-building. I soon did appreciate the quiet endorsement, his style.

I could go on, but most of you did not know him; maybe do, a little bit, now. I rolled out these snippets for a reason beyond nostalgia. I hope you all have similar stories, similar touchstones, and can identify through memories of your own.

There are two things to do with the collective memories we have of our fathers. We realize that we cherish not only their faces or personalities, their jobs or hobbies, even their successes or shortcomings. Those aspects combine to make one single, and singular, person. Especially if it is too late to say it to them, we must cherish our fathers.

But more, we must cherish the motive force behind fatherhood – and that is an aspect ordained by God. The continuum of family lines… our spiritual inheritance… responsibilities and joys…

With our fathers (and of course as I have said, mothers in different and special ways) we are not mere individuals thrown together by accident. And a family is not a club; a house is not a home. God has ordained the family unit, and as He is our Heavenly Father, must look to – and be – examples of the special nurturing only fathers can provide,

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The gifted songwriter Steve Goodman wrote this emotional tribute to his father. Don’t skip it!

Click: My Old Man

5-9-22

Readers will know that I am not skirting with blasphemy in the essay’s title, but rather surrendering to proper reverence.

And I will not even mention the cliché, at Mother’s Day, that all days are mothers’ days. Whoops, I just did. The value of clichés, since they inherently are true, can dissipate if applied to every day of the year, so let Hallmark have its fun… but do not lose sight of what we properly should pause and cherish.

God ordained the family unit. Fathers are responsible for provision, leadership models, and authority (I Timothy 3; Ephesians 5; etc) – heavy responsibilities. Women are different, and different beyond the evident characteristics. Mothers, more so.

That there is a qualitative difference between motherhood and fatherhood is axiomatic, not original to me. Those people who have mothers and fathers (so that includes most all of humankind, by my count) instinctively know this. The bonds between mothers and children simply are different than the case with fathers, despite dads’ roles as models and teachers, examples and disciplinarians. The bonds that tie us to mothers involve strength and tenderness; instruction and forbearance; rules and forgiveness.

Fathers can seem weak when they violate rules they set down; but somehow mothers are at their best when they bend; understanding, hugging, smiling. And, somehow, mothers’ work in this regard ultimately is more effective.

Through all of animate creation, the unique aspects of motherhood have the same invisible bonds, tender but strong; gentle but formative.

No wonder they have their special day.

And how interesting it is in these times, this current Mother’s Day, that such thoughts are pertinent to controversies that bizarrely rage in public discourse. Theodore Roosevelt, whom my readers know I quote slightly fewer times than the Bible, once said in typical wisdom, about the role of women in modern life: “Equality of rights does not mean equality of function.” How prescient, although I doubt that even he could have foreseen the popular delusions and madness of crowds that has gripped an approximate half of the American population.

He held these truths to be self-evident, that there are two sexes; that there are physical differences between them; and that (as careful reading of relevant Bible verses hold) no denigration nor subjugation nor modified rights may be deduced from such facts of nature.

The absence of common sense that reigns today reflects a pathology that transcends feminism, ignores physical realities, and is, in the end, a revelation of self-destructive tendencies… even self-loathing, self-hate. American civilization has devolved into a Culture of Death. A healthy nation cannot perpetuate itself nor survive when it tolerates the destruction of the nuclear family… when divorce is a casual and common thing… when drug abuse and alcoholism are rife… when child abuse and spousal abuse are similarly common… when crimes are not prosecuted, and nihilism is excused… when homosexuality and other gender disinformation is tolerated and encouraged – the very definition of a death-culture, the impulses contrary to procreation… when aborting babies is encouraged by the sanction of law.

Some people, of course, call those babies “collections of cells” or “blobs,” yet fingers, faces, and feelings are evident by photographs and other means… as if we need such science. (Recently, for a season, people of faith were painted as enemies of science.) And abortionists sell bodies parts and tiny organs from these collections of cell and blobs: interesting. A commercial impetus, perhaps, for elected officials who advocate abortions until full term and even after birth. A step from euthanasia; “mercy killings” with scant mercy.

Because of current legal debates, this aspect of the Culture of Death rages once again. It is a political litmus-test like no other, this dogmatic commitment, almost a maniacal frenzy, to abort babies. To force people to assent, no matter their moral beliefs. To require every citizen to pay for the deaths of those babies, the decisions of those mothers. Even the underpinning is fungible: “our bodies,” except when it comes to vaccines, or schoolchildren’s minds…

By the way, regarding my terminology here, even the President of the United States — unintentionally uttering the truth, going off the abortion-lovers’ script — this week talked about “aborting children.” Not blobs of cells, not fetuses. But intellectual schizophrenia of these people should not be a surprise. At one moment they defend women; at the next they claim (as a Supreme Court nominee did) inability to define a “woman.” They work fervently to deny and destroy many aspects of being a women. They are feminists who regard femininity as shameful; they invent privileges but reject the natural (and beneficial) perquisites afforded to women.

Sixty-million children have been killed (or insert the attempts at use euphemisms like “terminated.” What a schreckliche term, if you know what I mean) since Roe v Wade was decided. At one time I was casual, even an advocate, of the procedure. I have regretted that and spent many sleepless nights and raised many pleas for forgiveness… and so have many others. Part-mothers and almost-fathers: many have seen the light and know that God “does not despise a broken and contrite heart.” He offers mercy and forgiveness.

In the meantime, we face the possible re-adjustment in this contemporary practice of infant sacrifice; the contemporary style is to sacrifice children to the gods of convenience and numb morals. We also face the prospect of another season of civil unrest. We hear the hysterical predictions – that women will lose the right to vote! that segregation will return to water fountains!! that slavery surely will return!!! Home addresses, phone numbers, and personal information about the wives and children of justices and senators are being published, to enable physical intimidation or worse.

The “end” of abortions is not threatened, however, except in the “minds” of the shock-troops of this Culture-of-Death revolution. To the surprise of some people and the dismay of others, the complete rejection of Roe will not abolish abortion in America. Each state will decide that question. So, fasten your seat belts.

The United States is one of only seven nations (out of 198) on the entire globe to permit abortions after 20 weeks of pregnancy. Good company: the enlightened gulags of North Korea and Communist China are in our club. Even Ruth Bader Ginsberg wrote in a lengthy law review article that she thought Roe was wrongly decided; and she predicted the turmoil we currently endure. Almost 20 years ago I interviewed Norma McCorvey (the “Roe” of the case). The tale of her early manipulation, and fear, and regret, was heart-rending. Life-long, she was a pawn in this deadly game – not game of life, as a saying goes; but of death.

To my original point – the “nub” of Mother’s Day. Speaking as a man who completely cherished the love of my mother, the joy of my wife giving birth and rearing our precious children, the unspeakable pride, seeing my own daughters becoming nurturing mothers – I am, in a way I cannot fully express, admiring of those Human Havens, moms.

Why women pretend not to be women; why they despise the precious and unique gifts they possess; why they insanely invent new genders and regard Rights as Wrongs and vice-versa; why they cannot tolerate other women who want to be women, and wives, and mothers… is inexplicable.

Except that they are committed, active soldiers in this corrosive Culture of Death cult.

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Please take a moment today and watch this tender music video. Three Kleenex for me.

Click: A Mother Like You

4-4-22

In one of my former lives – not that I believe in reincarnation; I mean I have had several and varied careers – I was a writer of Walt Disney comics. Numerous treatments and scripts for Mickey, Donald, Uncle Scrooge, and the rest of the gang.

When I was hired, I was given a “story bible” – note the small-b – which instructed artists and writers how to handle the characters. My essential requirement was to “write like Carl Barks and Floyd Gottfredson.” These were the men most responsible for the Donald and Mickey, respectively, we knew from comic books and strips. These men were heroes; as a fan and scholar I already knew them personally; and of course it was a dream assignment. (Carl had even created the Uncle Scrooge character.)

I have copped a few awards and plaques through the years, and they are on my office wall, but they are arranged around my framed membership certificate from the Mickey Mouse Club, 1955. Dearer to me. “Ricky Marshall,” printed in red, around which those trivialities orbit.

I was, in childhood years and in grownup-childhood years, Mickey’s pal. Uncle Walt’s pal, really; of course I went to the theme parks and collected toys and went to the Disney movies. To kids in America for almost a century now, Mickey has been part of our DNA, in our blood.

Suddenly we are diagnosed with a blood infection, however.

The dissolution of the Magic Kingdom’s magic, the betrayal of Uncle Walt’s vision and ethos, have not been precipitous, but recently have accelerated with a vengeance. At the parks and in cartoons and movies, the words “Ladies” and “Gentlemen” and “Boys” and Girls” literally will be proscribed. A Princess is an endangered species because girls who might not dream of being princesses must not be offended nor have such awful visions planted in their hearts.

Mickey and Tinkerbell have been dethroned as Disney spokespeople; “Goofy” would be more appropriate; I hereby nominate him. Or Cruella.

Today, I would refuse to work for the transformed Disney, this counterfeit colossus. I knew a delightful lady, Virginia Davis, who as a little girl was a neighbor of the unknown Walter Disney in Kansas City. When the ambitious cartoonist dreamed up a concept of a live-action girl in an animated world, which became the silent cartoon series Alice in Cartoonland, Ginni played the role. And when the series became a success, Disney moved to Hollywood to produce more, and the Davis family followed. Decades later, when I invited her, out of retirement in Boise, Idaho, to comics conventions here and in Europe, she recalled uncountable stories of Walt… who, several years after Alice, created Mickey Mouse!

Ginni Davis remained friends with Walt’s widow Lillian. Even 25 years ago, I was told, Lillian was very unhappy with what the Disney “brand” had become; and she thought Walt would not have recognized, or liked, it either. And that was before the studio’s PC-pledges, this week, to sanitize its vocabulary and to make a corporate commitment (as per the Disney website) to design half of the studio’s characters to “come from underrepresented groups.”

Disney’s President of General Entertainment Content Karey Burke confirmed the policy. Despite her title, she claimed in a Zoom call to employees that she was shocked to realize that there were only a “handful” of “queer” lead characters in Disney productions. Odd, since she proudly said that she has two “queer” children herself. Technically, one “gay” and one “pansexual,” a category whose meaning eludes me (as do a couple of the letters in “LGBTQIA+”).

The spark that ignited this latest bit of lunacy was the Florida legislature’s law to prohibit the discussion of topics like transgenderism – including counseling and invitations to role-play – to students from kindergarten to second grade. The governor signed the bill; the growing “woke” elements of the nation’s “virtuous” elites erupted in protest; and Walt Disney World in Orlando – the sprawling megalopolis that enjoys tax and regulatory privileges from the state – went public with its dissent, and initiated political threats.

“Underrepresented,” for those of you who have not been following the map, navigating this new Fantasyland, does not mean creating characters with disabilities, or are Amish or Orthodox or Pentecostal, or albinos, or kids with developmental challenges, or birth defects, or cerebral palsy or Down Syndrome. No conjoined twins, sightless, nor (literal) dwarfs. No, the vast Disney “universe” will be populated 50 per cent by characters representing the minuscule portion of the population with rare sexual attributes like gender dysphagia. Pandering, that is, to a different audience in a particular demographic pool.

Disney’s declaration of war on traditional culture and America’s spiritual and social heritage is a pop-culture version of Russia’s brutal visit to Ukraine. American childhood is the innocent, unsuspecting landscape. This not only represents a serious matter; it is a serious matter.

Speaking of wars, they can be lost, or won. Any of us can go broke or lose a job, but we get a new job, we recover. Couples split up, and get back together… or don’t, but we find new loves eventually. Friends move away; we make new friends. Someone might betray us, and it hurts; but time heals the wound, or we forgive; usually we forget. In awful situations, we get sick, and recover, or cope. Wounded soldiers manage and, increasingly, are supported by those who love and appreciate them. Pets die; we get new pets. Life is a wheel.

