At one point it was determined the nerves running down Sam’s arms to his hands were drawing-up forcing his fingers to curl inward. The constant pull was causing excruciating pain in his shoulders and back. He would eventually have some of the nerves clipped to ease the tension. One morning prior to the surgery he and I sat at the breakfast bar and shared a pot of coffee. I was inclined to pray for his healing but I didn’t know how to broach the subject. Finally, I just blurted out, “Do you believe in healing, Sam.”
I wasn’t prepared for the certainty of his response, “You can’t be where I’ve been and seen what I’ve seen and not believe in healing.”
“Tell me what you’ve seen, Sam.”
“When I was in the hospital during the war, there was a lad in the bed next to mine. He had been hit by shrapnel and was blind in both eyes. They said he would never see again. One day his family came for a visit. They were Church of God folk from North Carolina and couldn’t come often. They told him their church was fasting for him and they would gather on Sunday evening at six o’clock for special prayer before their regular service.
On Sunday the doctor and nurse were making their rounds. I was pushing the medicine cart for them. (I had been there a while and I could get around pretty good, so since I was a medic they gave me the job of pushing the medicine cart.) When we came to the boy the doctor asked what time it was. Before we could answer, we heard the young man say “6:15.” He was looking at the nurse’s watch.
A look of pleasure was on Sam’s face as it must have been on that day and shaking his head he repeated himself, “You can’t see what I’ve seen and not believe in healing.” Our conversation was interrupted as others arrived home from their shopping and we never returned to the subject.
I cannot answer why God did not heal Sam but it certainly was not because he lacked faith in God’s ability. His was a steadfast faith in a God who responds to the cries of His children. He did not have to be healed to keep believing in healing.
Monday, December 29, 2008
Sunday, December 28, 2008
Conversations With Sam: "Dying is Such Hard Work"
My last conversation with Sam was just a couple of weeks before he passed away. He had come home from the hospital to die. [Although Thelma would change her mind and send him back to the hospital.] The hospice staff was especially helpful as always. On this morning Cheryl was sitting by his bed both trying to comfort him and draw comfort from his presence. I had stepped in to quietly join her vigil when Sam looked at us and with unusual clarity said, “Dying is such hard work.” Cheryl looked at me and quickly left the room suggesting he might want to talk with me.
As I sat down I wondered about the meaning of his declaration. So I asked, “Sam, what do you mean dying is such work? Are you afraid to die?”
He raised his head and looked at me with an expression of surprise mingled with a hint of confusion. The look said, "Your the preacher boy, don't you know anything?" Instead he lowered his head and reponded “No, you can’t stand where I’m standing and see what I’m seeing and be afraid. I’m in the doorway and it’s so beautiful on the other side. I just can't go through.”
Resisting the burning question of what he was seeing, I asked, “Why Sam, why can’t you go through?”
“I just can’t let go.”
“Let go of what?”
“Them. Who will take care of them, make sure they have food on the table and heat this winter?”
With that statement it all made sense. Sam had lived his life taking care of others, his parents when they were elderly, wounded soldiers during WWII, his orphaned niece and nephews until his war injuries put him back in the hospital, and for the last few decades his own children.
Even with a 98% disability because of injuries to his hands and back, he would trap furs for extra Christmas money and raise a huge garden or a crop of watermelons for back-to-school expenses. He always kept a little cash tucked away for his children’s emergencies.
Sam knew love endures disappointments and difficult times. As he lay dying I discovered love also extends life; it makes it hard to let go. The doctors were amazed how he had lived through so much. For decades he had high blood pressure that often went off the charts, multiple heart attacks, congestive heart failure that filled his chest with fluids, and excruciating pain from spurs on his spine. In spite of it all, he willed himself to live, not because he was afraid to die; he lingered because of his desire to take care of others. Love endures all things; Love marks a life well lived.
As I sat down I wondered about the meaning of his declaration. So I asked, “Sam, what do you mean dying is such work? Are you afraid to die?”
He raised his head and looked at me with an expression of surprise mingled with a hint of confusion. The look said, "Your the preacher boy, don't you know anything?" Instead he lowered his head and reponded “No, you can’t stand where I’m standing and see what I’m seeing and be afraid. I’m in the doorway and it’s so beautiful on the other side. I just can't go through.”
Resisting the burning question of what he was seeing, I asked, “Why Sam, why can’t you go through?”
“I just can’t let go.”
“Let go of what?”
“Them. Who will take care of them, make sure they have food on the table and heat this winter?”
With that statement it all made sense. Sam had lived his life taking care of others, his parents when they were elderly, wounded soldiers during WWII, his orphaned niece and nephews until his war injuries put him back in the hospital, and for the last few decades his own children.
Even with a 98% disability because of injuries to his hands and back, he would trap furs for extra Christmas money and raise a huge garden or a crop of watermelons for back-to-school expenses. He always kept a little cash tucked away for his children’s emergencies.
Sam knew love endures disappointments and difficult times. As he lay dying I discovered love also extends life; it makes it hard to let go. The doctors were amazed how he had lived through so much. For decades he had high blood pressure that often went off the charts, multiple heart attacks, congestive heart failure that filled his chest with fluids, and excruciating pain from spurs on his spine. In spite of it all, he willed himself to live, not because he was afraid to die; he lingered because of his desire to take care of others. Love endures all things; Love marks a life well lived.
More Christmas Photos
Mike, Shirley and Ryan came up for the day.
The Han family joined us for dinner. The girls introduced us to Wii. Dr. Han teaches with us at COGTS and serves as National Overseer of Korea. He was in Korea.
Saturday, December 27, 2008
Camdyn's first skating trip
Karisa and Johnmark took Camdyn skating today. Cheryl and I stopped by for pictures.
Friday, December 26, 2008
Conversations with Sam: Part One
[It seems I have several series going at the same time. Here's another one.]
