The Living Constant

Psalm 139:5 Thou hast beset me behind and before, and laid thine hand upon me.

Aging is not what I thought it would be. When I was a young pastor I imagined a growing spirituality that would enable me to easily answer, and thus endure, any struggle. But, while struggles have endured and, in some cases, increased exponentially, the accompanying all knowing wisdom has not materialized. As life moves by I am often more baffled than ever, and see things I have no way or knowledge to modify... and I know it now. So I quietly walk away praying... praying out of my weakness and ignorance.

In the midst of this slow moving revelation about myself and all I see around me, I hear the sirens of inner longings... to walk away with my Carol and leave the struggle of ministry behind. Having lived 37 years in ministry, I am personally aware of so many friends through the years who have walked away. I don't speak that with criticism... or to bring the pain of guilt to anyone, but just to address my own inner awareness. Also, being a student of history, having traveled widely, and living in the 4th largest metropolitan area in the US, I am aware, at least to some extent, of my smallness. I am just one in billions, and what I do doesn't really matter except to a few others residing somewhere in the billions.

I reflect more these days on why I remain in the struggle... I think if what is stated above was all there was to it, I would meld into the masses to live my own life. But, at least to this point, I cannot. It is not because I possess some mysterious knowledge, or I think the world can't get along without me, or there is some super-spiritual strength within me... it is something so simple and yet so eternally profound.

Ever in my inner consciousness as I roam among the billions there is only one who is always everywhere. I cannot get away from Him. My logic tells me it is not so exclusively the way it seems, but my soul confirms it is my reality. God is with me... He will not leave, no matter what I choose in life, He will not leave. And as I anonymously wander in the crowds it is often the only thing clear to me: He wants my life to mean something to Him. Such as it is in its small frailness... He still wants it. And so, as long as He is so near, and I know He is here, I must go on...

Psalm 139:1 O LORD, thou hast searched me, and known me. 2 Thou knowest my downsitting and mine uprising, thou understandest my thought afar off. 3 Thou compassest my path and my lying down, and art acquainted with all my ways. 4 For there is not a word in my tongue, but, lo, O LORD, thou knowest it altogether. 5 Thou hast beset me behind and before, and laid thine hand upon me. 6 Such knowledge is too wonderful for me; it is high, I cannot attain unto it. 7 Whither shall I go from thy spirit? or whither shall I flee from thy presence? 8 If I ascend up into heaven, thou art there: if I make my bed in hell, behold, thou art there. 9 If I take the wings of the morning, and dwell in the uttermost parts of the sea; 10 Even there shall thy hand lead me, and thy right hand shall hold me. 11 If I say, Surely the darkness shall cover me; even the night shall be light about me. 12 Yea, the darkness hideth not from thee; but the night shineth as the day: the darkness and the light are both alike to thee.

Christian Target Practice

A number of years ago I was showing a pastor, who had just dropped by, our newly remodeled church auditorium. Our members where thankful for it, and did most the work inside that ordinary metal shell of a building themselves. They could never afford to pay for the work, but there was a special joy in using their own hands in this remodeling project. He said, “What this church needs is some people with money, once you get those kind of people in here you will then have the assets to do other things. This church has always been populated by lower middle class people, and it will never grow that way.”

I was so shocked I was speechless... Yet, as I thought about it, I should not have been shocked since this seems to be a prevailing behind the scenes ministry philosophy in our day. This ministry “targeting” is simply profane religious institutional classism, which is a form of classism that occurs when ministry practices are structured in such a way as to effectively marginalize people from lower socioeconomic classes.

In this sort of classism a ministry team uses demographic models to identify and describe the specific type of person they will deliberately plan to target for evangelism and church membership. In the visiting pastor's case he was not the least bit bashful about this ministry philosophy. He was recommending that I target people based on their economic status. To be clear: I would rather not be associated or identified with that sort of dead bigoted classism, no matter what it is called... classism has no place in the Christianity I find in the New Testament. In fact, classism is soundly condemned in the Bible. Read James 2:1-17.

One of the overriding truths of James 2 is that gospel faith produces spiritual life, and spiritual life has certain characteristics which do not include classism. James was scolding churches who targeted anyone less than everyone for evangelism and church membership, or gave special attention or respect to people who had an abundance of material assets and/or status, while marginalizing the poor.

Actually Christians with a living faith are inclined to give special attention to those who have glaring needs, not those who don't. Jesus is a physician to the ill not the well. When you see a Christianity that is deliberately “targeting” specific areas and people who have abundant assets, as mentioned here in James, you are seeing a twisted form of Christianity soundly and repeatedly condemned in the New Testament.

Lessons Learned In Public Office: How Much I Don't Know

The boldly lettered fact that I am a man with much to learn has always been framed and hanging in the hallway leading to the cluttered library of my mind. Every once in a while I have to stop, while carrying new volumes into my gray bibliotheca, to lift this familiar truism off the wall and meditatively marvel at how ignorant I really am. Usually this musing comes in the wake of a venture into a new life experience, and there are few life experiences that have taught me how much I don't know like serving in elected office.

Perhaps one of the most stunning things I learned was the detail of the context within which local elected officials work. The context is law... lots of law. There are laws covering almost every aspect of elected office. Laws controlling the timing, place, and notice of meetings, laws placing limits on what can be said in meetings and outside meetings, and limits on who officials can talk to about what subjects. There are laws even covering some aspects of the notes an elected official takes at any time about any city business. There are laws limiting the content of some mail, e-mails, and what can be written in a publication. There are laws limiting what decisions legislative boards can make. And, believe me, there is much more. It isn't just statute law, there are volumes of case law and attorney general opinions which tweak and further define the statutes.