But there is one thing that cannot be restored, or repaired, and certainly not redeemed when violated or lost. That is the innocence of a child.

“Kids grow up too fast,” we often hear, and that seems true, but I address more than that. As life has become too loud, too rude, too new, too strange, and, yes, too fast for adults… it surely has for children. Do technology and new media rob children of imagination… or maybe encourage imagination? I suspect it will take generations for that judgment.

But I am not inviting us to think about imagination. I am talking about innocence.

Aspects of sex and sexuality ought to be the domain of parents within the family setting. Similarly, matters of morality. Values. Standards. But teachers, teachers’ unions, liberal politicians and judges, the “entertainment” industry, and the talking animals and prancing fairies at Disney theme parks – they mostly agree that parents are the last people who should inculcate knowledge and wisdom to their children.

Maybe, next, they will propose that parents can be the responsible parties for reading, writing, and arithmetic, since those disciplines are no longer the priorities of schools.

Train children in the way they should grow, and when they are old they will not turn from it (Proverbs 22:6).

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Click: Slumber My Darling

1-31-22

A guest message by my dear friend Leah Morgan.

When God did his best work, which admirers still paint and photograph to this day, it was summed up in these words – God said. God saw. God separated.

Over and over, for six days, He repeated these actions. He said, He saw, He separated. The separating was part of the process necessary for success and optimum function.

He separated light from darkness.
He separated the waters of the heavens from the waters of the earth.
He separated dry ground and land from waters and seas.
He separated day from night.
He separated birds in the sky from beasts in the sea.
He separated work from rest.

And He built within His creation the power of reproduction. Seeds that will produce the kinds of plants and trees from which they came (Genesis 1:11). A chance for the cycle of life to continue.

And finally, God created the perfect counterpoint to man, and He crafted woman. More separation, as part of the perfect union. He separated Adam from his rib. He took something away to bring him something better. Then, God spoke to the couple about more separation. This union of turning two into one, God explains, is why a man separates from his parents (Genesis 2:24).

As if God said, “If a man is going to enjoy an ideal union with his wife, he needs to mimic My pattern of creation. Say; see; then separate. Say it. Speak up! Your words have power! Take the authority I’ve placed in your tongue. Then take a moment to sit back and look at what you’ve spoken to life. Enjoy it and appreciate it. Then… get out. Leave your parents. Your mom’s patterns, your dad’s habits, your family’s hang-ups. Separate. You will never live in a Garden that thrives if you’re not willing to separate from your parents. They no longer have dominion over you. If they do, then darkness and light, day and night, sky and sea have no boundaries. There’s a reason the sea needs to stay out of your back yard, and the night needs to get out of the afternoon sky. It’s the same reason your parents’ needs were relegated to their own homes with their own opinions.”

Seeds will produce the kinds of plants and trees from which they came (Genesis 1:11). Sometimes, newly married seeds decide they don’t want to produce the fighting and temper tantrums and insecurities and manipulation of the plants and trees from which they came. They want a Garden built on trust and peace and kind words. They’d rather laugh and be silly than throw cruel insults around.

To newlyweds and longtime married couples: Garden it up! Say; see; and separate.

And then get naked. And stay naked. That’s Bible-talk for good marriage. Now the man and his wife were both naked, but they felt no shame.

God gave Adam and Eve the best chance for happiness when He created them without pockets. No place to hide anything. They were naked. And not embarrassed.

Our relationships begin to disintegrate when we start sewing pockets, places to hide things. We hide our past. Our spending. Our habits. Our wounds. Our hurt feelings. Men feel they can’t acknowledge having their feelings hurt; they can’t be naked about their feelings. That would make them… what? An Eve? So they hide that pain. Stuff their pockets full and make more pockets when they run out of room for all that they need to hide. But with the hiding comes the shame. And with the shame comes wide, wide gulfs of separation.

We are meant to be naked. Hiding nothing. Marriage is the place we keep it all out in the open. We don’t stuff our feelings, we don’t keep quiet about our opinions, we don’t tiptoe around bad moods. We don’t hide purchases and credit cards. We are naked and hide nothing. That’s the Garden ideal. A safe place for being real and honest and imperfect and beautiful and fun.

The Garden withers and good fruit begins to rot when we begin to dress up God’s ideal. He keeps it simple. True. Plain. Honest. No pretense. No sneaking around. No covering up. Owning it all. The knobby knees, the wobbly gait, and the imperfections. There is freedom in coming clean.

It is how God engages in relationship with us, written in Hebrews 4: 12,13: The WORD OF GOD is alive and powerful (SAY). It is sharper than the sharpest two-edged sword, cutting between soul and spirit, between joint and marrow (SEPARATE). It exposes our innermost thoughts and desires. Nothing in all creation is hidden from God. Everything is naked and exposed before His eyes, and He is the one to whom we are accountable (SEE).

Our relationship with Jesus is healed in the Garden when we come out of hiding and stop being ashamed to be naked and seen by our Creator. I am the true grapevine, and my Father is the gardener. He cuts off every branch of mine that doesn’t produce fruit, and he prunes the branches that do bear fruit so they will produce even more. Remain in me and I will remain in you (John 15:1,2,4).

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Follow Leah’s beautiful, powerful, and inspired thoughts at leahcmorgan.com

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Click: When He Calls, I’ll Fly Away/I’ll Fly Away

1-24-22

I shared this message on Facebook this week, and now will here, with you. It has been nine years since my wife Nancy died. Heart and kidney transplants were supposed to give her another three to five years… but she lived 16 more years, mostly healthy till the very end.

She inspired people and devoted herself to a ministry serving transplant recipients, donors, and those on life’s edge, including families.

This week was Sanctity of Life Week also, capped by the March For Life in Washington DC. President Trump, like many of us, once was pro-abortion, or at least neutral; then became the only president personally to address the March. President Biden, like many Catholic friends, claims adherence to the church teachings but rejects them in practice.

Life – living, protecting, honoring life – ought be the concern of all. This should be axiomatic… but in this world it is not even automatic. The devil wants to destroy our lives; governments want to control our lives; but God gave us life and Jesus sacrificed His life that we might have life and life more abundant.

Some years ago I edited the magazine Rare Jewel. We published a Sanctity of Life theme issue, and I asked Nancy to write about her experience and perspective, facing death and cherishing life. Edited, I offer it here. She also endured, besides the heart and kidney transplants, diabetes, strokes, cancer, celiac disease, amputations, and other challenges. Her story in part follows:

I was diagnosed with heart disease two months after my 41st birthday. My three children were 15, 14, and 11 at the time.

I also learned that I had had a silent heart attack sometime the previous summer, and that I had coronary artery disease and congestive heart failure (CHF), meaning that the arteries supplying blood to my heart were narrowed. There was no blockage that surgery could correct by bypass.

In the first diagnoses, the doctors thought that with medicines my heart disease could be kept under control and in 10 years or so I would have to consider the prospect of a heart transplant.

But after two more heart attacks in 10 months—and not so “silent” these times—the doctors told me that I would not survive a fourth heart attack. This news came on my 42nd birthday. Within the month I was transferred from our local hospital to Temple University Hospital in Philadelphia and put on the transplant list for a heart and kidney.

Events moved quickly, and I really didn’t have much time to think about what was ahead. As a diabetic, I had assumed that at some time I might need a kidney transplant—I had never thought about needing a new heart! I also assumed that the whole process was like changing a battery: take out the old and put in the new.

Not quite. Because my doctors could not guarantee my survival at home for longer than two weeks, I had to stay in the hospital, with heart monitors attached to my chest, and an IV tube continuously feeding me medicines that kept my heart working at its maximum possible efficiency.

In the beginning of this process, I think most patients in my “group” of potential organ recipients were, like me, a bit naive. We didn’t know about some of the complications associated with the surgery. Strokes, blood clots causing the loss of limbs, and blindness were just some of the problems. Our group of approximately 16 patients was relatively healthy or at least stable, but every now and then reality would strike.

Without warning, people “coded” (heart stopping); sometimes they could not be revived. Other times those who had received transplanted organs would return to the hospital with rejection (the body trying to destroy the new organ).

We all know there are no guarantees in life, but no matter how young or old, we tend to take some things for granted. However, when hospitalized in a heart-failure unit, never knowing what the next minutes might bring, I developed a deeper sense of what was important to me.

I prayed for more time—time to be a mother to my children, for us to be together as a family. I cried out to God, How much longer? He answered in the words of I Peter 5:6,7: Humble ourselves under the mighty hand of God, that He may exalt you in due time, casting all your care upon Him; for He cares for you.

And I learned to trust Him. Just as He was taking care of me, He would take care of my family. And each time I asked “How much longer?” He would remind me of a promise I made to Him that I would stay for as long as He wanted me to. And God gave me His total peace.

In all ways my hospital stay—18 weeks before organs became available; then three weeks after the operation, until I could go home—was a good experience. I came to know God in a more intimate way, to learn to trust Him and His ways, and to appreciate all that He has given me. I began praying for the other patients on the floor; first for those on their way to the ER, then weekly Bible studies, then prayer support groups. We started a family ministry that lasted more than seven years.

I have seen all three of my children grow up. Heather is a youth minister in Michigan; Ted is a television news producer [now in Washington DC] and Emily moved to Ireland after doing missions work [and has started her own business of American-style foods.] And, I have four beautiful grandchildren. I am very proud of them all.

At one time I did not have real hope, leaning on my own view of life. But as Psalm 119:50 says:

My comfort in my suffering was this: “Your promise preserves my life!”

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Click: I’ll Have a New Life / Everybody Will Be Happy Over There

6-20-21

A guest column today by my friend Kent Kraning. I had the honor of helping him put together a book on “parenting” and particularly about the essential and precious relationships between fathers and sons. This passage is from that terrific book. Kent and his wife Robin “have been married for more than 38 years and have raised six sons; have three daughters-in-love, and 9 grand-lambs.” Together they have served in ministry most of their lives, including co-pastoring a church in Cool, California; and directing family camps and other adult conferences at Forest Home Christian Camps in the San Bernardino Mountains. Kent now serves as the Marriage Life and Senior Ministry Pastor at Friends Church Yorba Linda; and also as a Chaplain for the Orange County Fire Authority.

As Father’s Day approaches, I am reminded of a missing piece in my life. My father passed away on Palm Sunday 2020, right at the front end of the pandemic. He didn’t die of COVID 19; his heart just grew tired from working so hard to keep him alive.

However, because of the lockdowns we were unable to gather. So last week, days before Fathers Day and 14 months since he graduated to heaven, we finally held his Celebration of Life.

My father loved to tell stories. And he didn’t really care if you had already heard it. It didn’t even matter if he had told you this one before, he would tell it again because he just loved the telling. Then, once he had finished the story, he would say, “I still remember that.” We would often add, “We do too, dad.”

More than five years ago my father and I began writing a book about parenting. It is a collection of stories from our lives and the lessons we learned from them. I am grateful that we finished the book and placed a copy in his hands while he was still able to enjoy it. There is one story from the book in particular that seems to strike a chord with dads.

It is a reminder of how vital it is that we are people of our “word.” Especially when we give it to our children. We need to be people of integrity. We need to be fathers who place a high priority on our families. We need to see the high value of our children and keep our commitments to them above all else and at any cost.

Here is that story, an excerpt from our book, Dirt Grenades. I hope you enjoy it too.

My Dad grew up in Indiana. As a boy, he and his dad often went fishing and hunting. One particular day his dad, my grandpa, made plans to take him fishing in a local pond called Fennel Lake. It wasn’t the first time they had gone together. Dad loved fishing, and any day spent drowning worms with his dad was a great day.

He had been looking forward to this particular day for some time. As they were heading out the door the phone rang. Grandpa answered; it was the school. He was the principal at what is now Lima Brighton School in Howe, Indiana. Evidently something had gone wrong, and presence was requested. My dad heard Grandpa begin to argue gently but firmly with the person he later learned was the vice principal.