Sam Bridges was a quiet, unassuming man. During the depression he had begun a life-long pattern of earning extra cash through fishing and trapping. The youngest son of a carpenter/tenant farmer, he stayed on the farm to help his elderly parents throughout the depression and during the early days of World War II. A confirmed bachelor, he was drafted in his thirties and served as a medic in northern Africa. As he was preparing to tend to wounded soldiers on a hospital ship headed for the States it was attacked and he was injured. His hands were wounded and he was thrown down a flight of stairs injuring his back. When he got to the US the bandages were removed exposing gangrene. Most of the muscle was removed from his hands and he began years of recurring hospitalization and intermittent surgeries. The remainder of his life would be marked by chronic pain and limited use of his arms and hands.
At the age of forty-four he married and began another life. Twenty-two years later he welcomed me into his family.
It would be an understatement to say Thelma Bridges was disappointed with her oldest daughter’s choice in husbands. I had straight, blond hair; my parents were from Georgia, and I was a Church of God minister, three strikes, any of which was a disqualifying foul. The Church of God was mysteriously held in disdain; we were some form of simpleton, low-life, blight on Christendom. Thelma was “Pentecostal” and for her that meant she was a life-long member of the McNeely Memorial Pentecostal Holiness Church founded by her grand-mother, Sally McNeely. We had been married a dozen years before she was willing to call me by my right name.
Sam put forth a valiant effort to compensated for her animosity. On my first visit and frequently thereafter he told me how it was Earl Paulk, Sr. as pastor of the Tremont Avenue COG who arranged for the Church of God to take in his orphaned niece and nephews, give them a home and an education. The boys grew up to be COG pastors. Although he never exactly said so, it was clear from the twinkle in his eye he was proud of them.
Whenever we would visit the women would scatter leaving Sam and I to talk. He always seemed hesitant at first, waiting on me to break the ice. Always curious about the way things use to be, I wanted to know about his earlier life. With our age difference he was a living history book and he was more than willing to talk about the things he had witnessed. Although sometimes I suspected he was just humoring me. He was so soft-spoken I had to strain to hear, but his stories were always captivating even if a little cryptic.
What I discovered in these long talks was a humble man of deep devotion, steadfast love, unshakable faith and child-like mischief.
Sam Bridges was a quiet, unassuming man. During the depression he had begun a life-long pattern of earning extra cash through fishing and trapping. The youngest son of a carpenter/tenant farmer, he stayed on the farm to help his elderly parents throughout the depression and during the early days of World War II. A confirmed bachelor, he was drafted in his thirties and served as a medic in northern Africa. As he was preparing to tend to wounded soldiers on a hospital ship headed for the States it was attacked and he was injured. His hands were wounded and he was thrown down a flight of stairs injuring his back. When he got to the US the bandages were removed exposing gangrene. Most of the muscle was removed from his hands and he began years of recurring hospitalization and intermittent surgeries. The remainder of his life would be marked by chronic pain and limited use of his arms and hands.
At the age of forty-four he married and began another life. Twenty-two years later he welcomed me into his family.
It would be an understatement to say Thelma Bridges was disappointed with her oldest daughter’s choice in husbands. I had straight, blond hair; my parents were from Georgia, and I was a Church of God minister, three strikes, any of which was a disqualifying foul. The Church of God was mysteriously held in disdain; we were some form of simpleton, low-life, blight on Christendom. Thelma was “Pentecostal” and for her that meant she was a life-long member of the McNeely Memorial Pentecostal Holiness Church founded by her grand-mother, Sally McNeely. We had been married a dozen years before she was willing to call me by my right name.
Sam put forth a valiant effort to compensated for her animosity. On my first visit and frequently thereafter he told me how it was Earl Paulk, Sr. as pastor of the Tremont Avenue COG who arranged for the Church of God to take in his orphaned niece and nephews, give them a home and an education. The boys grew up to be COG pastors. Although he never exactly said so, it was clear from the twinkle in his eye he was proud of them.
Whenever we would visit the women would scatter leaving Sam and I to talk. He always seemed hesitant at first, waiting on me to break the ice. Always curious about the way things use to be, I wanted to know about his earlier life. With our age difference he was a living history book and he was more than willing to talk about the things he had witnessed. Although sometimes I suspected he was just humoring me. He was so soft-spoken I had to strain to hear, but his stories were always captivating even if a little cryptic.
What I discovered in these long talks was a humble man of deep devotion, steadfast love, unshakable faith and child-like mischief.
Monday, December 22, 2008
When I Was Young People Danced at Church
When I was young people often shouted and danced at church. Anybody and everybody could participate. These most often took place during singing at the first part of the service, alongside of the sermon, or during the altar gathering at the end, but they could erupt at any time. Since we were holiness folk we didn’t use the word “dance” a lot, after all it was sinful to go to dances. People usually clarified by saying “danced in the Spirit.” It was also common to refer to dancing as a form of shouting. When someone talked about shouting they might be referring to loud speech or to physical movement. [For clarity I’ll use the words as two different worship activities, shouting will refer to talking or yelling out loud and dancing will refer to expressive physical motion.]
Shouting could be as simple as calling out words and phrases like “glory,” “yes, Lord, yes,” “amen,” “hallelujah,” or “preach it” in response to what was being said or sung. During a sermon these affirmations encouraged the preacher to keep going and they let the individual preach alongside of the preacher. The individual might yell out complete sentences of their own parallel sermon, like back-up singers to a lead singer. If the sermon wasn’t going well, especially when a young person was speaking, the “shouts” might be prayers like “bless him, Lord” or “help her, Jesus.”
Sometimes the shouts were outbursts that seemed more a response to an unseen touch of God than to anything that was being said. Most often these were in English, but sometimes the worshiper rattled off a series of syllables that were from an unknown language. On some occasions the member would speak a lengthy set of phrases in the unknown language. Everyone would get very quiet and listen, praying for the interpretation to be given in English.
Shouting often led to dancing. A shouter might jump up and wave a hand as he or she spoke, sitting down as quickly as they arose. Someone else might move into the isle and begin to dance or even run excitingly. Most often these dances involved rapid movement of the arms and legs, but the entire body might be involved. Occasionally someone would spin like a human top, both feet pumping up and down as they twirled on their toes. During the altar service shouting and dancing often signaled someone had just “prayed through” to the victory they were seeking. They had been touched by the power of God.