Even after over two terms on our city council I was still learning about laws, opinions, and case law that I did not previously know existed. I remember a respected friend with sixteen years in full-time elective office saying he wasn't aware of a specific statute related to his office that a political opponent brought to his attention. Another friend with over 10 years of service surprised me when she informed me she was unaware of a specific statute also brought up by an opponent. The closer I came to executive office the more I found myself depending almost totally on the advice of lawyers. The longer I stayed in office, and the more I learned, the more I became aware of how much I didn't know.

The existence and detail of law is always an indicator of the level of corruption within any culture. The more laws a country has, and the more brutal its penalties, the more it unmasks the corrupt nature and inclination of its people. I explain this in my post Cutting Off the Thief's Hand. Law is never evidence of righteousness, except to the extent that it illuminates the pure source of law. The overwhelming presence of such detailed law is a glaring indictment of us all. And... some of us want more laws, erroneously thinking it will make us better.

With that said, for the person who seeks to know and understand righteousness the law can be very instructive. As the law points out the dark paths of unrighteousness a perceptive student of the law can also make out the bright paths of righteousness. But the more one learns, the more complex the detail of law becomes because the application is alive, it is always moving. Following the light of law is a limitless quest, there are always more questions than answers... at least for someone like me who has so much left to learn.

Sobering Things I've Seen During The Christmas Season

When I became a police chaplain I learned quickly that this time of year was not jolly for everyone. From November through February cases of depression and suicide soar. This is also a time of more alcohol related deaths including alcohol related suicide.

In the years since first becoming a chaplain I've counseled scores of people and preached too many funerals for victims of suicide, and fatal collisions. All--and I mean all--the fatalities I've ever worked during this time of year could have been prevented. Here are some important reminders:

The consumption of alcohol can lead to fatal collisions. I've seen families killed or maimed by drunk drivers... Don't drink and drive.

I've worked suicides of young adults who drank alcohol and did things or allowed things to be done to them they would never have allowed when sober.

Here's the best rule IF you must drink: Always have a sober trusted person with you who is committed to driving and also protecting you from others and yourself. If you aren't protected... don't drink.

If you suffer from any form of depression make sure you keep your support group intact and lean on them through this season. They are there because they care about you. There is no time of year when it is more important to carefully follow or seek your doctor's advice.

If you are in the support group of someone who suffers from depression, make sure to keep in touch regularly during this time of year. Don't let the busyness of the holiday season keep you from regular contact.

Don't let minors consume alcoholic beverages. Minors have more access to alcohol during this time of year. Not only is it wrong to give alcohol to minors... it is illegal. Don't do it.

Oh... be sure to get involved in a good Bible preaching church. It is amazing what Christ can do in a life committed to Him.

Do everything in your power to insure a safe, enjoyable holiday season. Carol and I wish you a Merry Christmas and a safe, happy New Year.

The Death And Resurrection Of A Family

Michael, Betsy, Nathan, Heather
Carol, Larry
Collin, Cory, Nora, Tyler

There was death in the waiting room of that hospital... Carol lay unconscious on a cold table in another room as a surgeon removed her life's dream. The disease had forced her to decide between the death of her body or the death of her dream: a radical hysterectomy at 23 years young. In her grief she thought it God's judgment upon her. And indeed it was, just as all death is the result of His justice. But He is also the God of resurrection.

Carol is the only child of Mary and Forrest. Two parents who had love enough for a house full of children, but, as God willed it, they gave their house full of love to her. Now that singularity seemed forever fixed... there would be no grandchildren. Dreams died.

Carol and I had just been married for four short years. Having been raised in a broken home, it was my dream to have an intact family--to be a faithful husband and father--but the second half of that dream was over... ending that day in that waiting room. Death came.

It is through death that the heart of Jesus is placed in the risen soul. It is life from the dead. We must know the pain and loss of death before we can experience the rapture of resurrection. And in resurrection He changes our hearts and our eyes. I am raised a different person than I ever would or could have been before death. We are born through death into His image, and He is, among other things, the Father of the Fatherless.

It is a choice He makes. He chooses who will bear what reflection of His image in this world. And this resurrection wasn't for Carol, Larry, Mary, or Forrest. It was for them-- the fatherless. Our death was necessary for them. Did you think resurrection was about you... about us? Death is about us... resurrection is about them... others, it's always about others.

There was life from the dead a few years later in the hallway of that hospital. Carol, Larry, Mary, and Forrest stood looking through the nursery window at Nathan's face. Resurrection! At birth Nathan became parent-less, but the Father of the Fatherless had resurrected a family for him. It was life in another hallway a few years later when Betsy--sweet Betsy-- was first placed in Carol's arms. For us it was and is heaven on earth.

It is life from the dead to hold our grandchildren. It is more than our dreams. It is life from the dead to hear the children at Amazing Grace Children's Home sing in the morning. It is resurrection when they crowd around us in a group hug, and look at us with eyes of love. You may not believe me... but Carol and I agree: death was worth it. We would not change a thing. Thank you, Lord, for taking us through that shadowy valley.

An Atheist At Thanksgiving

An atheist at Thanksgiving helped open my young mind to God. Let me explain. When I was a child Thanksgiving week was usually spent with my paternal grandparents on their windswept northwest Texas farm. My grandfather, a veteran of World War 1, was a man I loved and deeply admired. He was an attentive, loving grandfather, and was a gentle man in all his ways. As an adult I never enter the Thanksgiving season without remembering him, and his atheism.

He participated in all the Thanksgiving family gatherings. While he would politely discuss his unbelief at other times, he always refrained from such discussions during the holidays. But I would see a slight change come over him during these times. It wasn’t anger or irritation I saw… the best I can describe it is a look of loneliness, or perhaps emptiness. This was very uncharacteristic of him at other times.