Dad could tell that this man needed my grandpa to go to the campus… and he could feel his best day slipping away. Then Grandpa said, “Well, you need to handle this. I made a promise to my son that I would spend this day on the lake with him, and I need to keep that promise. When I return, I will come in immediately.” Then grandpa said goodbye, closing the conversation abruptly. In a moment, my father walked out the back door with a reassuring smile from his dad who said, “Let’s get out of here before someone else calls.”

They had a great day on the water! When they returned home, Grandpa dropped Dad off and quickly headed for school. My father never knew what happened, what problems needed to be solved, or if Grandpa got in trouble for refusing to go in. All he knew was that they had a great day at the lake. I don’t know what that cost Grandpa, but my dad learned two things that day: He was more important to his dad than the job; and Grandpa was a man who would keep his word even if it cost him.

In Psalm 15:4 David says, a man of God “keeps his oath even when it hurts.” That was Grandpa, and that became my dad. In many families, a little boy and fishing would fall to second place after career and responsibilities, and become a lesson that the child must learn – understanding the importance of Dad’s job. However, to my grandfather of far greater importance was the lesson of integrity.

A child will never forget when a dad breaks his promise – no matter what the reason. My dad and my grandpa had many days of good fishing, but the day he kept his promise was one my dad would never forget.

From Dirt Grenades and Other Explosive Parenting Moments by Kent Kraning with Bob Kraning. It is available on Amazon.com at $14.99 for the paperback or $2.99 for the Kindle version. For further information regarding the content of this book or to contact the author visit www.oursixsons.com or e-mail the Kranings at hello@oursixsons.com

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Click: The Best Day of My Life

1-18-21

Can we imagine a day, or a time, when things will be “back to normal”?

“Normality” has been the mantra of politicians and pundits, and the dream of friends and family, in this year of plagues, riots, political crises and much else. Warren Harding ran for president in 1920 – after a traumatic World War, an unprecedented influenza epidemic that killed more than our soldiers’ death tolls, an economic crisis, and a raft of Communist and labor violence – his promise: “A Return to Normalcy.”

America wanted reassurance, and even accepted invented words in pursuit. What America got, with Harding, was the Roaring Twenties with Prohibition, gangsters, an Administration riven by scandals, and the president’s mysterious death.

Meaning? We wish, and learn (not really) that wishes seldom come true. We pray, and expect God to check the boxes on our prayer list. God doesn’t work like that, no matter how much we ignore history or God’s ways.

Of course my context here is the recent panorama of disruption in our national life. We have all been affected, and, uniquely, not one soul in a positive way. Yet to know what these crises will mean, what changes might come in our national life, requires “time and chance,” which happeneth to all – a historical perspective. Rudyard Kipling wrote in his poem “IF,” … Meet with triumph and disaster, and treat those two imposters just the same.

In Ecclesiastes we are told that “there is nothing new under the sun,” and we humans need that reminder, because we tend to think that our problems are unique… that we are the first generation to face certain challenges… that old rules are irrelevant when we want to solve our new crises.

In II Corinthians 4:17-18 we have God’s perspective on… perspective; Now vs Long-term. For our light affliction, which is but for a moment, worketh for us a far more exceeding and eternal weight of glory; while we look not at the things which are seen, but at the things which are not seen: for the things which are seen are temporal; but the things which are not seen are eternal.

I am not dismissing the crisis of the old order, or the new order. I think we are at a deflection-point, and America’s survival is in jeopardy. The continent will still be here; houses and highways and weddings and babies will never cease being a part of everyday life. But the United States might cease to be united; the government might govern differently.

The social fabric is ripping.

We here in this country can, and do, argue about taxes and rules, foreign policy and domestic justice. Our disputes sound important, and often are important. But far more important – more dispositive of who we are as a people – are questions of our national integrity. Our character. Our morality.

The visitor from France Alexis de Tocqueville “got it” almost 200 years ago when he observed that “America will cease to be great when it ceases to be good.”

In that regard, we recognize that there has not been a straight line in manners and morals over the millennia regarding monogamous marriage, infant sacrifice, slavery, the role of women, personal freedom and liberty, democracy, even monotheism until the Revealed God revealed Himself fully. “Progress” is defined by the codification of “humane” standards about such things.

Yet abortion is an act that mostly has been regarded through history as anathema at all times and in all places, by whole societies and by individual women. Its sanction, and its approval, have always been exceptions. Mostly it is regarded as something to be discouraged because of the implicit recognition that it is horrible, contrary to human impulses.

Until our generation.

We all know the arguments, many emotional and many persuasive, about the burdens of unplanned births. Many justifications for “terminating a pregnancy” – or “killing the baby,” take your pick – are economic and social. But in history’s richest and purportedly happiest culture, these reasons are hollow. Some years ago I interviewed Norma McCorvey, the “Roe” of Roe vs Wade, who had regretted her manipulation, reversed her views, and became a Christian. Pro-Life. Before she died, this victim of manipulation reportedly was contrite about her contrition, a one-woman tornado of contradictions.

Her testimony confirmed my views, but did not change them. That happened earlier; for a long time I was indifferent to the issue, and saw it as more a matter of convenience than morality. I even took that point of view in public, and now am conscious of blood on my hands.

But one does not have to trade Pragmatism for Christianity to realize that abortion is murder.

I offer this on Celebration of Life week, Sanctity of Life Sunday.

A lot of the world preceded the US, or closely followed us, in the legalization of abortion. We are among the few human-rights garden spots like North Korea and China that allow late-term abortions, killing babies otherwise viable outside the womb.

The mists must part. Are we doomed to suffer the proper dissolution of a society no longer dedicated to savoring life? Why do we buy the lie that “true” women must support abortion – a “litmus test” for votes or employment. It is a Big Lie that women are pro-choice and men want disposable women and babies, belied by the profile of marchers at Pro-Life rallies. Mostly women. And men who are passionately against abortion.

If you don’t like being a woman who is “wired” to bear babies, don’t conceive. You cannot reverse nature. A lot of times it stinks to be a man too, but whatever. People have intimidated the culture to an extent; but they cannot reverse nature. They can tinker with the plumbing, but we still are men and women. Period (no pun intended).

Therefore, abortion, as a litmus-test, is a symbol. It is the result, not a cause, of America having become a Culture of Death. Our current challenges will seem small in the long run.

And when we have become desensitized to death, we have become desensitized to life. There are ramifications beyond “correcting a mistake” 60-million times over.

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Click: Slumber My Darling – YouTube

12-28-20

It is sad and tragic – it “stinks” is the word I am searching for – that people who are alone on Christmas feel alone on Christmas. Yes, we know the associations of the holiday, and they must be real because we read the gruesome statistics every year about melancholy and even increased cases of suicides. Other words are “useless” and “ironic.”

If anyone pays attention to the meaning of the Incarnation – Jehovah, Messiah, Emmanuel, “God with us” – they should be reassured to know that Jesus is the Friend of all. When the world fails, Jesus is true. He is loyal, an ever-present help in time of trouble, and Someone Who clings to us closer than a shadow.

More, He came to minister to the lost and lonely. In fact nearly every aspect of His life as a human was… lonely. His parents were rejected all over the city, and my guess is that it was not really a challenge of overbooked inns. Do you doubt the Christmas story? King Herod didn’t: he had all young boys in his realm slaughtered to prevent a Savior’s arrival.

Seven hundred years earlier the Prophet Isaiah (Chapter 53) predicted in astonishing detail the facts of Christ’s birth, ministry, death… and loneliness. He was not handsome… He was called a Man who had no place to lay His head… He was “rejected, despised”… At the end of His life – after wise teaching, miracles, and uncountable healings – He was alone again. Unjustly accused, imprisoned, tortured, and put to painful death. I have always thought the worst hurts were the abandonment, betrayal, and disappearance of his friends and followers.

Jesus knew these things were coming, not just the days before, but as per Isaiah’s prophesies, just as others could have connected the dots.

He came into the world naked and alone; He left this world naked and alone. For those who feel alone at Christmastime, take a moment to imagine that the Holy Child looking up from the lowly manger – or the Man of Sorrows hanging from the cross – might have been looking for YOU… and looking AT you.

Are you there, looking at Him? Were you looking for a friend when you felt friendless? Others left Him, but He will never leave you.

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Click: God Walks the Dark Hills

For readers with hand-held devices, click or copy and paste:
God Walks the Dark Hills – Iris Dement – YouTube

https://www.youtube.com/watch_popup?v=0OGq4EXaXTM

(There is a “download spammer” that sometimes interferes with music and video downloads. It is not malicious or harmful; but it is annoying, Please just “refresh” a couple times to get our video download.)

9-7-20

I have told this story before. On this Labor Day weekend, I remember a simple BBQ, but one of the most profound days of my life. A holiday far away from my home… but very close to my heart. It happened on a Summer holiday more than 20 years ago.

Is this an America that is disappearing?

I was working on a book back then, a three-part biography of rock ‘n’ roll pioneer Jerry Lee Lewis; evangelist Jimmy Swaggart; and country-music superstar Mickey Gilley, all first cousins to each other. My good friend Maury Forman offered me his unused condo in Montgomery, Texas to get away for a bit of a personal research and writing. Since Lewis lived in Mississippi, Swaggart in Louisiana, and Gilley in nearby Pasadena Texas, it made geographical sense.

Once settled, I took out the Yellow Pages (remember them?) to chart the location of nearby Assembly of God churches, intent on visiting as many as I could through the summer. East Texas was in every way new to me, and I wanted to experience everything I could.

Well, the first one I visited was in Cut and Shoot, Texas. That’s a town’s name; you can look it up. A small, white frame AG church was my first stop that summer… and I never visited another. For one thing – coincidence? – I learned that a member of the tiny congregation was the widow of a man who had pastored the AG church in Ferriday, Louisiana, the small town four hours away where, and when, those three cousins grew up in its pews. She knew them all, and their families, and had great stories. Beyond that, the pastor of the church in Cut and Shoot, Charles Wigley, had gone to Bible College with Jerry Lee Lewis and played in a band with him, until Jerry Lee got kicked out. Some more great stories.

But there was more than that kept me there for that summer. In that white-frame church and that tiny congregation, it was, um, obvious in three minutes that I was not from East Texas. I was born in New York City. Yet I was treated like family as if the folks had known me three decades. A fellow named Dave Gilbert asked me if I’d like to go to his farm for a barbecue where a bunch of people were just going to get together and “do some visitin’.”

I bought the biggest watermelon I could find as my contribution to the pot-luck. Well, there were dozens and dozens of folks. I couldn’t tell which was family and who were friends, because everybody acted like family. When folks from East Texas ask, “How are you?” they really mean it. There were several monstrous barrel BBQ smokers with chimneys, all slow-cooking beef brisket. (Every region brags about its barbecue traditions, but I’ll fight anyone who doesn’t admit low-heat, slow-smoked, no sauce, East-Texas BBQ the best) There was visitin,’ surely; there were delicious side dishes; there was softball and volleyball and kids dirt-biking; and breaks for sweet tea and spontaneous singing of patriotic songs.

I sat back in a folding chair, and I thought, “This is America.”

As the sun set, the same food came out again — smoked brisket galore; all the side dishes; and desserts of all sorts. Better than the first time. Then the Gilberts cleared their house’s porch. People brought instruments out of their cars and trucks. Folks tuned their guitars; some microphones and amps were set up; chairs and blankets dotted the lawn. Dave Gilbert and his brothers, I learned, sang gospel music semi-professionally in the area. Pastor Wigley, during the summer, had opened for Gold City Quartet at a local concert, playing gospel music on the saxophone. But everyone else sang, too.