Preachers, overcome with excitement or the “anointing,” would often dance during a sermon. Pastor F. L. (Bud) Braddock would intersperse quick steps throughout his sermons like visual exclamation points. Unlike many who seemed to loose control when dancing, his were motions of controlled celebration. They appeared much like an Irish jig or what use to be called “buck dancing,” feet kicking in a quick jerking motion up high behind and down, arms swinging in rhythm from the elbows. Five or six quick licks and back to preaching he went.
It was Sister Hattie Taylor who most captured my attention when she danced. Sister Taylor was one of the older saints. She always dressed nicely, a shawl wrapped around her shoulders and her white hair neatly curled up around her head. Her dance was an elegant shuffle, slightly swinging left to right as she slowly moved down the aisle and around the altar and back. There was no sense of an outburst of energy, instead she seemed lost in the rapturous presence of God as if He was sashaying down the aisle beside her. Adoration and joy, just pure pleasure, was written across her face. When she danced the rest of us knew we were sitting in heavenly places.
I have grown accustomed to choreographed dance at church (well, almost). When done well it is a beautiful expression of praise. I believe our Father cherishes all of our sincere efforts to express our love and adoration for Him. But I miss those spontaneous dances choreographed by the Holy Spirit as worshippers responded to the powerful presence of God. Some modern sociologists have concluded those now infrequent frenzied dances represented not an escape from reality as some have claimed, but rather a confrontation of reality, in them we were encountering the only One big enough to tame our problems. Have our problems really gotten smaller?
Those dances were dances with God more than messages/lessons about Him. Thus they taught us more than we could know. I once heard Nicky Cruz of The Cross and the Switchblade fame say that when he got saved he didn’t quit dancing, he just changed partners and his new partner always led. When God gets full control of our worship I wonder what it will look like.
Shouting could be as simple as calling out words and phrases like “glory,” “yes, Lord, yes,” “amen,” “hallelujah,” or “preach it” in response to what was being said or sung. During a sermon these affirmations encouraged the preacher to keep going and they let the individual preach alongside of the preacher. The individual might yell out complete sentences of their own parallel sermon, like back-up singers to a lead singer. If the sermon wasn’t going well, especially when a young person was speaking, the “shouts” might be prayers like “bless him, Lord” or “help her, Jesus.”
Sometimes the shouts were outbursts that seemed more a response to an unseen touch of God than to anything that was being said. Most often these were in English, but sometimes the worshiper rattled off a series of syllables that were from an unknown language. On some occasions the member would speak a lengthy set of phrases in the unknown language. Everyone would get very quiet and listen, praying for the interpretation to be given in English.
Shouting often led to dancing. A shouter might jump up and wave a hand as he or she spoke, sitting down as quickly as they arose. Someone else might move into the isle and begin to dance or even run excitingly. Most often these dances involved rapid movement of the arms and legs, but the entire body might be involved. Occasionally someone would spin like a human top, both feet pumping up and down as they twirled on their toes. During the altar service shouting and dancing often signaled someone had just “prayed through” to the victory they were seeking. They had been touched by the power of God.
Preachers, overcome with excitement or the “anointing,” would often dance during a sermon. Pastor F. L. (Bud) Braddock would intersperse quick steps throughout his sermons like visual exclamation points. Unlike many who seemed to loose control when dancing, his were motions of controlled celebration. They appeared much like an Irish jig or what use to be called “buck dancing,” feet kicking in a quick jerking motion up high behind and down, arms swinging in rhythm from the elbows. Five or six quick licks and back to preaching he went.
It was Sister Hattie Taylor who most captured my attention when she danced. Sister Taylor was one of the older saints. She always dressed nicely, a shawl wrapped around her shoulders and her white hair neatly curled up around her head. Her dance was an elegant shuffle, slightly swinging left to right as she slowly moved down the aisle and around the altar and back. There was no sense of an outburst of energy, instead she seemed lost in the rapturous presence of God as if He was sashaying down the aisle beside her. Adoration and joy, just pure pleasure, was written across her face. When she danced the rest of us knew we were sitting in heavenly places.
I have grown accustomed to choreographed dance at church (well, almost). When done well it is a beautiful expression of praise. I believe our Father cherishes all of our sincere efforts to express our love and adoration for Him. But I miss those spontaneous dances choreographed by the Holy Spirit as worshippers responded to the powerful presence of God. Some modern sociologists have concluded those now infrequent frenzied dances represented not an escape from reality as some have claimed, but rather a confrontation of reality, in them we were encountering the only One big enough to tame our problems. Have our problems really gotten smaller?
Those dances were dances with God more than messages/lessons about Him. Thus they taught us more than we could know. I once heard Nicky Cruz of The Cross and the Switchblade fame say that when he got saved he didn’t quit dancing, he just changed partners and his new partner always led. When God gets full control of our worship I wonder what it will look like.
Congratulations Dr. Waltrip
This morning Cheryl and I participated in a Doctor of Ministry student's defense of her dissertation. Angie McCain Waltrip was for a long time a member and leader at New Covenant. She accepted a call to missions, met and married her husband Blayne. They currently teach at the European Bible Seninary in Germany.
Congratulations Angie.
Congratulations Angie.
Saturday, December 20, 2008
Pigeon Forge
Cheryl and I went to Pigeon Forge on Thursday to celebrate our 34th wedding anniversary. We stayed at the Blue Mountain Mist Bed and Breakfast Inn. It is our favorite B&B, although we haven’t been in eight years and to be honest we haven’t been to a lot of B&B’s. When we returned home this afternoon we found a couple of guests in our den (and a couple of others in other rooms). Thanks, members of the inflatables project. Cheryl loves them.
Tuesday, December 16, 2008
It’s Christmas Time!
It is Christmas time and I miss my parents. I wish everyone could have known them. They were good people, loving and compassionate toward everyone. They were the same wherever and whenever you met them. (Okay, they were human and occasionally moody.) They were most themselves at Christmas time. Mom especially loved this holiday. It brought together all the joys of her life. For her Christmas was an ongoing miracle and a celebration of life. She was a kid at heart and Christmas brought it out best.