I once asked my grandmother if grandpa was OK, she replied that the holidays can be difficult for someone “who thinks like your grandpa”. Grandpa’s silent struggle at Thanksgiving actually caused me to think more about God than I normally would on any other occasion. The coldness of God’s absence from his life on days set aside to celebrate His presence moved me. To believe there is no God to thank for all of this seemed so awkward to me, so… empty. All this was going on in the mind of a boy who claimed no religion.

My grandfather’s atheism on Thanksgiving inclined me to sort of let God in… and He did come in… I haven’t spent a Thanksgiving without God in my life for almost forty years. But if my grandchildren ever see a change come over me on Thanksgiving day, it is not an empty loneliness they will see, but sadness at the memory of my Grandfather who never experienced the warmth of a real Thanksgiving. Strangely it was his emptiness that pushed me toward God. God is always at work… even where atheists dwell. And I am thankful.

The Burden Of Eternity

Matthew 25:46 And these shall go away into everlasting punishment: but the righteous into life eternal.

I still remember the period in my pre-teen years when I began mentally struggling with the physical and soulish concepts of eternity, a struggle that continued throughout my teen years. My turmoil over the physical side of eternity came with the realization that I will die.

What bothered me about this reality then is the same thing that bothers me now, this may sound a bit strange, but it was not the pain surrounding death that concerned me, it was the realization that the world would continue on... and I wouldn't be here to see it. 

One of the basic tenets of the brand of atheism I was exposed to was that matter is eternal, so I knew that the moment I breathed my last breath nothing in this material world would change... it would just continue on... and on... and on. (By eternal I mean without beginning or end. Orthodox Christianity teaches that matter had a beginning, but is now everlasting. A basic philosophical argument between deism and atheism is not what will be the state of matter, but what was the state of matter.)

This mental exercise over the physical reality of existence immediately led me to contemplate the unique nature of human existence in the cosmos. Are we just dust, or is there something non-physical about us that is as everlasting as matter? This led me to contemplate the existence of God and what He is if He exists. My conclusion, and one I still hold to today, was that there is a God, and this God must be a non-material transcendent intelligence, and the creator of all things including us.

This realization, for me, elevated conscious existence to a higher level than matter as the only knowable eternal substance. Could it be possible that I, not my body... but my being, might transcend matter and exist beyond death? I came to the conclusion that it was not only possible, but probable. This deepened my struggle.

I skimmed a book years ago by a man named Alexander. I remember almost nothing about the book except his comments about the burdens a spiritual person will carry through life. One of the heaviest burdens he said was the "burden of eternity." A spiritual person sees past this life… there is more than this… and this knowledge is the greatest burden of this existence. I felt this was a good expression of what had happened to me. The realizations that I mentioned above gave me this burden of eternity, and that weight has never left me.

It is a burden for self which manifests in the question: What will be the state of my being after this life? How can I know what the Creator has in store for me? I knew that the answer would not be found in the physical, it must be revealed mind to mind. And that revelation must be in harmony with what is visibly revealed in this created conscious existence: absolute law, justice, conscience and guilt, mercy that honors law and is, therefore, not capricious. This precise synthesis of revelation I found uniquely in Jesus and His Gospel.

But this realization of eternity also manifests itself as a burden for others... and the loving question that ever flows from that burden: “Where will you spend eternity?”

God Walked In The Garden

I was standing in waist high grass when I took this shot

Genesis 3:8 And they heard the voice of the LORD God walking in the garden in the cool of the day:

I recently had the opportunity to spend a couple of weeks in a tropical rainforest that can receive up to 300 inches (25 feet) of rainfall a year. This and other factors make the forest explode with vegetation. A tropical rainforest is home to 1,000s of plants, insects, birds, and other animals. The flowers and fragrances can be amazing.

I realize the method for watering the pre-flood earth was different from today, but all the species, plus thousands of extinct species, grew on the earth and, I expect, in the garden. But this creation without physical controls, enforced limits, and oversight can become virtually uninhabitable to humans. Just getting to the beauty in an overgrown rain-forest is tough.

Some tropical trees are measured by the acreage they cover

Many tropical rainforests are overwhelmed by tall, large trees, which means the ground is wet, covered by roots, saplings, plants, vines, debris, insects, seeds, and it is always dark. Open areas are soon taken over by vines, bushes, grasses, and bamboo (which is in the grass family and can grow up to a few feet per day) making human travel very difficult. I walked for at least a mile in matted, tangled, waist to chest deep grass and each of my steps was cradled by the tangled grass at least a foot off the ground. It was similar to walking in deep snow.

Rainforest Bamboo

It is clear in this passage that God chose to physically enjoy His creation, but He required a special creature to enhance its beauty and productivity. This creature needed to have the senses to experience the beauty and value of this garden, and understand what it was experiencing. It needed to have the intelligence to recognize beauty and productivity derived from orderliness. The creature also had to have the functional ability to maintain a complex, fast growing garden so this beauty and fruit could be enjoyed and used.

Man was God’s solution. He created him with the senses to see, touch, smell, taste, and hear the garden. He gave him the intellect to appreciate the information his senses deliver. He was given the intellectual ability to understand change and its effects on his environment, and to plan these changes. He was given the physical ability to execute the plan, and then assess the result. Humans were not created to simply survive and reproduce. Mankind was created to make a beautiful, bountiful creation more fruitful by giving it order and making it accessible.

Accessible, it seems, primarily to God… God used man to maintain His garden for His own pleasure. He walked in the garden. I wonder if He still walks earth’s gardens?