In some churches, in some parts of America, you are just expected to sing solo every once in a while. You’re not expected to – you want to. So into the evening, as the sun went down and the moon came up over those farms and fields, everyone at that picnic sang, together or solo or in duets or quartets. Spontaneously, mostly. Far into the night, exuberantly with smiles, or heartfelt with tears, singing unto the Lord.

I sat back in the folding chair, and I thought, “This is Heaven.”

I have grown sad for people who have not experienced the type of worship where singers and people who pray do so spontaneously. From the congregation. Moving to the front. Sharing their hearts. Crying tears of joy or conviction. Loving the Lord, freely. If you have not… then visit a church where this is commonplace. Even witnessing it is an uplifting balm to the soul, where there is freedom and joy in singing spontaneously.

I attach a video that very closely captures the music, and the feeling – the fellowship – of that evening. A wooden ranch house, a barbecue picnic just ended, a campfire, and singers spontaneously worshiping, joining in, clapping, and “taking choruses.” Smiling, hugging. There were cameras at this particular get-together, but it took this city boy back to that holiday weekend, finding himself among a brand-new family, the greatest barbecue I ever tasted before or since… and the sweetest songs I know.

And I think to myself, nervously shedding a tear… “THIS is the America we are losing.”

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Click: The Sweetest Song I Know

8-31-20

My late wife and I had a formula for dealing with matters that helped contribute to a happy marriage. I would concentrate on the big issues that arose; and she would handle all the minor matters.

Therefore, I addressed things like nuclear disarmament, the World Trade Organization, and amnesty for illegal border crossings. Nancy handled the small things like household budgets, car insurance, and the mortgage.

It actually worked out well. Behind most jokes and pathetic confessions in life, as this is, there are principles that represent truth and tangible benefits. “Tangible,” in my analogy, is the lesson that life is made up of “big” and “small” matters – a cliché in itself – but meaning that we often are seduced into thinking that correct decisions about “big” challenges are sufficient to bring success.

Ignoring or dismissing the “small” matters in life is like building a house on a foundation of sand. Both types of challenges are essential to address, but the “small” matters comprise the mortar that holds the bricks of our lives together.
This too is an old chestnut, you might think, but I saw these clichés in a new light as I prepared the annual “kids leaving home” message here. This year, the pesky virus turns that topic on its head too – children going away to college, or other Rites of Autumn. Some kids leave, some stay, others will be somewhere in between this year.

I have observed about children growing up under our care that the days seem to drag… but the years whiz by. And they are gone before we know it. Life shouldn’t work that way, but life seldom follows our scripts.

I see my two grandchildren in Northern Ireland a couple times a week, and even so “I can’t believe how they’re growing!” – which is great, but a distant second to in-person contact. You can’t hug a Skype screen, which how we visit. I have two other grandchildren 45 minutes from my house, but because of an argument whose details I totally forget, I have not seen my daughter or them for three years, except briefly once by a mistake. Life shouldn’t work that way, either.

I have been touched by a song since before the first of my three kids even went off to college, and I share it every leaving-the-nest season. Now all three are in and out of college, in professions, successful and busy. I have grandchildren, as I say, and for all these factors, there is another script I cannot write, nor would want to – that life could switch itself into reverse gear. It is great to see children leave, and a great and proper fulfillment, unto lives of their own. And, I suppose, they will have bittersweet tears when their own children leave their nests.

When we stop and think – when we stop to think – the “big” moments in a family’s life can make us smile with pride or chuckle at significant milestones. But the “small” things, the mortar that holds us together, things like drawings from grade school, lamps in the attic, toys from birthdays past, memories of little joys and (ultimately unimportant) childhood crises… those are what we cherish best and miss the most.

For everything there is a season, a time for every activity under heaven.
A time to be born and a time to die. A time to plant and a time to harvest.
A time to kill and a time to heal. A time to tear down and a time to build up.
A time to cry and a time to laugh. A time to grieve and a time to dance.
A time to scatter stones and a time to gather stones. A time to embrace and a time to turn away.
A time to search and a time to quit searching. A time to keep and a time to throw away.
A time to tear and a time to mend. A time to be quiet and a time to speak.
A time to love and a time to hate. A time for war and a time for peace.

There is a season – turn, turn, as the song puts it. I understand. I have read the script. But sometimes these old bones find it a little harder to dance to the script’s music.

Thank God for all things. But remember to savor the small things.

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Click: Letting Go

1-27-20

Two events were marked this week, by me, significant and related. January 21st was the seventh “anniversary” of my wife’s passing, after many years of many medical problems. Heart and kidney transplants were supposed to give her another three to five years… but she lived 16 more years, mostly healthy till the very end. She inspired people and devoted herself to a ministry serving transplant recipients, donors, and those on life’s edge, including families.

This week, also, was Sanctity of Life week. For 47 years, multiple thousands gather on the Mall in Washington, speaking and praying; and then “march” to the Supreme Court, where they pray and speak. President Trump addressed the pro-life crowd in person… the only president to do so, even including Ronald Reagan. The president, like many of us, once was pro-abortion, or at least neutral. But we have seen the light about this moral crisis, and by some polls, now a majority of the public has too.

Fifteen years ago I edited a terrific magazine, Rare Jewel. We published a Sanctity of Life theme issue, and I asked Nancy to write about her experience and perspective. Edited to make sense, after the passage of time, I offer it here:

I was diagnosed with heart disease in November, 1994, two months after my 41st birthday. My three children were 15, 14 and 11 at the time.

I also learned that I had had a silent heart attack sometime the previous summer, and that I had coronary artery disease and congestive heart failure (CHF), meaning that the arteries supplying blood to my heart were narrowed. There was no blockage that surgery could correct by bypass.

In the first diagnoses, the doctors thought that with medicines my heart disease could be kept under control and in 10 years or so I would have to consider the prospect of a heart transplant.

But after two more heart attacks in 10 months—and not so “silent” these times—the doctors told me that I would not survive a fourth heart attack. This news came on my 42nd birthday. Within the month I was transferred from our local hospital to Temple University Hospital in Philadelphia and put on the transplant list for a heart and kidney.

Events moved quickly, and I really didn’t have much time to think about what was ahead. As a diabetic, I had assumed that at some time I might need a kidney transplant—I had never thought about needing a new heart! I also assumed that the whole process was like changing a battery: take out the old and put in the new. Not quite. Because my doctors could not guarantee my survival at home for longer than two weeks, I had to stay in the hospital, with heart monitors attached to my chest, and an IV tube also in my chest, continuously feeding me medicines that kept my heart working at its maximum possible efficiency.

In the beginning of this process, I think most patients in my “group” of potential organ recipients were, like me, a bit naive. We didn’t know about some of the complications associated with the surgery; strokes, blood clots causing the loss of limbs, and blindness were just some of the problems. Our group of approximately 16 patients was relatively healthy or at least stable, but every now and then reality would strike. Without warning, people would “code” (the heart would stop); sometimes they could not be revived. Other times those who had received transplanted organs would return to the hospital with rejection (the body trying to destroy the new organ).

We all know there are no guarantees in life, but no matter how young or old, we tend to take some things for granted. However, when hospitalized in a heart failure unit, never knowing what the next minutes might bring, I developed a deeper sense of what was important to me. I prayed for more time—time to be a mother to my children, for us to be together as a family. I cried out to God, How much longer? He answered in the words of I Peter 5:6,7: Humble ourselves under the mighty hand of God, that He may exalt you in due time, casting all your care upon Him; for He cares for you.

And I learned to trust Him. Just as He was taking care of me, He would take care of my family. And each time I asked “How much longer?” He would remind me of a promise I made to Him that I would stay for as long as He wanted me to. And God gave me His total peace.

In all ways my hospital stay—18 weeks before organs became available; then three weeks after the operation, until I could go home—was a good experience. I came to know God in a more intimate way, to learn to trust Him and His ways, and to appreciate all that He has given me. I began praying for the other patients on the floor; first for those on their way to the ER, then weekly Bible studies, then prayer support groups.

During my waiting period, I prayed for the heart God wanted me to have, and that He would prepare the donor’s family.

I haven’t accomplished any huge earth-shaking things since I have been transplanted, but I have seen all three of my children graduate from high school. Heather is a youth minister in Michigan; Ted is a television news producer [now in Washington DC] and Emily moved to Ireland after doing missions work [and has started her own business of American-style foods]. I have seen them grow into adults with career dreams and goals. And I am very proud of them. At one time I did not have real hope, leaning on my own view of life.

But My comfort in my suffering is this: Your promise preserves my life (Psalm 119:50).

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Click: I’ll Have a New Life / Everybody Will Be Happy Over There

11-11-19

Many essays, and many of our own thoughts, remind us of how special we are, we human beings. Haven’t you read this, thought this – we are the only species (virtually) that laughs… or reasons… or still likes Barry Manilow… there are a hundred emotional distinctives.

Some of these thoughts are logic-based, deduced by observation. Some are theological: we have no Biblical teachings that birds or bugs can have a consciousness of sin, nor know the gift of Salvation. But God loves us, specially.

Indeed we are, we people, special in the eyes of God. He sent His (special) Son to die for us and take on Himself the punishment we deserve as creatures with the special attribute of free will.

I would like us for a moment to think about how special we are not, sometimes and in some regards.

One way in which we are common creatures with each other, no matter our social status or sex or race or age… is that we all need a Savior. One of the ways we are alike in the eyes of God.

I am thinking beyond that, however; beyond the clichés. It is more common than we tend to think, in nature, that a “family instinct” dominates behavior. Yes, we know there are strays, and herds, and seemingly impossible ways animals can discriminate and recognize… but why are we amazed, time after time seeing news stories and viral videos, at mother dogs who successfully seek out their young; penguins who nurture the right chick of theirs among a thousand wandering rubber-stamped little ones; bees that fly miles, sometimes hundreds of miles, to their home-hives?

How about the occasions of a creature of one species that protects and nurtures the vulnerable young-one of another species? Odd! But is it so rare? We hear of these things every week. Begin to see what I mean.

The family – knowing, feeling, building, protecting – is not one of those aspects that sets humans apart from animate creation. It is something that makes us part of God’s creation. And God Himself.

This primal instinct, an essential attribute of our heavenly Father, is something we should savor. We are part of His universe, not in a New Age sense, but in how He has wired us as parts of the family of God.

Family: Bonds. Traditions. Loyalties. Affections. Care. Receiving and Bequeathing. Respecting.

Loving.

The more we let contemporary life, and our rotting culture, drive family members apart, the less we respect God and His plan for our lives and well-being. In many ways we should not celebrate individualism or “independence,” when it leads to being cold and aloof, separated from fundamental and naturally healthy familial attachments. Oh! and those cursed cell phones are wedges!

When family attachments, tribal associations, and cultural traditions are erased, something has to fill such holes in our lives. These days, it is secular theories and governmental paternalism. Disaster.

We sense these things in uncountable ways every day… or, we should be aware of them. I have been in the news in little ways recently, and I have heard from friends sometimes the first time since high school or college. We always recognize that we are still friends, but, no problem, merely have not spoken in a while – do you know that feeling? I have a friend, Mark Dittmar, who writes a wonderful daily blog, “Spiritual Nuggets” at mdittmar65@yahoo.com , and we have not actually spoken in a year or so. But he prays for me every Thursday. I am aware of this and do the same for him. That is a family-thing that Children of God do.

Appreciating the simple fact of the Family of God – with all of His creation, not only family reunions – puts our hearts and minds where God would have us. It is where are already, if we would only realize it. We are part of the Family of God.

Start noticing, appreciating, and celebrating this fact. Act on it in your everyday life. You might as well prepare, because Heaven itself will be like a great family reunion, better than summer picnics. You will be hugged by the Savior; you will hug all your family members, so many you never knew you had.

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Click: Getting Used To the Family of God

8-19-19

There are only a couple messages I reprise here during the year. I am not lazy – at least regarding words – but I think the ideas have resonated in my “mind.” So I share with myself, as much as with you.