If you knew my mother for any period of time you knew six things about her. She believed cooking for others was her duty and she was good at it. She loved her family and you didn’t want to get between her and them. She loved and was faithful to her church. She loved to bless and help others. She was fervent in prayer and knew how to touch God. She loved the Bible. It was for her the Word of God and it was all about Jesus, the lover of her soul. Her life revolved around these things: the kitchen, her family, her church, helping others, prayer, and the Bible.
If you knew my father for any period of time you knew nine things about him. He was strong. He was a hard worker. He was faithful. He was honest. He enjoyed a good conversation. He liked to make people laugh. He was a Christian (1971 forward). He strongly disliked the Masons and other liars (his perception). He was absolutely devoted to my mother.
At Christmas time all of these qualities were abundant. With them Mom and Dad swept everyone into the miracle of God-With-Us. Christ and children shared the central stage. It was a feast of food, fellowship, games and gifts. (Mom always had plentey of food and a few extra gifts tucked away just in case somebody stopped by who looked like they needed one.) Without theological reflection, they made Christmas an introduction to the Marriage Feast of the Lamb. I wish everyone could have known my parents at Christmas time.
If you knew my mother for any period of time you knew six things about her. She believed cooking for others was her duty and she was good at it. She loved her family and you didn’t want to get between her and them. She loved and was faithful to her church. She loved to bless and help others. She was fervent in prayer and knew how to touch God. She loved the Bible. It was for her the Word of God and it was all about Jesus, the lover of her soul. Her life revolved around these things: the kitchen, her family, her church, helping others, prayer, and the Bible.
If you knew my father for any period of time you knew nine things about him. He was strong. He was a hard worker. He was faithful. He was honest. He enjoyed a good conversation. He liked to make people laugh. He was a Christian (1971 forward). He strongly disliked the Masons and other liars (his perception). He was absolutely devoted to my mother.
At Christmas time all of these qualities were abundant. With them Mom and Dad swept everyone into the miracle of God-With-Us. Christ and children shared the central stage. It was a feast of food, fellowship, games and gifts. (Mom always had plentey of food and a few extra gifts tucked away just in case somebody stopped by who looked like they needed one.) Without theological reflection, they made Christmas an introduction to the Marriage Feast of the Lamb. I wish everyone could have known my parents at Christmas time.
Monday, December 15, 2008
When I was Young We Sang Our Faith
When I was young singing was a lively part of our worship at the Springfield Church of God. The songs we sang were about the things we loved, our hopes and dreams. Everybody sang; everybody sang loudly; it was part of our witness. We sang our faith.
Mostly we sang about Jesus. He was our friend.
What a friend we have in Jesus,
all our sins and griefs to bear!
What a privilege to carry
everything to God in prayer!
O what peace we often forfeit,
O what needless pain we bear,
all because we do not carry
everything to God in prayer.
We could touch him.
Reach out and touch the Lord as He goes by.
You will find He's not too busy to hear your heart's cry.
He's passing by this moment, your needs He'll supply,
Just reach out and touch the Lord as He walks by.
And Talk with Him.
I once was lost in sin but Jesus took me in
And then a little light from heaven filled my soul
It bathed my heart in love and wrote my name above
And just a little talk with Jesus made me whole
Now let us have a little talk with Jesus
Let us tell Him all about our troubles
He will hear our faintest cry
He will answer by and by
Now when you feel a little prayer wheel turning
And you know a little fire is burning
You will find a little talk with Jesus makes it right
Sometimes my path seems drear,without a ray of cheer,
And then a cloud of doubt may hide the light of day;
The mists of sin may rise and hide the starry skies,
But Just a little talk with Jesus clears the way.
I may have doubts and fears, my eyes be filled with tears,
But Jesus is a friend who watches day and night;
I go to him in prayer, He knows my every care,
And Just a little talk with Jesus makes it right.
We sang a lot about going to heaven to be with him.
Sing the wondrous love of Jesus;
sing his mercy and his grace.
In the mansions bright and blessed
he'll prepare for us a place.
When we all get to heaven,
what a day of rejoicing that will be!
When we all see Jesus,
we'll sing and shout the victory!
***
I have good new to bring and that is why I sing
All my joys with you I will share
I'm gonna take a trip on that old gospel ship
And go sailing through the air
I'm gonna take a trip on that old gospel ship
I'm going far beyond the sky
I'm gonna shout and sing, until the heavens ring
When I'm sailing through the sky
We also sang about how happy we were to be Christians.
Oh happy day, Oh happy day
When Jesus washed
Oh when he washed
He washed my sins away/He taught me how
to watch, fight and pray
fight and pray
Oh happy day, Oh happy day
When Jesus washed
Oh when he washed
He washed my sins away/We´ll live rejoicing
ev´ry day, ev´ry day
Oh happy day, Oh happy day
When Jesus washed
Oh when he washed
He washed my sins away
And we sang about the Holy Ghost, but those songs were mostly about the ongoing work of Jesus.
They were in an upper chamber,
They were all with one accord,
When the Holy Ghost descended
As was promised by the Lord.
O Lord, send the power just now,
O Lord, send the power just now;
O Lord, send the power just now
And baptize every one.
Yes, the power from Heav’n descended
With the sound of rushing wind;
Tongues of fire came down upon them,
As the Lord said He would send.
Yes, this “old time” power was given
To our fathers who were true;
This is promised to believers,
And we all may have it too.
***
O spread the tidings ’round, wherever man is found,
Wherever human hearts and human woes abound;
Let ev’ry Christian tongue proclaim the joyful sound:
The Comforter has come!
The Comforter has come, the Comforter has come!
The Holy Ghost from Heav’n, the Father’s promise giv’n;
O spread the tidings ’round, wherever man is found—
The Comforter has come!
Comforter has come!
Lo, the great King of kings, with healing in His wings,
To ev’ry captive soul a full deliverance brings;
And through the vacant cells the song of triumph rings;
The Comforter has come!
O boundless love divine! How shall this tongue of mine
To wond’ring mortals tell the matchless grace divine—
That I, a child of hell, should in His image shine!