A Witness In Paradise, And My Confession

Carol and I had the blessing to spend a couple of weeks recently in the rainforest community of Nahiku on the narrow Road to Hana. Most people traveling this famed road would not even know they were in this community unless they took the dead-end Nahiku road that would take them by the historic Nahiku Church just before reaching the coast and turning back to drive the 10 miles to Hana.

The only stores or cafes in Nahiku are 3 or 4 small roadside pullovers on the Road to Hana like Coconut Glen's snack shop or a small Thai Cafe with two picnic tables situated under a huge banyan tree around mile marker 28. They are exclusively designed for tourists. Then there is the Nahiku Market Place, a tourist stop with restrooms, 4 small outdoor cafes, and an actual souvenir shop all huddled under huge trees and vines just before mile marker 29. The Marketplace has the only cafe around Nahiku that opens for the locals at times other than tourist hours. The tourists come between 10 and 3 everyday.

Every morning, rain or shine, between 6am and 9am I would hike for a few miles on some trail in the area, or briskly, and cautiously, walk the Road to Hana, stopping only to take pictures of some flower, plant, or insect, or to just admire God's amazing creation.

Being a former Coffee-holic I still struggle from time to time with the temptation to fall off the wagon and sip a steaming cup in the morning. Walking by the Marketplace one morning I saw the Cafe was open and gave into the temptation to grab a cup.

Standing around outside were a few locals, and a couple of the always present unshaven, unshowered college-age backpackers who looked like time-travelers from the 60's. When I walked up they all stopped talking and just looked at me. It was clear I was a tourist (the longhorn shirt probably gave me away), and was out of place this early in the morning. I also was the only one there whose hair wasn't in a ponytail and who didn't have a string of shells around his neck. They weren't unfriendly just... well... waiting for me to leave, so I walked inside for my coffee.

I was met inside by a young man behind the counter with bright intelligent eyes, a ponytail, and a friendly smile. With his sort of “surfer dude” persona he fit the stereotype of a twenty-something in this area. He held his hand out across the counter and said, “Welcome, I'm Benjamin!” I shook his hand and responded, “Hi, I'm Larry.” He pointed me to the coffee, I served myself and came back over to pay. I noticed, as I paid, that his t-shirt said, “Know Jesus, Know Peace, No Jesus, No Peace.” 

I consider myself to be open to the reality of God working in ways that don't fit my preconceptions, and I believe I am not inclined to prejudice or judgmentalism... but... my thought was, as I paid Benjamin, that he probably just grabbed the t-shirt in a dark room without knowing what it said. I even thought about politely asking him if he believed what his shirt said. But I just walked out and went on my way...

I happened to be walking by the Marketplace on the morning of my last day. I had only been in the Cafe that one time the week before. As I walked by I noticed the door was open, and I heard Benjamin call my name, “Larry, hey Larry, where you been?” So I walked across the road and stepped inside the small cafe.

Benjamin held his hand out again and then introduced me to one of his friends standing by the counter. He asked me where I'd been, so I told him that I had been walking some other trails and that I hated to leave, but this was my last morning to enjoy the beauty that surrounded us. As I said it a look of concern came over his face. He said, “Larry, I can't let you leave without sharing the greatest truth with you. A truth I found seven years ago when I moved to this area to get my head right. It changed my life. It is the truth of God's love for you and the sacrifice that Jesus gave on the cross because of that love...”

I deliberately listened without saying a word. He went on seeking my reconciliation with God out of sincere concern for my soul. He was finally interrupted by a friend who walked through the door. This friend wore only shorts and a string of shells around his neck. He and the girl that was with him had driven up in a beat-up old mini-van to say goodbye to Benjamin since they were leaving the area. They grabbed hands and called each other “brother”. He introduced us, and I openly explained to Benjamin that I was a believer. Then the fellowship began... a 53 year old Christian from Texas, and two young “surfer-dude” Christians from the west coast.

My soul was and still is churning with guilt, thanksgiving, and awe. Guilt for my prejudice, judgmentalism, my lack of overwhelming concern and love for the souls of others, and grief that after all these years it seems I have learned so little. Thanksgiving that someone was concerned for my soul. Thanks Benjamin. And in awe at God. He is amazing. He loves and works with people in places that are outside our own little worlds. And I am oh so glad He does. Looking at myself, and my sin in the context of this experience, it is more amazing to me that God would save a stuffed-shirt like me than a “surfer-dude” like Benjamin. “Oh wretched man that I am...”

Picture: I went back and took this shot, and wanted to take a picture of Benjamin, but he was already off and it was my last day. If you read this Benjamin, please e-mail me a picture of yourself so I can post it.

A Lesson From The Sideline

The number one political question I get these days is, “How do you put up with all the written abuse you get.” To answer that question I have to share a lesson I learned years ago.

I began playing little league tackle football in the 5^th grade. This lesson came a few years later while playing on my first school sponsored team. In those days coaches were a mix of World War II and Korean War vets, and most were country boys. They had a great influence on my life.

This was our final practice before our first preseason game. The coach told us the starting positions depended on our performance in a scrimmage that afternoon. In this scrimmage our offense would start on the 20 yard line. They got 6 points for a touchdown, if our defense held them we got 6. The scrimmage would last for an hour.

I was a defensive linebacker and made a misread on the first or second play. When a linebacker makes a misread, and moves to correct, he is often immediately met by one or two offensive linemen. That happened and not only did they score on that play, but I was smashed to the ground by an offensive guard. I was shook up, embarrassed, and blew the next two plays because my head wasn't in the game. 

Our defensive coach came over and asked me what was up. I talked about the score and began to make excuses. He said, “You see those guys over on the sideline? Some are there because they don't know yet if they want to play football, others are there because they just don't have the physical stamina or skills, but there are a few there because of their attitude. I want you to go to the sideline, stand by Mitch and his buddies, and keep your mouth shut 'til I call you.” I can't remember ever being as embarrassed as I was while trotting off that field. In four years of football I had never been sidelined.