One of them is about children going off to school, or to the military, or to get married. “Empty nest” is one of the gifts of language that provides a euphemism, or an allusion, from other corners of life. It explains, comforts, distracts, or puts things into perspective. Or reminds us of inevitability. Or futility in the face of our wishes and dreams.

When nests empty themselves there often is a certain innate satisfaction – almost an animal instinct – that evokes pride in fulfilling a role in the process of life. “There is a season; turn, turn…” We ourselves grew and flew; so too our children.

In Ecclesiastes 3, it is written, What happens to the sons of men also happens to animals; one thing befalls them: as one dies, so dies the other. Surely, they all have one breath; man has no advantage over animals, for all is vanity. All go to one place: All are from the dust, and all return to dust.

Words that imply that life is little more than a wheel in a gerbil cage? However, elsewhere in the book of wisdom is found: To everything there is a season, A time for every purpose under heaven: A time to be born, And a time to die; A time to plant, And a time to pluck what is planted;

A time to kill, And a time to heal; A time to break down, And a time to build up; A time to weep, And a time to laugh; A time to mourn, And a time to dance; A time to cast away stones, And a time to gather stones; A time to embrace, And a time to refrain from embracing;

A time to gain, And a time to lose; A time to keep, And a time to throw away; A time to tear, And a time to sew; A time to keep silence, And a time to speak;

A time to love,
And a time to hate;
A time of war,
And a time of peace.

There will be some people who read these lines as fatalistic – the glass half-empty / half-full paradigm. (Which I have never understood. Half is half! Fill ‘er up, if you’re thirsty.) But most people, through uncountable eons and circumstances, have rather found comfort in these lines. Whether at grave sites or alone with one’s memories, or reminiscing with family. Remember that Ecclesiastes also tells us – reassures us – that “there is nothing new under the sun.” God sees; God knows; God understands; and we are part of His great plan, a wheel of life that turns.

I have written previously that parents share a feeling about children they rear and say farewell to, that the days drag, but the years fly. Odd. Common, universal; yet counter-intuitive.

It is also odd that the empty places, the holes in the fabric of life, the things you miss about children who leave – when you “let go” it is not the major events or footprints or habits or even the milestones that haunt your emotions. It is the smallest of aspects: funny words; unfinished projects; notes pinned to the wall; scribbles on a pad; bedroom furnishings that seemed so trivial; silly jokes; even arguments that once were hot and then subsumed by obscurity.

“Warp and woof.” Who uses that phrase any more? It is a tailor’s term for horizontal and vertical threads. Lives, like fabric, are comprised of countless threads, often nearly invisible.

And sometimes that fabric of life is rent. Ripped, that is; torn. In those cases – if a child leaves home in anger, and a natural cycle of life is broken – the nest is just as empty. The tears burn just as hot… yet of course it is different. I have a friend whose son only occasionally calls, despite living nearby. His studied indifference hurts as much as if a battle royal had occurred. Another friend has a daughter who is aggressively hostile when she is not merely distant. How cruel if a daughter resents her mother and sister showing up uninvited but unobtrusive, in the back row of the church, at the wedding. Someone else I know has been shut out of the child’s life for years, over a first-time-ever argument; and has not seen the grandchildren over that time. Child abuse or elder abuse?

The bonds between parents and children should not be subject to footnotes. You are tempted to think that it is as unnatural as in the animal kingdom… yet there are some animals who remain in pods through their generations.

We appreciate the difference between vacant nests and empty nests. But both should serve as a welcome-home mats too.

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Click: Letting Go

8-27-18

She’ll take the painting in the hallway, The one she did in junior high.
And that old lamp up in the attic, She’ll need some light to study by,
She’s had 18 years To get ready for this day,
She should be past the tears… She cries some anyway.

I usually trot this song and video out every year around back-to-school time. First, old as I am, manly-man I may be, I get a little pile of Kleenex ready. This song by Doug Rider and Matt Rollings, a chart record for Doug’s wife Suzy Bogguss, is not a gospel song… but it is spiritual.

“Spiritual” in the sense that family bonds are sacred. The lyrics are about a girl going off to college, and they can apply to children leaving home for camp the first time; or boarding school; or military college. I get misty-eyed, even when recalling my own children’s first solo runs to the grocery store…

Oh, letting go – There’s nothing in the way now,
There’s room enough to fly.
And even though she’s spent her whole life waiting
It’s never easy… letting go.

Moms and dads and children. There are bonds that should never be broken… sometimes, sadly, they seem to be broken… but in truth never can be broken. Spiritual? It’s biological too: Family relationships are intertwined with a weave that is so dense and complicated (thank God) that our affections become part of our DNA, just like freckles and buck teeth.

The passage of time, and the rites of passage, whether the years of rearing a family are harmonious or rocky, have the same “bottom line.” Parting or major “breaks” are seldom, if ever, welcome. Pieces of each of us part-and-break, too.

Mother sits down at the table, So many things she’d like to do.
Spend more time out in the garden, Now she can get those books read too,
She’s had 18 years To get ready for this day,
She should be past the tears… She cries some anyway.

A few years ago here I observed that in every family – once again, harmonious or rocky; large or small, nuclear or blended, single-parent or adoption situation – there is hubbub, and crowded moments… silly problems and the occasional real crisis… “major” homework assignments… disagreements with classmates… “first loves” that melt away; and first dates… driving tests and applying for college…

Applying for college??? Wasn’t it last week they could barely climb aboard the school bus? I remember saying in a rare moment of wisdom, that when you manage a family, the days crawl by – and the years fly by. How does that happen?

Oh, letting go – There’s nothing in the way now,
There’s room enough to fly.
And even though she’s spent her whole life waiting
It’s never easy… letting go.

The element that makes the tears sweet, or anyway less bitter, is the pride a parent feels when we do let go. It’s the way life is supposed to work. Spreading their wings. Yes, part of God’s plan, the Family unit that He ordained for His children.

You pray that the children will shed some tears, too, occasionally – but they’re off in their new lives now, busy. And the grandchildren… well, there is a season; turn, turn. Just make an accounting to God, and to your inner self, how you handled His most important assignment in your life, training those little birds to leave the nest.

But I won’t pretend, It’s never easy… letting go.

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Click: Letting Go

5-14-18

I never have had the privilege of being a mother. As closely bound as I was to fathering, being present at the births of our children, then nurturing and rearing them; fatherhood in all senses… I am aware it all is a far-distant second. The special relationship of mother and child – among all species – is a unique and precious blessing.

A birthright, in fact.

For all the good feelings engendered by Mother’s Day, I reserve a portion of contempt for those creatures who denigrate the institution of Motherhood. Not loutish men alone, but women themselves who, ultimately, are self-loathing. Those who deny the privilege – to others, not only for themselves – of sanctifying the foundation of the family; for hating what we love; for hating what is love.

I reserve a portion of pity, too. I must. What I often call in this space the Culture of Death extends beyond the trashing of motherhood and women’s traditional roles. Biologically, homosexuals cannot naturally procreate (pro-create). Abortion fanatics crusade for death – disguising their “advocacy” as concern for “convenience” for the mothers; as birth-control-after-the-fact. And so on. They are to be pitied, and prayed for.

In the meantime, my Mother’s Day is filled with memories of the Mom I knew. I loved her, and love her. She was an example whose nurture appears stronger through the years: seeds, planted, and growing in my life. A servant’s heart, making silent and willing sacrifices. Was she perfect? Smoking and drinking were regrettable but did not affect her salvation. Big deal. My sisters and I prayed for Jesus to turn the wine back into water.

Of vital importance is that she knew Jesus, was active in churches, and related almost every question I ever had to the gospel.

A preacher in aprons. A saint in curlers. An invariable forgiver.

And that example was no less special because it is the frequent role of mothers – not stereotyped, not clichéd, not pressed upon her as a dirty, leftover job – the role of imparting life lessons, of teaching values; sharing love.

Fathers can do such things before mothers do, with their children. Life’s circumstances dictate such things, and some fathers might be the more tender of a set of parents – but we all know that in the vast majority of cases in the Human Family, it is the mother who holds, hugs, shares tears, teaches, and smiles, a little more than the father, or at least a little earlier. And we children remember.

Fathers discipline; mothers forgive. Fathers prod the way forward; mothers welcome us home. Fathers mold us; mothers know us.

I believe God created Woman not only as a helpmeet to Adam, but as an Assistant to Himself. As Mothers, to show unconditional love; to bond in unique ways with their children; to bear the essence of comfort, understanding, acceptance.

Think back to the first song you learned, maybe a lullaby. The first prayers you heard, or memorized. The first gentle nursery rhyme or fairy tale. Chances are that was your mother’s voice, mother’s smiles, mother’s tears. And if not… probably Grandmother’s. This is our DNA, emotions as strong as genetics.

I admired my Dad, oh yes; I still finish every project wondering if he would approve; to be a good professional. But Mom? If I can be as good a man as she was a mother, I will die grateful and content.

There are some women who, by circumstance or infirmity, sadly cannot become mothers. Most women whom I have met from those groups have hearts even more tender for families and for children.

However, sorry to tell all of you radical harridans who hate, you have disinvited yourselves from family reunions – not at ballparks on summer afternoons, or Grandma’s house on Winter evenings – but from that mystical, privileged, and sacred Family that truly is a gift of God.

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Does this essay seem to dwell on old-fashioned things? I plead guilty! There are too many old fashions that we are losing. Here is one: a tender lullaby, a mother’s song, written by Stephen Foster 150 years ago. Recently we shared another tender song by this great American poet and composer. This, sung by Alison Kraus, is equally impressive. And some crazed radicals are tearing down his statue in the town of his birth…

Click: Slumber, My Darling

2-26-18

Even since last week the “gun debate” in America has intensified, taken on a new tone. What’s next?

“We need to change hearts, not laws.” Cliches generally become cliches because they are true. Laws are useful; often necessary, but raise false hopes and can be cruel tricks if people believe they will bring Heaven on earth. And the extreme of firearm confiscation or severe restrictions will only remove hardware… not hate.

I can write a book, or deliver an hour-long sermon, but my counsel for ending gun violence and similar social maladies can be summarized simply. Not Washington; not Congress; not the President; not laws; not armed guards. Simple… but not easy:

America, stop glorifying violence. Hollywood, stop making movies that preach violence – and guns – as the tools of justice (and stop the hypocrisy of those same actors rallying against the violence that makes them rich). Christians, stop letting your kids go to such movies, and play such video games. Choose.

America, stop destroying your families. Girls, stop having babies and start having weddings; men, start respecting yourselves and your girlfriends – wait until they are wives. Churches, teach your children standards. Black Church, why are 75 per cent of your teenage moms single? White church, why are your divorce rates as high, or higher, than in the general population? Choose!

America, get off drugs, get off drink, get off the cell phones, start eating together. Guys, pull up your pants and wear your baseball caps straight, and not inside the house. Teenage girls, stop trying to look like women your moms’ age when you go to the mall. And moms, stop trying to dress like teenage girls. CHOOSE!

America, stop the secularization. Re-institute prayer in public places; return Bible readings to classrooms. I am not ancient, but I remember opening each day with Bible readings in the public school. Did it “save” anyone? Maybe not, but it implied “values” to all. The Jewish kids read from the Old Testament, and one Hindu girl read from her holy book; two kids from atheist families were allowed to read or stay silent or however they felt comfortable. Choices.

A nation that is raised – as ours now is, make no mistake – not on DIFFERENT values than previously, but taught that there ARE no values; that nation is doomed to die. And worse than die, its children are consigned to respect no rules but their own. When they do not respect themselves, they cannot respect others – which I believe is why there are so many PC Thought-Police today: at our core, we all still desire rules and standards, so secular nonsense is imposed by elites. “Do as they say…”

A generation ago, “stiff-necked bigots,” as we were called, predicted that if we disconnected God from our nation’s formal workings, our nation would fall apart at the seams. “Hurting the feelings” of minorities, atheists, etc., became more important than affirming our own standards. We predicted that if heritage and tradition became loathsome values… that we risked raising a generation of self-indulgent, morally loose, selfish kids who largely were more interested in pleasure, even drugs and alcohol and sex, than the earlier generations of kids who made American great, and sustained that America. Silly predictions?