The Comforter has come!
Thinking about then and now, when I was young we mostly sang to each other about Jesus and what He meant to us. Today we seem to sing more to God and less about God. Our current songs are beautiful expressions of adoration and exaltation. I love them and never want to lose them. But I miss the old songs and I wonder how the change is affecting us.
Worship now seems more rich and personal; it comes from deep within us. However, it almost seems private, as if we come to church to sing because it helps us get alone with the Lord. Within the crowd we enter our own private bubbles of glory.
When I was young our songs were about our shared testimony. They told the story of how we found Jesus, or He found us, and what He means to us. When we sang we were witnesses to the reality of life in Christ. Singing was a way of remembering what God had done for us, what He had promised to us, and why we are here. I fear our singing today is too much aimed at our personal benefit in the here and now. It reminds me of a popular Southern Gospel Song circa 1970, “Me and Jesus got a good thing going, me and Jesus got it all worked out, don’t need nobody to tell me what it’s all about.”
My other concerns with today’s worship music are that the songs are too hard to sing and too hard to remember. Gone is the simple cycle of refrain followed by chorus; we now have bridges and transitions to contend with. Today’s songs sound great with a synthesizer and a talented praise team, but they are hard for most of us to sing in the shower. This is a problem for our culture as a whole; we are a people who have no national songs, even our commercials are missing familiar ditties (“Plop, plop, fizz, fizz, oh what a relief it is.” “You Deserve a Break today, so get up and get away.”). We have stars who sing to us. The rest of us listen and at best hum along. It dawned on me a few years ago this is a very troubling trend. A nation without a song is a nation without a soul. Our songs, the ones we sing to our children and to each other, convey the truths we hold dear. In this age of extreme tolerance and uncertainty, there is little room for public singing that conveys a message.
As for me, I love to occasionally sing the old songs with people who know how to worship through them. But I know we can’t go back. Those songs, words and melodies, were birthed in a different time and represent a different culture. However, they did communicate something of the Gospel that seems missing today. Is it possible for someone to write us some songs that we can all sing, songs that we can sing to each other and to the world, songs that proclaim the Gospel? We’ll keep our Hill Songs, I promise.
Mostly we sang about Jesus. He was our friend.
What a friend we have in Jesus,
all our sins and griefs to bear!
What a privilege to carry
everything to God in prayer!
O what peace we often forfeit,
O what needless pain we bear,
all because we do not carry
everything to God in prayer.
We could touch him.
Reach out and touch the Lord as He goes by.
You will find He's not too busy to hear your heart's cry.
He's passing by this moment, your needs He'll supply,
Just reach out and touch the Lord as He walks by.
And Talk with Him.
I once was lost in sin but Jesus took me in
And then a little light from heaven filled my soul
It bathed my heart in love and wrote my name above
And just a little talk with Jesus made me whole
Now let us have a little talk with Jesus
Let us tell Him all about our troubles
He will hear our faintest cry
He will answer by and by
Now when you feel a little prayer wheel turning
And you know a little fire is burning
You will find a little talk with Jesus makes it right
Sometimes my path seems drear,without a ray of cheer,
And then a cloud of doubt may hide the light of day;
The mists of sin may rise and hide the starry skies,
But Just a little talk with Jesus clears the way.
I may have doubts and fears, my eyes be filled with tears,
But Jesus is a friend who watches day and night;
I go to him in prayer, He knows my every care,
And Just a little talk with Jesus makes it right.
We sang a lot about going to heaven to be with him.
Sing the wondrous love of Jesus;
sing his mercy and his grace.
In the mansions bright and blessed
he'll prepare for us a place.
When we all get to heaven,
what a day of rejoicing that will be!
When we all see Jesus,
we'll sing and shout the victory!
***
I have good new to bring and that is why I sing
All my joys with you I will share
I'm gonna take a trip on that old gospel ship
And go sailing through the air
I'm gonna take a trip on that old gospel ship
I'm going far beyond the sky
I'm gonna shout and sing, until the heavens ring
When I'm sailing through the sky
We also sang about how happy we were to be Christians.
Oh happy day, Oh happy day
When Jesus washed
Oh when he washed
He washed my sins away/He taught me how
to watch, fight and pray
fight and pray
Oh happy day, Oh happy day
When Jesus washed
Oh when he washed
He washed my sins away/We´ll live rejoicing
ev´ry day, ev´ry day
Oh happy day, Oh happy day
When Jesus washed
Oh when he washed
He washed my sins away
And we sang about the Holy Ghost, but those songs were mostly about the ongoing work of Jesus.
They were in an upper chamber,
They were all with one accord,
When the Holy Ghost descended
As was promised by the Lord.
O Lord, send the power just now,
O Lord, send the power just now;
O Lord, send the power just now
And baptize every one.
Yes, the power from Heav’n descended
With the sound of rushing wind;
Tongues of fire came down upon them,
As the Lord said He would send.
Yes, this “old time” power was given
To our fathers who were true;
This is promised to believers,
And we all may have it too.
***
O spread the tidings ’round, wherever man is found,
Wherever human hearts and human woes abound;
Let ev’ry Christian tongue proclaim the joyful sound:
The Comforter has come!
The Comforter has come, the Comforter has come!
The Holy Ghost from Heav’n, the Father’s promise giv’n;
O spread the tidings ’round, wherever man is found—
The Comforter has come!
Comforter has come!
Lo, the great King of kings, with healing in His wings,
To ev’ry captive soul a full deliverance brings;
And through the vacant cells the song of triumph rings;
The Comforter has come!
O boundless love divine! How shall this tongue of mine
To wond’ring mortals tell the matchless grace divine—
That I, a child of hell, should in His image shine!
The Comforter has come!
Thinking about then and now, when I was young we mostly sang to each other about Jesus and what He meant to us. Today we seem to sing more to God and less about God. Our current songs are beautiful expressions of adoration and exaltation. I love them and never want to lose them. But I miss the old songs and I wonder how the change is affecting us.