As soon as I got to the sideline Mitch began running down the coach. The guys around him were agreeing and adding their criticisms. He dissed the coach for a while, then he began talking about our teammates on the field, how sorry they were and that the only reason they were playing is because they were all cheaters. Then in a bitter tone he said, “When I tell my dad tonight that coach will be sorry. Dad 'ill make him wish he had never sidelined me. He'll have his job...” This went on for a whole series, and then the coach called me back onto the field. As I ran toward the coach, Mitch and his crowd called me names.

As I reached the coach he grabbed my pads and pulled my face mask about an inch away from his face. In a drill sergeant tone He said, “Son, you're going to make mistakes and you're going to get knocked down. But what you do after that is what will keep you in the game and make a man out of you. When you get knocked down get back up, take responsibility for your mistakes, and never make excuses. You're the only guy on the field who is responsible for you. Don't ever let me hear you blame someone or something else. Learn from your mistakes, then put it behind you because the next play is always coming. Guys with a bad attitude spend their lives making excuses and criticizing others and will always be standing on the sidelines of life, and there is nothing worse than living in that kind of bitterness. Is that where you want to be? It's your decision whether you want to be on the sidelines or in the game, you've got the skills, but now we need to know if you have the heart. Mitch and his buddies will never play for this coach, no matter how good they are... their attitude stinks.”

The next day during warm up I watched as Mitch and his dad walked toward the game field. Our defensive coach met them. I watched as Mitch's dad yelled and pointed his finger at coach's chest. It didn't appear as if coach said a word. Finally he waved his hand in coach's face and walked away with Mitch by his side. Coach just turned, gave a little shoulder shrug, and got back to coaching as if nothing had happened.

Since those days I've learned that Mitch's modern counterparts and friends appear in almost every human venture. They stand on the sidelines of life and do what they do: call names, run people down, criticize, and threaten. But that has nothing to do with my life. Mitch or his buddies' criticisms may even sometimes be accurate... the game is always easier to see from the sidelines. No matter how accurate his invective, I don't have time to listen, read, or pay attention to what Mitch and his buddies have to say. I heard his complaints years ago and the only things that change today are the people in the game. 

Every once in a long while though, I have no choice but to listen to Mitch's nastiness. This rare experience brings a strange sort of comfort to me because it enlivens my senses to pause, remember, and be thankful for the coaches I've had in life, and thank God once again for giving me the opportunity to make my life count. Mitch yelling at me from the sideline only proves I'm still in the game, and it is a miniscule price to pay for all the enjoyment I've had in this game of life. I've had my time on the sidelines too, just like everyone else... but I've never wanted to be there, and when I am there I try to do what coach told me to do: keep my mouth shut, get back up, watch my attitude, and learn from my mistakes... then put it behind me because the next play is always coming.

We Are All Born Ignorant: I Just Didn't Stay That Way

Forgive me... I just couldn't resist. The title is intended to be a tongue in cheek counter to atheist David McAfee's article: We Are All Born Atheists: I Just Stayed That Way.  I mean no disrespect by the title, but I do believe my title is more accurate when dealing with the state of my birth, and everyone else's birth. My response to his article is posted below:

Interesting reading. I experienced the exact opposite while having some similar life experiences. My parents also divorced when I was 2. I was raised far from God and was taught atheism, as far back as I have memory, by my paternal grandfather. But I have no memory of a time when I didn't know there was a God. Unlike you I was not exposed to organized Religion/Christianity to any substantial degree until my early teens.

The notion that "we are all born atheists" is a little disingenuous, since we all know we are born cognitively ignorant of almost everything. I don't mean this sarcastically, but you could have just as easily entitled your article, "We are all born ignorant." Thankfully, none of us completely stay that way.

As I developed and matured from birth it was my exposure to atheism contrasted to what I saw and experienced around me that pushed me toward God. I wrote about this in my post An Atheist At Thanksgiving.

As we develop in life we make decisions. When exposed to God we both clearly made decisions based not in the ignorance of our births, but in the knowledge we had attained since. My preliminary experiences with God felt overwhelmingly right. I did, and still do, have some complications with religion, but I was inexplicably drawn to God.

The late philosopher Antony Flew, perhaps the most influential atheist of the 20th century, seems to have had a similar experience to yours, and he grew up a preacher's son. Mr. Flew continued to be open to follow the evidence wherever it led him. I believe I have done the same, and, I expect, so do you... but our condition at birth has little to do with truth and our quest. Flew also postulated the notion that atheism is a basic natural condition, but the evidence seems to have led him to deism, which means, for him, that the evidence overwhelmed his natural or birth condition. I briefly discuss his evidence in a series of 5 posts beginning with An Atheist No More.

I believe the evidence for God is overwhelming and compelling... and it seems I have always believed this...

Tribute To A Great Man

My mother and I were alone for much of my childhood until A. B. “Will” Williams came into our lives as a husband and father. The following is the eulogy I wrote to this great man.


Will and I met in the fall and spring of our lives, respectively. For me he was an answer to the first personal prayer I ever remember praying. It was a very simple prayer. As I stood in front of our little house in that dusty west Texas town I asked God to give my mother a good man to care for her. I didn’t think about asking for a Dad, but that very year He gave us a good man who has loved and cared for Mom all these years, and a very special Dad for a wandering boy who desperately needed one.