The answer is easy. “Repent, then, and turn to God, so that your sins may be wiped out, that times of refreshing may come from the Lord” (Acts 3:19). Easy… but not simple. Holy behavior, often empty, is not the true way to Jesus, but Jesus truly is the way to holiness.

Do-able? America just has to decide between a return to morality and Biblical values; repenting of personal and social sins; giving up immorality and self-indulgence, leading to a safer, happier, more just society – or deciding for more of what America has become. Arguments, hate, lack of trust and respect. More shooting, more guns. If fewer guns, then more knifings. If fewer knives, then other forms of ugliness, pick ‘em. Hatred can be very inventive, as we see.

The answer is sincere changes of hearts. Brother Billy Graham, who recently died, was represented on TV by clips of his quotation of the simple Bible truth: “Wide is the gate and broad is the road that leads to destruction, and many enter through it. But small is the gate and narrow the road that leads to life” (Matthew 7: 13,14).

Without making such a simple choice, America’s fate is to endure more rot in society, more anguish, more mothers’ tears and fathers’ grief; more bitter fights within families. Worse Thanksgiving dinners and family picnics… more, and worse, school shootings.

These are the bitter fruits of the seeds we choose to sow.

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Click: Hide Thou Me

2-19-18

Another week, another school shooting. Or so it seems; the news media and politicians recently cited 18 deaths by firearms on American school properties in the first six weeks of this year.

Well, it turns out that most of those were parking-lot encounters after dark, between adults; or accidental discharges barely near schools, and so forth. Four angry, and ugly, assaults – but I am not saying “only four,” Any is too many.

The gun issue is one of many in contemporary America where hyperbole has overtaken rationality. Everyone – I think on both, or all, sides – readily adopts exaggerations and logical extensions and, lately, personal invective, to press their points.

What once was abstract is individual, and we see it in the “gun debate” as much as in any other area, and even among people who never encountered danger or grief. We can of course be passionate about issues without being touched personally. But I know the real root cause of our heated debates these days in America – that are more heat than debate.

It is the Slippery Slope. The term in logic indicates the danger of granting one point, in fear of losing the entire argument. To open the door a crack threatens to destroy the entire house, given time.

The Slippery Slope is more than a debating term. When it is used today, even when not called by name, people in effect indicate distrust of the opponent. In the gun debate, for instance, many defenders of the Second Amendment believe that any compromise will be seized upon, leading to… seizure of all firearms. “Give an inch; they’ll take a mile,” and it did not help rational debate when a Democrat officeholder a few years ago admitted that, yes, she would not stop at each restriction.

We can avoid slippery slopes by not even going near the slopes.

For instance, the solution to the “gun problem” in America is simple.

Not “easy,” but simple. Questions and answers:
For two centuries we have had virtually unrestricted access to firearms, and virtually no mass slayings and “senseless” attacks. Why?

Is it because guns are more sophisticated and deadly? Nonsense. Everything exists in the context of its time. Daggers are more convenient than dueling swords, yet there were not mass stabbings when they were readily available.

Speaking of knives, if the automatic reaction of many people – ban all guns – were a solution, should we look at the growing numbers of mass killings around the world by weaponized cars and trucks, and, yes again, random stabbings, and… ban cars and trucks and knives?

Such scenarios depend on slippery slopes, to propose and dispose… and will never lead to solutions.

It is self-swindling delusion to look to Washington for the answer to these problems, and almost everything, these days. “Why doesn’t the president act?” “Why doesn’t Congress DO something?”

Let’s explain something to America: Shut up. Washington is not the answer to everything… cannot be the answer to everything… and, as often as not, is the answer to nothing; unable to have the answers. Washington is not our savior.

We already have a Savior. And now we are face to face with our solution. Remember, I said “easy,” but not simple; not simple to make happen. Not in America, 2018.

Guns don’t make kids shoot. Hate makes them shoot. Listen to people shouting about laws and calling for more guards and more psychologists and more counselors. Where is Jesus in the middle of it all? Can you hear anyone calling for Him? For more God?

Some of the “simple” solutions in next week’s message.

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Click: Hard Times, Come Again No More

11-20-17

This is something of a silly season. These days there is a revolving-door of silliness, actually – fads and fancies of the moment; ever-changing manners and mores.

I am referring to the spate of sex scandals. They are not silly in themselves: I think harassment is deadly serious; and rape should be ranked with murder by our justice system.

What is silly – it is difficult to find a better term – is that this issue is “new.” That people are surprised by the surprises. That anyone pretends that it was not common knowledge that this went on in our culture before a few months ago. It has been a virtual cliché, even the stuff of jokes – by men and women alike – that there were such things as “casting couches,” “favors for promotions,” “indiscretions.”

It is not a surprise but common knowledge that Hollywood producers, Washington politicians, all sorts of celebrities “slept around”; but, more, wielded power through, by, and for sex. The list was long even before Weinstein and the deluge of politicians, actors, and big-shots clogging the headlines lately.

Did President Kennedy’s reputation suffer because of the common knowledge of his affairs? I think he was more often secretly admired by many. Alfred Hitchcock? I think people laugh at the twisted stories. Ted Kennedy and Bill Clinton? It depends on your political affiliation, let’s be honest; the same with Roger Ailes, Bill O’Reilly, Anthony Weiner, Al Franken.

So this is not new, but reports proliferate as does the selective outrage. As I recently have written, it would be a good thing… if the outrage were to last (not the incidents). I am not so naive to think that the human race will ever be free of dalliances and flirtation, sexual favors and even adultery. But to be frank – not scriptural – about this, a well-functioning and even largely moral society operates on the pragmatic admission that the Big H happens. Hypocrisy. Do I condone it? – that society preaches one way and lives another? Of course not, but on this side of Heaven, the alternative is outright licentiousness.

Which we are near now.

I am convinced of a couple things I have not heard discussed, virtually ever. One is that a large percentage of guys who flaunt their appeal and drape blondes on their arms, usually look gay: they try too hard. Just a theory (think of Hugh Hefner, Exhibit A).

Another theory is that many men who get “caught” in affairs often resemble toads. I am thinking of Newt Gingrich and Roger Ailes and Anthony Weiner and Harvey Weinstein. My theory is that “getting caught” is less important to them than announcing to the world, “Look at me! Women actually want me!” They are willing to endure opprobrium.

A third observation surely is less talked about, but I believe to be true – that as a rule, women are as prone (sorry) as men to seek affairs and use sexuality as a tool, if not a weapon. Mitigating details arise from the relative physical sizes and strengths, and society’s traditional roles, of men and women. But from “attraction” (cosmetics for women; grooming for men; fashion for both) to outright aggressiveness, we are talking about motivations common to all. Maybe not predation, but something of a two-way street. Nature’s old “dance.”

All of which means what? NOT that we should forgive these social horrors as in the past, or ignore them even more; no. It DOES mean that – yes, just as the Bible commands – we should all commit to respecting others. We cannot do that until we all respect ourselves more. And we cannot do that until we all respect the Word of God.

People can hide affairs, sometimes, but they cannot hide from God’s Word.

Another observation: all these sex scandals are really not about sex. Certainly not about love; nor about loneliness or rejection. Excuse me, but [fill in the blank of the rats’ names in the news] often have spouses of evident attractiveness; or a string of such spouses. OR, to be vulgar, in today’s America, they easily can rent sex. To be trashier, they can crawl around alleys and back streets for it.

But I believe most of these people, when you think of how they act, actually desire to be caught. Really? Sure: evangelists subconsciously invite judgment; media stars live to flaunt.

To continue on the Biblical track, and since I have characterized the sexual motivation as secondary, I believe the real sin is that of PRIDE. Predators want to exercise power… they “do” it because they “can”… they derive pleasure from intimidating people. Otherwise self-preservation, if not morality, would determine their actions.

Finally, I have taken notice of all the mea culpas, apologies, denials, excuses, reasons, deflections, and confessions from the predators and their defenders.

You have heard them too. The 21st century’s default apologies – “I am sorry IF I offended someone.” “I really don’t remember.” “I was drunk.” “I agree, it sounds horrible.” “I will get therapy.” And so forth.

You know what we don’t hear? If it is a secular person – “Yes, back then I was a jerk, and in may ways a horrible person. But I have turned my life around, and apologize to the victim, my family, my followers. There were reasons… but no excuses. However, I am a changed person. All this was my fault, and I will be different.” Someone like, say, Sen. Al Franken could say this, and gain respect, perhaps forgiveness. But they never do!

And why can’t Christians – let us say Judge Roy Moore IF he is guilty of the charges, which I am not presuming; but people in his position – say, “There was a time I sinned and made bad choices. Like all of us. But unlike all of us, I have repented; I have been redeemed; I walk with God now as best I can. No excuses; I sinned. But for years I have been a new creature in Christ.” But they never do!

Those are statements we never hear, at press conferences that are never convened.

I am not one to cast stones, believe me, but I search for ways that society can cleanse itself – rather I want to express God’s desires and commands in new ways to new people. That should be the work of all Christ-followers.

If the problem in contemporary life, at this moment, is more Pride than Sex, so is the unfortunate response of too many people today Arrogance and not Humility.

There is too much preying, and not enough praying.

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Click: Jesus, Take a Hold

8-28-17

It is that time of year again. What time? End of summer? Labor Day? Back to school… off to school… off to military service? Well, yes; but also the time of year I think again about that season when kids leave home.

A friend and I have been talking about the situation generally known as the Empty Nest. In popular parlance, it means when kids go off to school… and some parents feel pretty darn sad on the first day of kindergarten, much less college, a job or the service, or marriage.

I was always a little upset that when my three kids first ran to their school buses at the commencement of their school lives… and that they all climbed aboard cheerily. No looks back; no tears. Except mine. Oh, well, merciful for them.

And there ARE different varieties of empty nests. My friend and I compared notes and agreed that the phrase is more appropriate when used when the home is (especially) empty after the death of a spouse. Or when a disagreement has given separation a new meaning: “Apartment” is not simply a place you live; “loneliness” is far different than being alone.

But just as the sadness we feel at the death of someone close is essentially a selfish impulse – not negative, just self-ish – so is the Empty Nest not always a bad thing.

Don’t get me wrong: it can feel bad, and we can hurt. Very much. Ultimately, however, with children, we ought to remember that we have reared them precisely to spread their wings… which means, to fly. Away. Usually it is amicable, thank God; and close families grow closer, somehow, by multiplying.

When separation is not amicable, however, barring ugly or inexplicable situations, even that is part of life, and family members must trust God, and trust the seeds of proper rearing. Parents, trust your children, and those “seeds”; Children, trust God, and believe in answered prayer. God’s language is recorded in teardrops.

I think – among many, many examples that come to mind – of a dear friend, a Monday Ministry reader in Kansas who had precious Christian relationships with two of her children; saw those relationships, at different times, shatter in rebellion. But today she enjoys better-than-ever loving relationships with each. Answered (multitudes of) prayer; God’s Grace.

Have I strayed from my subject? Yes, but only to a degree. I think of Empty Nests at this time of year and remember a song I heard before my eldest started high school – but I knew it would make me sad when she left for college. Well. All three children have started high school, graduated from college, and two have families of their own. Yet the song, about a child leaving home, still tugs.

I am not claiming that these thoughts, or any here today, are exclusive to me; or to either of my friends here cited. No, these thoughts are about the most elemental of human emotions… and why I can claim that even the seemingly unpleasant can be “good” in life’s schema.