Worship now seems more rich and personal; it comes from deep within us. However, it almost seems private, as if we come to church to sing because it helps us get alone with the Lord. Within the crowd we enter our own private bubbles of glory.
When I was young our songs were about our shared testimony. They told the story of how we found Jesus, or He found us, and what He means to us. When we sang we were witnesses to the reality of life in Christ. Singing was a way of remembering what God had done for us, what He had promised to us, and why we are here. I fear our singing today is too much aimed at our personal benefit in the here and now. It reminds me of a popular Southern Gospel Song circa 1970, “Me and Jesus got a good thing going, me and Jesus got it all worked out, don’t need nobody to tell me what it’s all about.”
My other concerns with today’s worship music are that the songs are too hard to sing and too hard to remember. Gone is the simple cycle of refrain followed by chorus; we now have bridges and transitions to contend with. Today’s songs sound great with a synthesizer and a talented praise team, but they are hard for most of us to sing in the shower. This is a problem for our culture as a whole; we are a people who have no national songs, even our commercials are missing familiar ditties (“Plop, plop, fizz, fizz, oh what a relief it is.” “You Deserve a Break today, so get up and get away.”). We have stars who sing to us. The rest of us listen and at best hum along. It dawned on me a few years ago this is a very troubling trend. A nation without a song is a nation without a soul. Our songs, the ones we sing to our children and to each other, convey the truths we hold dear. In this age of extreme tolerance and uncertainty, there is little room for public singing that conveys a message.
As for me, I love to occasionally sing the old songs with people who know how to worship through them. But I know we can’t go back. Those songs, words and melodies, were birthed in a different time and represent a different culture. However, they did communicate something of the Gospel that seems missing today. Is it possible for someone to write us some songs that we can all sing, songs that we can sing to each other and to the world, songs that proclaim the Gospel? We’ll keep our Hill Songs, I promise.
Thursday, December 11, 2008
Tuesday, December 09, 2008
When I was Young Music was a Lively Part of Our Worship
When I was young music was a lively part of our worship at the Springfield Church of God. Music was very important, both the songs and the music. We had a lot of musicians. There was always an organist, a pianist, several guitarists, a base player, accordion players, a saxophonist, trumpet players and others. Sometimes we even had a steel guitar.
In every service we had at least three occasions for songs. At the beginning an invitation was given for all who would to “come up and join the choir.” On Sunday mornings the adults and older youth were welcome to come forward. On Sunday and Wednesday evenings children could join the adults. During YPE on Friday nights the older children and youth made up the choir. The pattern was the same.
Women always filled the first two rows and the men lined the back. Brother W. B. Dykes was our song leader. He would call out a hymn number and everyone would turn there even if they already knew the words. Reading the music was important, even for those of us who didn’t know how.
While the choir sang, the entire congregation stood and sang with them. It was usually loud and lively. Most of the time we all clapped out the beat, that is all except the youth and a few sinners sitting in the rear of the sanctuary. Brother Dykes would get excited and begin to drift back and forth across the stage, facing the choir a while and facing the congregation a while. At times it seemed he was floating a few inches off the ground. With one he hand held the hymnal/songbook sometimes at eye level but often high above his head; his other hand was soon raised high as he directed with the flip of his wrist and fingers. His head would be shift between being raised toward heaven and tucked to his chest. It was as if his whole being became the song.
After they had led us in three or four songs the choir would march down and join their families in the congregation.
This first song service was followed by announcements and special prayers. Tithes were collected and offerings received as separate worship events. Before the sermon there was always a special song. Usually a trio or quartet, but sometimes a soloist would sing. When I was very young Charlene, Libby, and Mary comprised a young Ladies' Trio. Later, the Golden Gate Trio became prominent; often their first song was followed by “Inside the Gates” as an encore. Whoever sang, the special song marked a transition to the sermon.
The altar service followed the sermon. This provided another opportunity for music. The preacher invited people to come forward for prayer, first for salvation and second for sanctification and to “seek for the Holy Ghost.” As this portion of the service began the pianist and organist provided soft music. The music and prayers grew louder together and the other instrumentalists joined in. After a lengthy season of prayers with music, special singers would move to the platform and begin to sing what might be called victory songs. These were fast paced, enthusiastic, feel-good songs. We were celebrating the great things God was doing.
My mother never wanted to leave until the last prayer was prayed and the last song was sung. For evening services this could be quite late. For those who stayed this was the most special time of the service. A “holy hush” settled in with only the organist playing quietly as the scattered saints soaked in the peaceful presence of God. Sleep would be very good those nights.
I am indebted to Brother Dykes for modeling worship for me as a child. I am also thankful for all of the musicians. I cannot remember the names of most, but a few have stayed with me. Brother Dykes' brother, Wheeler, seemed to have the most fun playing the accordion when he was at church. Brother Dykes’ son, Bubba, played the guitar. His other son, Ronnie, who would later leave to become a Church of God pastor, would sometimes play the organ. Bubba's sons, Aubrey and Doyle began playing in the church band when they were quite young. Aubrey would later switch to piano and became a pastor in adulthood. Doyle of course went on to become an internationally acclaimed guitarist. When Brother Bud Braddock came to serve as pastor, Sister Braddock became the pianist; she was phenomenal. It seems I remember Larry Braddock playing the saxophone (although, it was Gary who made a career in music I understand). I don't remember the name of the trumpet player, but watching him made a real impression on me. I wanted to become a trumpet player in church. There were many others, each contributed to the beauty and excitement of worship at "the old Springfield Church of God."
Note: I would appreciate help with any names or facts I may have gotten wrong.
In every service we had at least three occasions for songs. At the beginning an invitation was given for all who would to “come up and join the choir.” On Sunday mornings the adults and older youth were welcome to come forward. On Sunday and Wednesday evenings children could join the adults. During YPE on Friday nights the older children and youth made up the choir. The pattern was the same.
Women always filled the first two rows and the men lined the back. Brother W. B. Dykes was our song leader. He would call out a hymn number and everyone would turn there even if they already knew the words. Reading the music was important, even for those of us who didn’t know how.
