Oregon is absolutely beautiful. Here are a few pictures we took.
Monday, March 30, 2009
Wednesday, March 04, 2009
Monday, March 02, 2009
When I was Young Pastors Were Special People Who Spoke for God
When I was young pastors were special people. For the most part I only saw them at church. They were always dressed in suit and tie and carried a sense of dignity and respect. They were professionals even if they did sometimes preach against professional clergy. Back then pastors in the Church of God were appointed to one-year renewable terms. Pastoral changes took place during the summer following Camp Meeting. The result was that I had several pastors when I was young: Brothers Thomas, Guiles, Ramsey, Pratt, and Braddock.
Brother Thomas, a fatherly figure reminiscent of Robert Young in Father Knows Best, was pastor in the time of my earliest memories. My recollections are visual images of him standing behind the lectern or greeting people out front. Later, Mom would refer to him as a Godly and compassionate man. He followed a personal rule of never being alone with a woman other than his wife. Yet, one hot day during her pregnancy with Darlene he saw her walking downtown and offered her a ride home. Then there was the visit to our house after Darlene was born. Dad was repairing a disassembled lawn mower on the front porch when Brother Thomas arrived. He gingerly stepped through the parts as he made his way into the house. Afterwards Mom asserted her place in the home and Dad never repaired anything on the porch again.
Cecil Guiles was the Assistant Pastor under Brother Thomas and when Thomas left a few months prior to his term ending Brother Guiles served as interim-pastor. I only recall thinking he seemed young and being confused about his shifting role. Later when I was a student a Lee College he was serving as General Director of Youth and Christian Education for the Church of God. When I introduced myself he reminded me of his role in my early life. He is truly one of the most compassionate and gregarious persons I have ever known.
H.B. Ramsey, a professorial figure who would have looked at home in a bank president’s office, followed Brother Guiles. He was short, bald, and wore thick rimmed glasses. Think a shrunken version of Mel on the Dick Van Dyke Show. I am not certain how long he served at our church; my guess is the years embracing my fifth and sixth birthdays. I recall him as a Bible teacher. Somehow when he preached I made the connection between preaching and the Bible. I knew he was expounding on the Word and it was very important. Until this very moment I have never made this connection and while I cannot recall a single point from any of his sermons, nor describe his style, it is that image of a pastor presenting the Scriptures with a passion for clarity that has most guided my on ministry as a preacher of the Word.
Years later we moved to Alabama and when I was sixteen I saw Brother Ramsey at the State Camp Meeting. I gathered up the courage and approached him between services. Asking him if he knew who I was, he responded “Yes, I believe your Ernestine Johns’ son from Jacksonville, Florida.” I was amazed at his skills of observation and his memory for names. No one every told me our current pastor (Herschel Gamble) had probably mentioned to him we had moved into the state so that the connection was already made for him. I prefer to delude myself into thinking he actually made the connections himself. At any rate he served the Church of God as a State Overseer for several states, retired in South Georgia, and lived well into his nineties.
Following Brother Ramsey was Lindsey Pratt. He’s the pastor who baptized me when I was six. He had to ask me my name while I was standing next to him in the pool. This bothered my mother. But he was a great preacher, if by great you mean effective, entertaining, persuasive communicator. He was an evangelist. He had a radio program that was listened to by masses of people. My Dad would never attend church, but he listened to Brother Pratt as did many of his truck driving friends. My impressions are of the preacher as story teller with a knack for one-two punch lines. My Dad came under great conviction listening to him; I recall him coming home one day and saying to my mother he thought he was going crazy and talking with her about the Bible. She told him he needed to go to church and get right with God. Unfortunately, before he responded to the Spirit’s drawing, Satan got in the way.