Ecclesiastes 9:11 reminds us that The race is not to the swift, Nor the battle to the strong, Nor bread to the wise, Nor riches to men of understanding, Nor favor to men of skill; But time and chance happen to them all.

Time and chance happeneth to us all.

These are the words of the song I remember each year, “Letting Go” (the music video follows):

She’ll take the painting in the hallway, The one she did in junior high. And that old lamp up in the attic, She’ll need some light to study by.

She’s had 18 years to get ready for this day. She should be past the tears; she cries some anyway.

Oh, letting go… There’s nothing in the way now. Letting go: there’s room enough to fly. And even though she’s spent her whole life waiting… It’s never easy letting go.

Mother sits down at the table; So many things she’d like to do – Spend more time out in the garden, Now she can get those books read too.

She’s had 18 years to get ready for this day. She should be past the tears; she cries some anyway.

Oh, letting go… There’s nothing in the way now. Letting go: there’s room enough to fly. And even though she’s spent her whole life waiting… It’s never easy letting go.

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Click: Letting Go

5-29-17

I once attended a church where the Invitation at the end of the service invariably was unique. I did not grow up in churches where altar calls were common, a situation I regret. In the church of my heritage it was assumed you were already in the family of God; or did not need a public act to show it or prove it. It was regarded as no one else’s business. Such things were too embarrassing.

It is strange to be in a “family” if you are too embarrassed to share your joy. Or admit to shortcomings. Or show your feelings. It would seem stranger, frankly, to be embarrassed to confess anything – joy, emotion, guilt – before God Himself. Yet many Christians act that way. How many people share virtually everything in their lives with another person, or other people, yet do not talk about their faith? Is it a real faith, or is it not a real relationship, in those cases?

Back to the “Invitation” at the church later in my life. It was a large congregation, and two aspects always impressed me. The pastor would end his sermon with the Salvation message; the importance for every person to ask forgiveness, to accept Christ; and to have a genuine relationship with the Savior. And, as Jesus instructed, to confess Him before all; to go public, so to speak, as His baptism was public.

Many times there would be silence. Often it grew awkward; nobody came forward to kneel at the altar. Was everybody, even among two thousand, already confident about their souls? Then invariably, one by one, people came forward. And as they did – better, believe me, than if dozens had immediately rushed forward – the congregation encouraged them. No embarrassment. They clapped. Cheered.

It was very much a picture of what the Bible tells us in Hebrews Chapter 11, that we are always compassed about by “a great cloud of witnesses.” Watching us… and supporting us, cheering us toward Heaven.

The other aspect I remember from Pastor Focht was his encouraging word to those who hesitated, those who perhaps sought mental excuses for their spiritual shyness.

“You might not think you are quite ready to make confession, and to accept Jesus,” he said, “But you don’t need to take a bath before you take a shower. Come as you are.”

Profound. In truth, even after we are “saved,” forgiven and accepted into the Family of God, we still sin. The difference between the Old You and the New You, of course (quoting a Holy Bumper Strip I saw once) is that we are not perfect, but we are forgiven.

We grow closer to God when we have the spiritual maturity to say “God, I need You so much. I am broken. Heal me. Help me. I cannot do things (including this thing called Life) on my own!” And we grow not one inch closer when we say – as many of us are wont to do – “God, I’ll take it from here. I understand it all now. Thanks for bringing me this far. I’m OK now.”

None of us are OK now, without Jesus. All of us are broken, in some way or other.

Broken in body, frequently. Broken in spirit, more often. Sustaining broken expectations. Battered by broken promises, broken relationships, broken friendships.

I have always loved the not-so-incidental fact that Jesus was a carpenter. First, continuing His father’s craft. But more so, He was a carpenter who mended broken bodies.

Being broken, however, is not a lowly state; we only make it so.

Cathedrals are constructed with broken stones, chosen and arranged just right.

Beautiful stained-glass windows are made of uncountable pieces of broken glass.

Mosaics are made of little broken chips of ceramic, odd and insignificant in themselves, but stunning – and making sense – when a master sees the big picture… and fits everything together.

God loves the Broken Ones, and honors us when we admit to our brokenness. And he sees to it that Broken Ones come into our paths. We do His work when we bind them up, encourage them, and cheer them forward.

It is why the poor are, somehow, always with us. It is why little girls frequently choose tattered old dolls over fancy new ones. It it why our selves and our churches (despite governments’ efforts to co-opt these impulses) minister to the lost, the hurting, the… broken souls in our midst.

In those times we see the broken ones; we see Jesus; we see ourselves. Whether we have a loose button and torn dress as happens to dolls, or are physically abused or addicted, or have felt betrayed and friendless, we all could use some real patchin’ up.

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Click: Broken Ones

5-15-17

One of the pathologies of contemporary life – a sure sign of the culture of death that has subsumed Western civilization – is the assault on motherhood.

Feminism was a harbinger that was perverted; “women’s liberation” was a movement birthed in economic justice that has, currently, extended to a futile but aggressive war on biological imperatives. Now we are awash in euphemisms like “gender identity” that would turn upside-down simple assumptions of all cultures from all lands and all ages.

But we in the 21st-century West know better. If boys somehow wish they were girls, we should yield to their fantasies. If women desire to be fathers, we change laws to re-define families. The prerogatives and standards of parents, and the sensibilities of the children they raise, are denied in order to accommodate statistically infinitesimal numbers of biological or emotional outliers.

Majoritarian traditionalists and Christians are sanctioned and stifled, yet the New Wave of moral nihilists – those who hate the natural and the immemorial – compose lists of proscriptions and Hate items of thought, attitudes, and speech.

These comments are not choleric, but are laments occasioned by Mother’s Day. Our thoughts should go to the institution of Motherhood, as much as to our own mothers. Theodore Roosevelt once said that “Equality of right does not mean equality of function.” He was the first major politician in America to be an advocate of women’s right to vote – even when his wife herself dissented – yet he revered the institution of motherhood: the role of women in the scheme of life. Toward women and mothers he was almost worshipful, regarding their work and responsibilities as more difficult, and perhaps more valuable, than men’s.

“Equality of function” to him did not imply mere functionality, but addressing roles – where life finds us; where we confront life; where we assess God’s will for our lives – and doing our work honorably.

The humorist Jean Shepherd (possibly the first time he will be paired with Theodore Roosevelt in any essay) devoted a lot of his radio monologues in the 1960s when I was a young addict of his wit and wisdom, to what he called the “Great Role Reversal.” He made many observations, frequently inspired by news items. Minor, everyday occurrences seemed, as often the case in the world of Popular Culture, more dispositive than academic papers and scholarly statistics.

Shep milked chuckles from the effluvia of such reports… but mainly he ruminated on the enormous cultural shift underway in the US. Indeed, the trickle became a tsunami. The nuclear family is under attack. Traditional gender roles are ridiculed. Legal reshuffling for cohabitants is insufficient; the dictionary must contort itself to re-define “family” and “mother.” Male predators must be allowed to enter girl’s rooms. New genders, and names for them, are being invented by the dozens.

I never have had the privilege of being a mother. As closely bound as I was to fathering, fatherhood, being present at the births, then nurturing and rearing my children… I am aware it all is a far-distant second. The special relationship of mother and child, among all species, in fact, is a unique and precious blessing.

A birthright, in fact.

For all the good feelings engendered by Mother’s Day, I reserve a portion of contempt for those creatures who denigrate the institution of Motherhood; who deny the privilege – to others, not only for themselves – of sanctifying the foundation of the family; for hating what we love.

I reserve a portion of pity, too. I must. What I call the Culture of Death extends beyond the trashing of motherhood and women’s traditional roles. Biologically, homosexuals cannot naturally procreate (pro-create). Abortion fanatics crusade for death – disguising their advocacy as convenience for the mothers. And so on. They are to be pitied, and prayed for.

In the meantime, my Mother’s Day is filled with memories of the Mom I knew. I loved her, and love her. She was an example whose nurture appears stronger through the years: seeds, planted, and growing in my life. A servant’s heart, making silent and willing sacrifices. Was she perfect? Smoking and drinking were regrettable but did not affect her salvation. Big deal. We prayed for Jesus to turn the wine back into water. Of vital importance is that she knew Jesus, was active in churches, and related almost every question I ever had to the gospel.

A preacher in aprons. A saint in curlers. An invariable Forgiver.

I believe God created Woman not only as a helpmeet to Adam, but as an Assistant to Himself. As Mothers, to show unconditional love; to bond in unique ways with their children; to bear the essence of comfort, understanding, acceptance.

I admired my Dad, oh yes; I still finish every project wondering if he would approve; to be a good professional. But Mom? If I can be as good a man as she was a mother, I will die grateful and content.

There are some women who, by circumstance or infirmity, sadly cannot become mothers. Most women whom I have met from those groups have hearts even more tender for families and for children.

However, sorry to tell all of you radical harridans who hate, you have disinvited yourselves from family reunions – not at ballparks on summer afternoons, or Grandma’s house on Winter evenings – but from that mystical, privileged, and sacred Family that truly is a gift of God.

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Does this essay seem to dwell on old-fashioned things? I plead guilty! There are too many old fashions that we are losing. Here is one: a tender lullaby, a mother’s song, written by Stephen Foster 150 years ago. Sung by Alison Kraus.

Click: Slumber, My Darling

3-6-17

A possible Sign of the Times. But this sign says “Going out of business.” Not Sears nor Macy’s nor Outback Steakhouse nor JCPenney nor Kmart nor Office Depot nor Aeropostale. Not American automakers, either; nor air-conditioning plants; not other businesses being yanked back to our shores.

No, this week it was announced that Family Christian Stores, the self-proclaimed “World’s largest retailer of Christian-themed merchandise,” is giving up the ghost. For several years, the chain’s financial woes widely have been discussed, inside and outside the camp.

There were bankruptcies, reorganizations, proposals, takeovers, conversions from for-“profit” status to non-profit; promises to earmark income to charity; inventories that disappeared; unpaid invoices; at least one publisher and one distributor who were forced to go out of business because of Family Christian’s actions; and, of course, approximately 3000 employees in 240 stores across 36 states.

Beyond this recitation of facts, no more will be said, even as employees in the home office in Michigan are not being told much more than their final dates to report. Many good people tried to make Family Christian Stores work, and the causes perhaps will be fully revealed someday.

The chain began 85 years ago when brothers Pat and Bernie Zondervan (yes, those Zondervans) opened stores. Their bookstores were re-christened Family Christian Bookstores when HarperCollins bought the Zondervan publishing arm. This was about the time, in the interest of disclosure, that books I edited were distributed by Zondervan, and books I wrote were sold in FCB shops. So Zondervan begat Family Bookstores begat Family Christian Bookstores begat Family Christian Stores…

When I noticed that the logo changed – removing “Books” from the name – it told me more than did gossip on business pages and in Christianity Today. Two years ago, in a court-sanctioned bankruptcy move, the chain “shed” $127-million of its obligations; and soon thereafter was sold for $55-million. Customers were little affected, but publishers, authors, manufacturers, and distributors were, negatively.

Excuse me for already breaking my Commandment to recite no more facts. We have the sad reality of this major go-to source for everyday Christians… no longer is a reality. In any form of reorganization.

Time and chance, however, happeneth to all. “The business of America is business,” Calvin Coolidge famously said (and, little appreciated by many, not as a valedictory to capitalism but as a spiritual rebuke to shallow materialism) – and there is a macro-narrative about companies that outlive their usefulness. Manufacturers of buggy-whips were mightily depressed when Henry Ford coldly threatened their existence.

Similarly, as many American manufacturing jobs are moving overseas, history might record that it was the “turn” of emerging economies as the United States moved on to other technologies. To the extent this is true, despite the discomfort and dislocation of middle-aged factory workers, a lot of Economic Nationalism might be retrograde.