While the choir sang, the entire congregation stood and sang with them. It was usually loud and lively. Most of the time we all clapped out the beat, that is all except the youth and a few sinners sitting in the rear of the sanctuary. Brother Dykes would get excited and begin to drift back and forth across the stage, facing the choir a while and facing the congregation a while. At times it seemed he was floating a few inches off the ground. With one he hand held the hymnal/songbook sometimes at eye level but often high above his head; his other hand was soon raised high as he directed with the flip of his wrist and fingers. His head would be shift between being raised toward heaven and tucked to his chest. It was as if his whole being became the song.
After they had led us in three or four songs the choir would march down and join their families in the congregation.
This first song service was followed by announcements and special prayers. Tithes were collected and offerings received as separate worship events. Before the sermon there was always a special song. Usually a trio or quartet, but sometimes a soloist would sing. When I was very young Charlene, Libby, and Mary comprised a young Ladies' Trio. Later, the Golden Gate Trio became prominent; often their first song was followed by “Inside the Gates” as an encore. Whoever sang, the special song marked a transition to the sermon.
The altar service followed the sermon. This provided another opportunity for music. The preacher invited people to come forward for prayer, first for salvation and second for sanctification and to “seek for the Holy Ghost.” As this portion of the service began the pianist and organist provided soft music. The music and prayers grew louder together and the other instrumentalists joined in. After a lengthy season of prayers with music, special singers would move to the platform and begin to sing what might be called victory songs. These were fast paced, enthusiastic, feel-good songs. We were celebrating the great things God was doing.
My mother never wanted to leave until the last prayer was prayed and the last song was sung. For evening services this could be quite late. For those who stayed this was the most special time of the service. A “holy hush” settled in with only the organist playing quietly as the scattered saints soaked in the peaceful presence of God. Sleep would be very good those nights.
I am indebted to Brother Dykes for modeling worship for me as a child. I am also thankful for all of the musicians. I cannot remember the names of most, but a few have stayed with me. Brother Dykes' brother, Wheeler, seemed to have the most fun playing the accordion when he was at church. Brother Dykes’ son, Bubba, played the guitar. His other son, Ronnie, who would later leave to become a Church of God pastor, would sometimes play the organ. Bubba's sons, Aubrey and Doyle began playing in the church band when they were quite young. Aubrey would later switch to piano and became a pastor in adulthood. Doyle of course went on to become an internationally acclaimed guitarist. When Brother Bud Braddock came to serve as pastor, Sister Braddock became the pianist; she was phenomenal. It seems I remember Larry Braddock playing the saxophone (although, it was Gary who made a career in music I understand). I don't remember the name of the trumpet player, but watching him made a real impression on me. I wanted to become a trumpet player in church. There were many others, each contributed to the beauty and excitement of worship at "the old Springfield Church of God."
Note: I would appreciate help with any names or facts I may have gotten wrong.
Friday, December 05, 2008
Field Trip
We took Charlie, Camdyn, and Zeta Dickhut to the Mayfield Dairy in Athens, Tennessee this afternoon.
Thursday, December 04, 2008
When I Was Young Gerri Bethune Was the Most Special Person at Church
When I was young Gerri Bethune was the most special person at our church, the Springfield Church of God.
When we got to church early I watched the adults move around greeting one another, hoping they would shake my hand, and waiting for Gerri to arrive. Gerri was different from everyone. She had short dark hair; all the other women had long hair. Some wore it in a tight bun on the back of their heads; some had it piled high on top, and some let it hang down on their shoulders. But Gerry’s was short, barely hanging over her collar.
Gerri was different because she sat in a wheelchair. I could hear the men talking as two of them carried her in her chair up the stairs. Sometimes her father would lift her out of the chair and carry her in his arms, letting someone else carry the chair.
Once Gerri was on the sanctuary level, people began to gather around her. The women would hug her, some giving her a kiss on the cheek. The men would grasp her hand in both of theirs. Slowly her father would roll her down the aisle, people talking as they went.
She was always brought to the front of the sanctuary on the left-hand side next to the wall, just below the platform. Before the service began almost everyone would walk down front to say hello to Gerri. She was the most special person in church; everyone wanted to talk with Gerri. Everyone loved her.
When I was very young, I was afraid of Gerri. She had cerebral palsy. Back then I didn’t know those words or what they mean. What I did know was that I could not understand her when she talked. Her words were garbled and she would squeal often. Her hands and arms would move in all directions when she tried to talk. She was different in ways I didn’t understand.
I asked my mother why Gerri was different, and she said she had been dropped on her head when she was a baby. I don’t know if mom didn’t understand cerebral palsy or if she was trying to motivate me to be more careful when I played. I was afraid something would happen and I would become like Gerry. At the same time I wanted everyone to love me the way they loved Gerri.
I now know Gerri was loved deeply because God's hand was on her. She knew God and she loved deeply. She was happy to see everyone. She was a joyful presence in the house of the Lord. She gave more to the people than they could ever give to her.
I am thankful for the Springfield Church of God. I am thankful for Gerri Bethune. Together they taught me God’s love is not based on how we look or what we can give. God’s love is a work of grace; in God’s presence, the greatest gifts often come through the weakest among us. There is a special place for everybody in the family of God.
When we got to church early I watched the adults move around greeting one another, hoping they would shake my hand, and waiting for Gerri to arrive. Gerri was different from everyone. She had short dark hair; all the other women had long hair. Some wore it in a tight bun on the back of their heads; some had it piled high on top, and some let it hang down on their shoulders. But Gerry’s was short, barely hanging over her collar.
Gerri was different because she sat in a wheelchair. I could hear the men talking as two of them carried her in her chair up the stairs. Sometimes her father would lift her out of the chair and carry her in his arms, letting someone else carry the chair.
Once Gerri was on the sanctuary level, people began to gather around her. The women would hug her, some giving her a kiss on the cheek. The men would grasp her hand in both of theirs. Slowly her father would roll her down the aisle, people talking as they went.
She was always brought to the front of the sanctuary on the left-hand side next to the wall, just below the platform. Before the service began almost everyone would walk down front to say hello to Gerri. She was the most special person in church; everyone wanted to talk with Gerri. Everyone loved her.