When he entered my life over half his life was already past. Those years were only visible to me in Will’s character. I was specially blessed to be a witness to the man he had become, not the struggle he went through to become that man. As a child “born out of due time” I was a partaker of his maturing wisdom gained through the many battles, difficulties, and blessings in his life: the poverty and lessons of the great depression, the special care and then the untimely loss of his beloved mother, Neva , and his wife, Margaret, the training for and then the bitterness and discipline of war, the experience of reckoning all this while discovering what it means to be a husband and father. Then woven into all that were the many complexities that life brings whether we are prepared or not.


My vantage point to Dad was unique, and it is from that vantage point that I speak in his memory today. Mine is not only the vantage point of my relationship with Dad, but also my present place in life, having lived on this earth now for 49 years. I see him much clearer now, and I am sure my vision will continue to sharpen until the day I walk alone through the dark winter valley he has journeyed through these last few months.


I could speak of the dignity and honor of this man, but since such dignity and honor is only the effect of another more basic attribute, it is this attribute of which I must now speak. I don’t quite know what to call this in our modern language, and that's probably best, because it is better observed and described than spoken in a word.


It is that heart that causes a battle-fatigued soldier to stand up and move forward. It is that human spirit that presses some men, overwhelmed by grief, to stand up and rebuild what is broken in their lives without any visible hint of bitterness… It is that inscrutable strength, dwelling someplace in the soul of a special person who is overcome by the waves of life, to swim to the top instead of drown in the current. It is that force of life in some people which causes them to go on, looking ever forward, while others stand confused... living in the past without hope of changing their future.


For much of Dad’s life, as I knew him, he spoke little of his past… until these last few years when with each glimpse of his past I found strong support for what I see in him now, what we now know to be true of this man. And what is true is that over and again, against what seemed to be insurmountable forces, he stood up… he took another step… he made what was left of his life count.


In the times of my life when I have wanted to quit it was often the gift of the image of this man calling me forward that kept me going. Early on he encouraged me to make my life count --to make a difference in this world-- and the difference he made in my life gave practical meaning to his words.


For we who hold his memory dear there is no struggle in life, short of death, that cannot be overcome… while breath remains we will never be down so far that we cannot rise again… just stand up… just step forward…


This is one aspect, of many, in Dad’s life that I consider a legacy. To his Grandchildren it is this attribute and lesson of your Grandfather’s life that I lift up before you on this day. No matter what difficult circumstances surround you in life, whether of your own making or the making of others… standup… take another step… keep moving forward… don’t stop… make what’s left of your life count.


And for those who observe the children of this man --never count us out -- never say we are finished until the day we walk down that valley, for working within us is this legacy, the heritage of this man, and, God willing, by the same grace that worked in him we will rise and press on.


There is nothing I have said in this that Dad did not hear from me. I told him clearly what I thought of him and he denied his worthiness of such judgment just as clearly… and his denial made it all the more true. I love you Dad, and we, your children and grandchildren, love you. I thank God for the day He brought you into our lives. And Nora will know you as will your other children yet to be born --we will tell them of you-- but our stories of you will already have a familiar sound, because they will see you everyday in us.


The picture: Dad seated, Left To Right: me, our son Nathan (Dad's oldest grandchild), Carol, our daughter Betsy with Nora (Dad's first great-grandchild), Nate's wife Heather, and mom. Not pictured are Dad's three children: Craig, Pam, and Cinda. Pam has three sons: Wesley, Erik, and Craig. Since Dad's death three great-grandsons have come into the world: Collin, Tyler, and Cory.

Why I Serve

Periodically when people who support me as an elected official find out I'm a pastor they become curious why a preacher would serve as an elected official. And vise versa, when people who know me as a pastor learn I also serve as an elected official they wonder why I serve. Well... I guess I should explain.

For me public service is as much a part of who I am as breathing, and it seems odd to me that some would wonder why I do it. Growing up I was surrounded by men who had served their country as soldiers. My uncle had deformed feet because of frostbite during the battle of the bulge. Other uncles served in the military and various wars. My grandfather was a veteran of WWI. My step-father was a career soldier who also fought in the battle of the Bulge as an Armored Infantry First Sergeant. Our neighbor (my first girlfriend's father) had been a marine in the Pacific during World War II, and my pastor when I was a teenager was a WW II vet who served with the Fourth Marines. Almost all of these men continued to serve their neighbors in various capacities after their Military service. They were (and still are) giants to me... I remember you all... and I love you.

A citation signed by the president of the United States hung on our wall commending my mother's service during a disaster. One of my early memories was standing at an intersection in a clown suit with a bucket collecting money for the Muscular Dystrophy Association. That was one of mom's many projects. I don't think I remember a time growing up when she was not serving as President of this organization or Secretary of that one. She wore many hats... and still does today at 80 years old.

Hardly a day goes by when I don't think of one of them with thanksgiving for their service to our country and influence on my life. Frankly, it never entered my mind that I wouldn't serve. I was taught we all owe something for our freedom. Dad told me repeatedly to make sure I always find a place to serve. So I have always served... not just as an elected official, I've served in disasters, as a police chaplain, and various other volunteer positions through the years. And I will continue to do so elected or not.

Some have wondered if I have the time to serve. Frankly... I don't. But neither did those young men and women who put their lives on hold to fight for my freedom. None of the men who died on the beaches of Normandy, Guadalcanal, or on the hills of Korea, or in the jungles of Vietnam or mountains of Afghanistan had time to die. But they did, and I owe them. It's part of who I am as an American to serve. So I work late and get up early because I must make time to serve.

I've seen people serve for all kinds of reasons. Some serve to build their resume, others to build their business. But I'm thankful there are still many Americans who serve because they believe they owe something to their country and to those who have given all for our freedom. So... I serve because of the way I was raised, because I'm free and I owe a debt for that freedom, and because I must.