Lindsey Pratt had an acute stomach ulcer that in time required surgery to remove much of his stomach. During his hospitalization James Cross, then serving as General Overseer, flew to Jacksonville to minister at our church. His comments stuck in my young brain (not to mention the fact that he was the first person I knew who had actually flown in an airplane). He stated that as a holiness preacher who believed divine healing was provided for all in the atonement, he never would have believed he would say what he was about to say to us. He then voiced that on the flight down God had spoken to him to tell the congregation not to pray for Brother Pratt’s healing; we were to pray instead for God’s will to be done. There was an instant murmur of disagreement and during the prayer fervent intercession for his healing went up.
A couple of weeks later Brother Pratt came home from the hospital apparently on the road to recovery. A few months after that he ran off with Libby, the church pianist/singer/secretary. My Dad lost all interest in religion as did all of his unsaved friends. When they confronted the errant minister they found in his wallet a check my mother had written to him for his radio ministry; I had been the one commissioned to hand him the check after church one night. Mom feared some thought the check implied impropriety on her part. I could not write about this if she was still alive and I risk here the wrath of my siblings to make the point that it always confused me why my sanctified, Spirit-filled saint of a mother didn’t discern there was a sin problem in paradise before she wrote the check. On the other hand this event may have been the catalyst for her intense spiritual maturity that followed. She took solace in the assurances of Aunt Jenny Williams that God knew her heart was in the right place, her willingness to sacrifice to support the preaching of His Word was what mattered.
Brother Pratt found his way back to God and became a Baptist Pastor, a testament of God’s grace. His example left an indelible impression on me of the power of sin to destroy. I could contrast his condition before and after his fall. When he was our pastor he was vibrant, happy, and he drove a Ford Thunderbird, a fancy sports car. The last time I saw him a few years later he looked like a skeleton smoking a cigarette, and he was driving an old, damaged VW Beatle. Still a child myself, I hurt for his small children who had lost their father and vanished from our lives.
The prominent pastor of my childhood and youth was F. L. (Bud) Braddock. He followed Lindsay Pratt and was the healing balm the church needed. On his first Sunday he announced “I am going to make you a promise. I am going to make everyone of you happy as your pastor. Some of you are happy I came. Some I’ll make happy while I’m here. The rest of you I’ll make happy when I leave.” And with that he led the congregation in a hearty laugh. There simply was no one like Bud Braddock. He’s the only person I have ever known who could demonstrably laugh and cry in the same instance. He wept over the plight of those caught in the web of sin and laughed to soften the sting of his chastising words. Humor was his oratory tool of choice and he preached with his whole body, holding his head high, moving out from behind the rostrum, accentuating his points with swift gestures, and for special exclamation points performing a brief buck dance, the kind where both arms swing down to the side and up to chest level while the feet and legs kick up and down with the torso remaining relatively motionless.
The content of his preaching focused on practical Christian living grounded in a thorough knowledge of the Scriptures. In this he reinforced what I was learning from my mother and others, the Bible is a book to be loved and studied; it has the answers to life’s questions. There is nothing the Bible doesn’t address. He was the first pastor I knew who openly pursued higher education. He went to Bible college while he served as our pastor. [The significance of this cannot be over stated. Many Pentecostals preached against preachers getting a higher education.] I loved his preaching. His sermons were well structured and easy to follow. I still use some of his humorous illustrations.
The truth is I did not know any of my pastors well. They only intersected my life within the dim glory of church. There they were the center of all that happened; they were the spokespersons for God. Everyone deferred to them. Yet, they were human, able to fall into the grips of sin. They convinced me God loves me, I need to know Him, His Word is a living book with the answers to life’s questions, and most of all Jesus Christ is God’s only begotten son who died for my salvation. I thank God often for these pastors and their gifts to me and countless others.
Brother Thomas, a fatherly figure reminiscent of Robert Young in Father Knows Best, was pastor in the time of my earliest memories. My recollections are visual images of him standing behind the lectern or greeting people out front. Later, Mom would refer to him as a Godly and compassionate man. He followed a personal rule of never being alone with a woman other than his wife. Yet, one hot day during her pregnancy with Darlene he saw her walking downtown and offered her a ride home. Then there was the visit to our house after Darlene was born. Dad was repairing a disassembled lawn mower on the front porch when Brother Thomas arrived. He gingerly stepped through the parts as he made his way into the house. Afterwards Mom asserted her place in the home and Dad never repaired anything on the porch again.