Lucky for me, digressions are still in vogue, and I shall return from mine. My point is that times are a-changin’ in retail publishing, as elsewhere. Another Michigan-headquartered chain, Borders, was a recent casualty. Barnes & Noble retains a measure of viability because, and to the extent that, it has become a bookish theme-park in each store, with coffee bars, easy-chair oases, gifts, toys, music, puzzles, and kids’ zones. Smart.

Family Christian did the same thing, accelerated in the past few years. Unlike Barnes & Noble or Starbucks’ pastry and CD counters, the move was doomed to fail, however. Family Christian was in a different line of work, and when it forgot that fact, its days were numbered.

Ken Dalto is “retail expert.” These days, despite the Trump Bump, I fear, his line of work – that is, performing autopsies – will be a growth industry. But his post-mortem of Family Christian’s demise is: “I don’t think it has anything to do with religion – I see it as pure business.”

Indeed, that was the problem: the stores had less and less to do with religion; the Christian religion, specifically.

Which was the chicken; which was the egg? Did the customer-base of believers hanker for more jewelry, pictures frames, wall hangings, travel mugs, driftwood with Bible verses, and baseball caps? Or did Family Christian’s strategic planners cast bigger nets to capture larger numbers of fish? The question is not rhetorical, nor is the answer dispositive: both trends must be true. However, it would have been difficult to hew close to the bedrock commitment to offer of solidly Christian material; and to remain a retailer of books and music.

Being “all things to all people” failed St Paul’s injunction when, say, FCS refused to carry Chick tracts but ballyhooed the latest Osteen books or Christian-lite DVDs. No, Family Christian had tried to become some thing for some people according to the dogmas of marketers and focus groups. In so doing it fell between the pier and the boat.

A Christian literary agent, Steve Laube, was quoted, I think about the consequent failure of Send the Light Distributors: “One less [sic] major distributor to feed the Christian store market.” Beyond the cold analysis, which is unavoidable at any temperature, we arrive at a snapshot of Christian publishing, 2017. Literary agents using bad grammar; Christian book stores that scarcely carry books (during this morning’s visit to my local Family Christian store, a large outlet, I counted only four short aisles of books); and many of the “Christian” books are relativist, celebrity-oriented, motivational, sometimes heretical.

“The Shack” and “Silence” are touted, and consumed, as contemporary substitutes for the Gospel itself. So many new translations of the Bible appear these days that I wonder if God sees this, ultimately, as a churchy Tower of Babel redux.

But times does march on, and there is nothing new under the sun. Is there?

I love my 14 commentaries, most of them the size and weight of car batteries. I am proud of my 40-volume set of Luther’s works. Yet I will admit that I haven’t cracked them in several years, not the commentaries anyways. After almost everything I write, I literally thank God and Google. And Wikipedia, sure. Change.

As a Christian author I lament the death, and perhaps dearth, of Christian stores.
But the internet allows us all to sell, and to buy. Smartphones and iPads allow us conveniently to follow scripture passages in our pews. Bibles have not yet been outlawed; and they have margins to accommodate home study.

Up to the minute, the great site FaithHappenings is a one-stop shop for ordering books, reading reviews, following debates, learning about concerts and speakers – more than “old-fashioned” (ouch) retail outlets ever could.

Roughly concurrent to the Family Christian announcement, Tim Keller of Manhattan’s Redeemer Presbyterian shared the news that he would retire from his pulpit… however to shepherd his megachurch into three smaller congregations; each in turn to plant three “daughter” churches of their own. Thus (through the City to City program) has Tim encouraged the establishment of almost 400 churches in 54 cities around the world.

It’s hard to keep a good Gospel down. But my daughter Emily made a prescient point about the trend, perhaps death-spiral, of Family Christian’s product-line decisions. Christian jewelry and decorations and toys were not co-opting Target and WalMart – who will, after all, pick up Jesus products in new corners of their stores, complete with the superficiality.

No, it might all be illustrating the stark fact that contemporary Christianity in America has become jewelry and decoration and toys.

If belly-up Family Christian Stores across the landscape is what we need to demonstrate that sad fact, then may the chain Rest in Pieces.
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Click: Lachrimosa

9-19-16

I have a good friend, a neighbor who is a faithful Christian. As happens to devout believers, she is facing challenges and tests. I will quickly add that we know that “the rain falls on the good and the bad” alike, but tests seem most severe on strong Christians.

Properly seen, the devil has less reason to attack those of little faith. And as my wife once pointed out in a way I had never heard it explained, the devil has less reason to attack us, than to rail against Jesus — we will suffer attacks according to the amount of Jesus we invite to have a home in our hearts.

More Jesus in our lives, more persecution and challenges will come our way. But in God’s providence, the Jesus in our hearts does not merely provide answers… but IS the answer, our sword and shield; the Holy Spirit our protector.

My friend is strong, and a strong witness, but at time is spiritually discouraged. Sickness in the home, a disabled spouse, put burdens on her. Her three little kids – bless their hearts – are handfuls. She has wanted to finish her education and start a business with a friend, but cannot. Two sets of good friends are going through awful times, and she feels helpless to assist them, yet tries.

Through it all, despite prayer, discouragement yet looms.

It is the lot of us all, these challenges and, sometimes, tragedies. For the majority of human history, and over many cultures, people have believed that Man should be the Provider, and Woman the Nurturer. But there is thin theology in clichés. The Bible itself is full of examples of women as role models, as carriers of the seed of the Messiah, as special servants and leaders.

It is just different with women, wives, and mothers. The kind of “different” that means special.

One of the Bible’s most beautiful and profound prayers is the “Magnificat,” the response of Mary when she learns that she is carrying Jesus, the Savior of the world:

My soul magnifies the Lord, and my spirit rejoices in God, my Savior;
For He has regarded the lowliness of His handmaiden.
For behold, from this day all generations will call me blessed.

It is not blasphemous to say that all women may rejoice in this prayer, and see their situations in that which was visited upon Mary. Motherhood is a holy thing. “Lowliness” is exalted. The character of one’s family, the future of the race, and the perpetuation of God’s Kingdom, is the cherished possession of every mother.

It is one thing for neighbors to encourage others to “look to Jesus” and trust in God. But mothers – often lonely and vulnerable, sometimes having to be wife, mother, friend, sister, brother, father, leader, and warrior too – need to be reminded that while they look to Jesus… Jesus is looking at them. So are their children and family members, and hurting friends, and strangers.

This advice could invite greater realization of burdens, but always does the opposite. Sharing Jesus; making a “small group” of your home; being the fierce spiritual protectoress that God desires, brings peace, healing, victory.

Another friend recently asked me what my “religious life” was when I grew up. My father, a traditional German Lutheran, was a believer, and active in church. But beyond dinner-table prayers, he seldom talked about Jesus. My mother, however – also a German Lutheran – emotionally prayed, frequently talked about Jesus, answered many of my life-questions in biblical contexts. She had smoked nonstop since her teens years and had a problem with drinking… but she wept every time she prayed. Cause and effect? I don’t know, but she taught me the reality of a personal relationship with Christ.

My own wife Nancy, whose 63rd birthday would have been this week, died after years of horrendous medical problems – heart attacks, strokes, cancer, diabetes, heart and kidney transplants, dialysis – yet the most vulnerable member of our family was the strongest example of faith.

Painfully shy, she yet began a noted ministry to those who suffered what she did. Physically challenged in myriad ways, she yet fretted that her children were inconvenienced by her illnesses. Never attending Bible school, she studied and became a powerful exegete – a “doer of the Word, not a hearer only.”

Although it is not Mother’s day – another cliché, but true: all days are mothers’ days – I want to encourage the friend I wrote about; I remember my mom; I honor my late wife. And I want us all to remember that the opposite of discouragement is encouragement. That the “fort” buried in the word “comfort,” and the Holy Spirit’s other name, the Comforter, remind us that strength can be ours, and not only in us, but granted to us, by grace.

Weeping may endure for a night, but joy comes in the morning, Psalm 30:5 reminds us. Thank God for mothers, their prayers, and their songs.

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This is an old standard, written by Bill Anderson (sung by him here at a 50th anniversary tribute to his career) and recorded through the years by everyone from Walter Brennan to jazz bandleader Stan Kenton.

Click: Mother Sang a Song

8-15-16

The end of summer is nigh… Schools are back in session… Once upon a time, it was the “new television season”… Labor Day around the corner and the traditional beginning of the presidential campaign (I wish it WERE only starting now, instead of two hundred weeks ago)….

Anyway, these few days are called many things, but they are also regarded by countless families as the Festival of the Empty Nest. Many young people are going off to college for the first time.

Leaving home, whether it is to dive into life, or for the intermediary step of a college career, or the military, or a job opportunity, is a Rite of Passage. For parents and children alike it is, or should be, the essence of Bittersweet. All of a sudden, 17 or 18 years seems like a blur; everyone becomes conscious of unfinished projects and unshared words.

But the clock is ticking, the calendar is calling, and life awaits. Oddly, the hours drag, but the years have flown.

I watched the recent conventions and wondered about the rising class of future leaders. Old leaders and newcomers spoke. Many times I asked myself: “A third of billion people in America, and this is the best we can do?” Who are next on the horizon? Do they know? Can they dream? – Can they prepare well? It is a lesson framed many ways: “Carpe diem” – seize the day. “Never a second chance at a first impression.” “Strike while the iron is hot.” “We pass this way but once.”

I see lessons to be applied in family situations when children leave home, too. Our regrets should not equate with inability to let go. Every one of us should say all that we can to our children; express everything, without reservation. As we should have all those years past. Now is the time to make up for uncountable lost opportunities! Or so we feel.

Children juggle the loss of the family’s pod-like security and the excitement of independence. I was always a little disappointed when my own children did not resist getting on the school bus on the first days of their school lives, as I fought back tears. But, to them they were new chapters; to me, chapters ending.

For parents there is no way properly to describe the mixed feelings of the mixed blessing. You will miss the daughter or son. For many of us, despite the contrary assurance of worldly logic, a crater suddenly exists in our everyday lives. But we are wired as parents to possess an indescribable joy in seeing our children take their next steps into the world. Spread their wings. It is RIGHT. It is what you have prepared your child for – even if not yourself, fully – all these years.

Being a parent was never easy. Oh, all the challenges and crises… but then how is it that the hardest part comes when they leave home?

I’m not sure science has ever analyzed tears. Those salty droplets. Maybe one of our budding students will win the Nobel Prize for such research. But there are tears of pain, of regret, of sorrow, of bitterness, of lost opportunities, of lost love and found love, and surely tears of joy. The tears that parents shed during these rites of passage are of a special composition. Distilled, they somehow confirm to us God’s loving “wheel” of life – “there is a season,” He tells us. Whether a little scary, or seemingly sudden, or a guarantee of big changes in our lives… we must seize more than the moment, but the season too.

“Letting go?” Think of it as spreading your arms in fond farewell, so that they can be open to receive… when the next season comes.

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I have never heard a song, or read lyrics, that more beautifully reflects the bundle of emotions in the Rite of Passage of children leaving home (in this case, a college student) than “Letting Go,” by Doug Crider and Matt Rollings.

She’ll take the painting in the hallway,
The one she did in junior high.
And that old lamp up in the attic,
She’ll need some light to study by.

She’s had 18 years to get ready for this day.
She should be past the tears; she cries some anyway.
Letting go: There’s nothing in the way now,
Oh, letting go, there’s room enough to fly.
And even though she spent her whole life waiting,
It’s never easy letting go.

Mother sits down at the table,
So many things she’d like to do.
Spend more time out in the garden,
Now she can get those books read too.

She’s had 18 years to get ready for this day.
She should be past the tears; she cries some anyway.
Letting go: There’s nothing in the way now,
Oh, letting go, there’s room enough to fly.
And even though she spent her whole life waiting,
It’s never easy letting go.

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For a music video of this song, amazingly performed by the amazing Suzy Bogguss (wife of Doug Crider), click: Letting Go