When I was very young, I was afraid of Gerri. She had cerebral palsy. Back then I didn’t know those words or what they mean. What I did know was that I could not understand her when she talked. Her words were garbled and she would squeal often. Her hands and arms would move in all directions when she tried to talk. She was different in ways I didn’t understand.
I asked my mother why Gerri was different, and she said she had been dropped on her head when she was a baby. I don’t know if mom didn’t understand cerebral palsy or if she was trying to motivate me to be more careful when I played. I was afraid something would happen and I would become like Gerry. At the same time I wanted everyone to love me the way they loved Gerri.
I now know Gerri was loved deeply because God's hand was on her. She knew God and she loved deeply. She was happy to see everyone. She was a joyful presence in the house of the Lord. She gave more to the people than they could ever give to her.
I am thankful for the Springfield Church of God. I am thankful for Gerri Bethune. Together they taught me God’s love is not based on how we look or what we can give. God’s love is a work of grace; in God’s presence, the greatest gifts often come through the weakest among us. There is a special place for everybody in the family of God.
Wednesday, December 03, 2008
Santa Visit
Camdyn has always had an aversion to Santa Clause. Each year she plans to sit in his lap but backs out when we get there.
This morning at breakfast she prayed the most beautiful prayer asking God to help her and help Charlie (his first visit) to not be nervous when they went to see Santa. She prayed the same prayer at lunch. It must not have been a prayer of faith.
Tuesday, December 02, 2008
When I was Very Young We Walked to Church
(Another Story For Camdyn and Charlie - Even though they are here and Camdyn has already said she liked it.)
When I was very young we walked to church.
We lived in the Springfield area of Jacksonville, Florida on the northeast corner of Eighth Street and Franklin Avenue.
Our church was six blocks away on the corner of Tenth Street and North Florida Avenue.
It was fun to walk to church. On the side streets there weren’t any cars and we walked in the street. The branches of big trees covered the sky. As we walked, puppies would run out to greet us, yelping and begging to be petted. Sometimes at night there were fireflies to be caught.
Going to church, Momma wanted us to stay clean and to keep moving. We couldn’t be late for church.
“Jackie, don’t play with that dog.”
“Shirley, hold your brother’s hand and stay close to me.”
A few moments later, “Shirley, I said to hold your brother’s hand.”
“I can’t momma. He won’t let me.”
“Jackie, hold your sister’s hand. Don’t make me tell you again.”
“Jimmy, help me watch them.”
Then we would stop at Aunt Jenny’s house so she could walk with us. Sister Jenny Williams wasn’t really our aunt. People at church just called her Aunt Jenny. She was elderly and she could not see well; she had cataracts in her eyes.
Aunt Jenny was a special friend to Momma. They talked as we walked. They talked softly and I didn't hear much of what they said. Momma seemed to ask questions and Aunt Jenny would say things like, “You’ll be alright, just trust the Lord.” “He’ll show you what to do.” “The Lord’s ways are not our ways.”
Aunt Jenny hooked her arm through Momma’s as we walked. When we crossed Phoenix Street Momma made us all hold hands and go together. As a car passed, “Wait, Wait, Wait,… Hold hands, Now … Go!”
When we got close to church I could see people huddled in small groups talking, mothers holding the hands of their children. Teenagers gathered in their own groups. Some families were climbing the long outside stairs to the main door of the sanctuary. Through open windows I could hear a few people praying and some musicians warming up their instruments, getting ready for church to begin.
After church we walked home in the dark. Momma didn’t have to tell me to hold anyone’s hand. Lights from houses or from the moon made shadows that danced through the trees and scared me. I held my mother’s hand tight and clung close to her skirt. Sometimes, when I got tired, Jimmy would carry me a while and then Momma would carry me the rest of the way home. Once we got home momma put us in bed right away.
Life was a journey, and all roads led to church and back home again.
When I was very young we walked to church.
We lived in the Springfield area of Jacksonville, Florida on the northeast corner of Eighth Street and Franklin Avenue.
Our church was six blocks away on the corner of Tenth Street and North Florida Avenue.
It was fun to walk to church. On the side streets there weren’t any cars and we walked in the street. The branches of big trees covered the sky. As we walked, puppies would run out to greet us, yelping and begging to be petted. Sometimes at night there were fireflies to be caught.
Going to church, Momma wanted us to stay clean and to keep moving. We couldn’t be late for church.
“Jackie, don’t play with that dog.”
“Shirley, hold your brother’s hand and stay close to me.”
A few moments later, “Shirley, I said to hold your brother’s hand.”
“I can’t momma. He won’t let me.”
“Jackie, hold your sister’s hand. Don’t make me tell you again.”
“Jimmy, help me watch them.”
Then we would stop at Aunt Jenny’s house so she could walk with us. Sister Jenny Williams wasn’t really our aunt. People at church just called her Aunt Jenny. She was elderly and she could not see well; she had cataracts in her eyes.
Aunt Jenny was a special friend to Momma. They talked as we walked. They talked softly and I didn't hear much of what they said. Momma seemed to ask questions and Aunt Jenny would say things like, “You’ll be alright, just trust the Lord.” “He’ll show you what to do.” “The Lord’s ways are not our ways.”
Aunt Jenny hooked her arm through Momma’s as we walked. When we crossed Phoenix Street Momma made us all hold hands and go together. As a car passed, “Wait, Wait, Wait,… Hold hands, Now … Go!”
When we got close to church I could see people huddled in small groups talking, mothers holding the hands of their children. Teenagers gathered in their own groups. Some families were climbing the long outside stairs to the main door of the sanctuary. Through open windows I could hear a few people praying and some musicians warming up their instruments, getting ready for church to begin.
After church we walked home in the dark. Momma didn’t have to tell me to hold anyone’s hand. Lights from houses or from the moon made shadows that danced through the trees and scared me. I held my mother’s hand tight and clung close to her skirt. Sometimes, when I got tired, Jimmy would carry me a while and then Momma would carry me the rest of the way home. Once we got home momma put us in bed right away.
Life was a journey, and all roads led to church and back home again.
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