Cecil Guiles was the Assistant Pastor under Brother Thomas and when Thomas left a few months prior to his term ending Brother Guiles served as interim-pastor. I only recall thinking he seemed young and being confused about his shifting role. Later when I was a student a Lee College he was serving as General Director of Youth and Christian Education for the Church of God. When I introduced myself he reminded me of his role in my early life. He is truly one of the most compassionate and gregarious persons I have ever known.
H.B. Ramsey, a professorial figure who would have looked at home in a bank president’s office, followed Brother Guiles. He was short, bald, and wore thick rimmed glasses. Think a shrunken version of Mel on the Dick Van Dyke Show. I am not certain how long he served at our church; my guess is the years embracing my fifth and sixth birthdays. I recall him as a Bible teacher. Somehow when he preached I made the connection between preaching and the Bible. I knew he was expounding on the Word and it was very important. Until this very moment I have never made this connection and while I cannot recall a single point from any of his sermons, nor describe his style, it is that image of a pastor presenting the Scriptures with a passion for clarity that has most guided my on ministry as a preacher of the Word.
Years later we moved to Alabama and when I was sixteen I saw Brother Ramsey at the State Camp Meeting. I gathered up the courage and approached him between services. Asking him if he knew who I was, he responded “Yes, I believe your Ernestine Johns’ son from Jacksonville, Florida.” I was amazed at his skills of observation and his memory for names. No one every told me our current pastor (Herschel Gamble) had probably mentioned to him we had moved into the state so that the connection was already made for him. I prefer to delude myself into thinking he actually made the connections himself. At any rate he served the Church of God as a State Overseer for several states, retired in South Georgia, and lived well into his nineties.
Following Brother Ramsey was Lindsey Pratt. He’s the pastor who baptized me when I was six. He had to ask me my name while I was standing next to him in the pool. This bothered my mother. But he was a great preacher, if by great you mean effective, entertaining, persuasive communicator. He was an evangelist. He had a radio program that was listened to by masses of people. My Dad would never attend church, but he listened to Brother Pratt as did many of his truck driving friends. My impressions are of the preacher as story teller with a knack for one-two punch lines. My Dad came under great conviction listening to him; I recall him coming home one day and saying to my mother he thought he was going crazy and talking with her about the Bible. She told him he needed to go to church and get right with God. Unfortunately, before he responded to the Spirit’s drawing, Satan got in the way.
Lindsey Pratt had an acute stomach ulcer that in time required surgery to remove much of his stomach. During his hospitalization James Cross, then serving as General Overseer, flew to Jacksonville to minister at our church. His comments stuck in my young brain (not to mention the fact that he was the first person I knew who had actually flown in an airplane). He stated that as a holiness preacher who believed divine healing was provided for all in the atonement, he never would have believed he would say what he was about to say to us. He then voiced that on the flight down God had spoken to him to tell the congregation not to pray for Brother Pratt’s healing; we were to pray instead for God’s will to be done. There was an instant murmur of disagreement and during the prayer fervent intercession for his healing went up.
A couple of weeks later Brother Pratt came home from the hospital apparently on the road to recovery. A few months after that he ran off with Libby, the church pianist/singer/secretary. My Dad lost all interest in religion as did all of his unsaved friends. When they confronted the errant minister they found in his wallet a check my mother had written to him for his radio ministry; I had been the one commissioned to hand him the check after church one night. Mom feared some thought the check implied impropriety on her part. I could not write about this if she was still alive and I risk here the wrath of my siblings to make the point that it always confused me why my sanctified, Spirit-filled saint of a mother didn’t discern there was a sin problem in paradise before she wrote the check. On the other hand this event may have been the catalyst for her intense spiritual maturity that followed. She took solace in the assurances of Aunt Jenny Williams that God knew her heart was in the right place, her willingness to sacrifice to support the preaching of His Word was what mattered.