"remembrance" The Power Of Delayed Consequences

art thou come unto me to call my sin to remembrance, 1 Kings 17:18b

One of the great lessons my stepdad (the man I was honored to call "Dad") taught me was that delaying the consequences for wrong-doing can be a powerful tool for real change.

One experience has woven itself deep into the fabric of who I am. Dad was always up by 5am. Uncharacteristically, on that day so was I. I had known for a few agonizing days that he knew I had done something very wrong. He said nothing, and that delay allowed my guilty conscience to do its work. Part of that work was to break down my teenage defense and excuse mechanisms. The depth of my struggle was in direct proportion to my love and respect for him... and my need to be respected by him.

My shame had mangled my self-confidence, but I knew I had to look him in the eye, because he was that kind of man. So I looked him square in the face (I see his eyes even now) and asked if I could speak with him. He said, “Ok,” and just looked into my eyes… waiting. My pulse raced as I confessed my deed. His eyes never moved from my face as he said, “I wondered when you would decide to speak to me about this.” Then he spoke to my guilt with wisdom and discipline. Strange... but when it was all over, somehow I felt a little older, a little stronger, a little taller. After that he never spoke of it again, or gave the slightest hint that he remembered my wrong. All sons should be so blessed to have a father who forgets.

This word remembrance carries the weight of delayed consequences. It is translated from a few Hebrew terms meaning a past sin that is now officially remembered for judgment and punishment. In the case mentioned in this verse the woman had not forgotten her sin… and she knew God had not fogotten either. In her mind there was nothing she could do about it except wait for judgment to fall. Unlike her, we Christians can rise up early, kneel before our Father, and confess our sins. He is faithful and just to forgive and cleanse us… and remember our sin no more. 1 John 1:9; Hebrews 10:17

Orphan, Foundling, Or Runaway?

George Muller, the British pastor famous for starting orphanages in the 19th century, would only allow “double” orphans into his facilities. He would not take “half” orphans, foundlings, children impoverished by divorce or abandonment, or runaways. While he is to be commended for the help he gave, it must be noted that none of the money he secured by prayer was allowed to be used to feed foundlings, half-orphans, or runaways. The great London preacher, Charles Spurgeon, had an Orphanage that would take double and single orphans (paternal), but no others.

A double-orphan is a child who has lost both parents by death. George Muller wrote, “It was proposed to receive only such children as had been bereft of both parents...” All children who entered his homes had to prove that their parents were married at the time of their birth, and that both were now dead. He strictly followed this policy throughout his ministry. A single or half-orphan is a child who has lost one parent. Widows often watched their children (paternal half-orphans) starve because they were unable to support them.

“Foundling” is only one of a category of names historically placed under the catchall heading: “illegitimate”. Generally an unwed mother would be unable to provide for the child and herself, so to survive she was faced with the decision to abandon her child. These mothers would often leave their newborns on church steps, or by mansion gates hoping someone would have pity and care for their child. I know it’s hard to believe, but foundlings generally died in the streets because there was no home for them, and adoption, as it is known today in the western world, has generally been illegal throughout most of history. Historically, and in much of the world today, runaways were usually children who had been cruelly beaten and/or regularly abused sexually in their homes to the point that their only way out was to run.

British almshouses (poorhouses) were more difficult to get into than either of the other institutions mentioned in the first paragraph. Spurgeon and Muller both lamented the cruel system of gathering signatures, securing votes, and the complex paper work necessary to place a child into an almshouse. Most almshouses were notoriously horrible places. 90% of the foundlings who went into almshouses died before reaching 10 years old. It took Thomas Coram, a wealthy retired shipbuilder who was shocked to see dead babies in the streets of London, years to get legal permission to open the first home for foundlings. Afterwords his legal charter was repeatedly debated, and at one point rescinded, because saving foundlings was considered a corrupting influence on society.

It seems strange to many modern Americans that children would be categorized in such a fashion, and that homes for destitute children would choose between homeless and impoverished children based on how they came to be in such a desperate condition. Yet prejudices against these children are still deeply woven into the darker fabric of our culture and history, but, to our credit, still not as boldly woven as in much of the rest of the world. In the modern world prejudices against homeless children who are not orphans remains entrenched and open. The children in Rivers of Mercy, a home we sponsor in Mexico City, are often called “recogidos” meaning: trash you pick up in the street and take home. Many church-goers will not allow their children to play or socialize with these rescued children.

Legal adoption has been a great source of help for orphaned and non-orphaned children. In the U.S. and Britain it served to remove the opportunity for prejudice by giving a child the name of their adoptive parent. England didn’t allow couples to legally adopt children until 1926. It only became legal in the U.S. in the latter half of the 19th century. Even then it took almost a century before adopted children could get new birth certificates without an “illegitimate” stamp.

In many eastern and middle-eastern nations children still suffer under these oppressive categories and laws. For example: adoption is illegal in Islamic states because it is prohibited by Islamic Law. Children are legally categorized as: latim (double-orphans) and Laqit (foundlings). In some more secularized Muslim states Latim can be adopted, but not laqit. Laqit also are given, by law, names which identify them as “illegitimate”, or they are not allowed to use certain “clean” names. These laws essentially brand them forever as laqit thus affecting their ability to marry, be educated, and find good employment. Under Islamic law it is also illegal to remove a child from his birth country, or allow him to be placed into the care of non-Muslims. Under these laws well-meaning western or Christian organizations are prohibited from changing the legal status of these children.

In most of the world there is still little remedy for children caught in this vortex of deep poverty, abuse, and prejudice. My view… and perhaps the view of many others is simple: children who are hurting and impoverished for any reason are just simply children... in need of help. Let’s help them! Oh... just so you'll know, I was once a foundling.

I Dreaded The Guilt...

I deeply dreaded going into this place again… an unsettling apprehension tightened my throat. I dreaded the stench and filth. I dreaded the feelings of guilt from knowing I could not, or would not, work in this shelter… not even for a day. I dreaded the frustration of knowing I was helpless to change the situation of most of these people. Never had I visited a place like this, and here I was again.

As I stepped through the gated entrance past piles of garbage and debris higher than my head, I noticed a few children shyly watching with mixed expressions of suspicion and childish curiosity. We walked past a fairly young man bent at the waist, resting his thin shoulders on worn, patched up crutches with his rear pant pockets resting against a dusty wall. He stoically watched as Dr. Rivas, Pastor David Locke, Missionary Rob Lee, and I moved toward the entrance.

This was an unusually beautiful day in Mexico City. I’ve been in this huge city on winter days when the sun was browned out by the smog and dirt roiling through the streets in suffocating clouds. It may sound strange, but I felt such a smog filled day would have balanced things a bit. The bright sunlight and gentle breeze seemed so incompatible with what I was seeing and feeling.

I stepped carefully through the narrow entrance, then walked down a dim confining hallway past a light-bulb gently swinging on wires that traced back to a tangled wad of spliced wires clustered on a wall. I was relieved that on this visit I didn’t have to share the cramped hallway with cartons of rotting vegetables, but as soon as I turned the corner I was struck by the nauseous odors emanating from the blackened, grimy room used as a kitchen to feed over 150 individuals per day… 70 of them homeless children. Many of the adults who reside in this shelter are visibly insane. Adult men and women mixed together with children of both genders… over 30 of these children are younger than 8 years old. A mix mash of society’s lost...

After we entered the large room where those who weren’t wandering the streets during the day congregated, a woman, who was curled up against the raised concrete floor where we stood, began to howl and scream... The pitiful, crazed language of the un-medicated mentally ill. The children in the room continued to play, hearing nothing strange in the screams of this woman. This is the world they wake up to everyday. I guess it is better than the street… What a sad, almost criminal choice: the street or this place.

The children were dressed well (there were piles of donated cloths), and somewhat cleaner than my first visit during the rainy season. I saw no malnutrition. The caregivers, while few, work hard to bring some order to a chaos of overwhelming proportions. They have my respect. But these children need more… much more… I watched as Dr. Rivas spoke in his calm caring voice to each person. He walked over and picked up a child and swung him around like a father just home from work, except this child was unused to such attention, and his eyes opened wide with fear. So Dr. Rivas just held him close and talked to him. Something the child was also unaccustomed to, but needed so desperately. Dr. and Mrs. Rivas are attempting to rescue the children in this place who are 8 and under. He wants them to have a loving home where they can hear the Gospel. Pray... and give... we must feed and cloth these children.

Give to Rivers of Mercy Children's Home. 100% of every dollar given goes directly to care for the children.

Rivers Of Mercy Children's Home
Santa Fe Baptist Church
12902 6th Street
Santa Fe, Texas 77510

Make your checks payable to the Church with ROM in the memo. These are tax deductible gifts. 100% of the proceeds are sent weekly to the Children's Home. Pastor Larry Jones is available to present this ministry to your church or civic organization.

(There are a number of children's homes using the name Rivers Of Mercy , this one is unaffiliated with the others and is outside Mexico City. The director is Leonardo Rivas)

Who's Really Important?

People passing by on the street would never just walk up to that group of men. Everyone can see they are in a serious discussion about important things. And that big gringo from North America must be important... I mean just look at him... standing over six feet tall with graying hair, dressed in a suit and tie. The other men listening carefully as he speaks. But... that little kid doesn't seem to understand what's going on.

Look at him... ears that stick straight out from a scrawny little frame with two large prominent teeth that will probably always be a little too big for his thin face. He's boy... all boy... Eyes filled with mischief, but laced with need. The need to be chased and lifted high into the air by a father. He's one of them isn't he? One of those parent-less kids who used to live on the street. Trash...

They watch as he sneaks up behind the big gringo, pokes him, and jumps away. The big gringo just keeps talking as if he didn't feel the jab. He's talking about important things that the boy just couldn't understand. Things adults talk about. Then, they watch as the urchin pokes him again, and there's an undignified whirl of suit and tie as the big gringo breaks off the important conversation in mid-sentence, and moves quickly, trying to grab the boy.

The boy darts like a rabbit, yelling with delight, as the gringo jumps into action right behind him, laughing out loud as he runs. They run, darting in and out, around the corner out of sight, and then back just as the gringo catches up and grabs the boy, throws him into the air and catches him in his arms as his laughter floods the neighborhood. Treasure...

The people watching are like most the rest of the world... they don't know who's really important. Just like they don't often know the difference between trash and treasure. But the gringo knows who the important one is, and it's not him. It's the boy, Marco. That former street kid. Those watching would be shocked to know that the gringo sees himself as a servant to that boy. In fact, that important discussion was about how to serve Marco and his brothers and sisters better. Marco was the most important person on that sidewalk that night, and, Marco, you are important to me....

Give to Rivers of Mercy Children's Home. A home for homeless children. Marco's home. 100% of every dollar given goes directly to care for the children.

Rivers Of Mercy Children's Home
Santa Fe Baptist Church
12902 6th Street
Santa Fe, Texas 77510

Make your checks payable to the Church with ROM in the memo. These are tax deductible gifts. 100% of the proceeds are sent weekly to the Children's Home. Pastor Larry Jones (the big gringo) is available to present this ministry to your church or civic organization.

(There are a number of children's homes using the name Rivers Of Mercy , this one is unaffiliated with the others and is outside Mexico City. The director is Leonardo Rivas)