Brother Pratt found his way back to God and became a Baptist Pastor, a testament of God’s grace. His example left an indelible impression on me of the power of sin to destroy. I could contrast his condition before and after his fall. When he was our pastor he was vibrant, happy, and he drove a Ford Thunderbird, a fancy sports car. The last time I saw him a few years later he looked like a skeleton smoking a cigarette, and he was driving an old, damaged VW Beatle. Still a child myself, I hurt for his small children who had lost their father and vanished from our lives.
The prominent pastor of my childhood and youth was F. L. (Bud) Braddock. He followed Lindsay Pratt and was the healing balm the church needed. On his first Sunday he announced “I am going to make you a promise. I am going to make everyone of you happy as your pastor. Some of you are happy I came. Some I’ll make happy while I’m here. The rest of you I’ll make happy when I leave.” And with that he led the congregation in a hearty laugh. There simply was no one like Bud Braddock. He’s the only person I have ever known who could demonstrably laugh and cry in the same instance. He wept over the plight of those caught in the web of sin and laughed to soften the sting of his chastising words. Humor was his oratory tool of choice and he preached with his whole body, holding his head high, moving out from behind the rostrum, accentuating his points with swift gestures, and for special exclamation points performing a brief buck dance, the kind where both arms swing down to the side and up to chest level while the feet and legs kick up and down with the torso remaining relatively motionless.
The content of his preaching focused on practical Christian living grounded in a thorough knowledge of the Scriptures. In this he reinforced what I was learning from my mother and others, the Bible is a book to be loved and studied; it has the answers to life’s questions. There is nothing the Bible doesn’t address. He was the first pastor I knew who openly pursued higher education. He went to Bible college while he served as our pastor. [The significance of this cannot be over stated. Many Pentecostals preached against preachers getting a higher education.] I loved his preaching. His sermons were well structured and easy to follow. I still use some of his humorous illustrations.
The truth is I did not know any of my pastors well. They only intersected my life within the dim glory of church. There they were the center of all that happened; they were the spokespersons for God. Everyone deferred to them. Yet, they were human, able to fall into the grips of sin. They convinced me God loves me, I need to know Him, His Word is a living book with the answers to life’s questions, and most of all Jesus Christ is God’s only begotten son who died for my salvation. I thank God often for these pastors and their gifts to me and countless others.
Sunday, March 01, 2009
We've Separated Again
OK, its just Cheryl traveling. She was a presenter/participant in a conference on the environment at Mercer University on Friday & Saturday. She returned last evening and left early this morning for a meeting in Pittsburg. She should be home tomorrow evening. Her greatest gift is to schedule significant events so she can miss faculty meetings.
The calf is doing well, prancing with a slight limp. The second calf has not been born yet.
The calf is doing well, prancing with a slight limp. The second calf has not been born yet.
Tuesday, February 24, 2009
The Five “C’s” of Driving
Cheryl likes to use me as an illustration when she teaches on “learning styles.” I am an “Analytical Learner.” I love ideas and I want to see how all of the parts fit together. Her favorite illustration (which I discovered she was using through students telling me the story) is about when the girls were still at home. I printed four copies of the Apostles’ Creed in large type and laminated them for placemats. During our evening meals I tried to lead us in memorization of the creed and a theological discussion. Cheryl’s learning style is “Dynamic” which means she learns by doing, i.e., she learns by trial and error and relishes change. You might guess she gave little support for my attempt at heady discipleship and the placemats were soon misplaced. I did manage to slip in a few “That reminds me of something Tertullian said...” comments from time to time.
When it came to learning to drive the girls preferred their mother’s “relax and enjoy the ride” approach. However, I did manage to require that they learn my “Five C’s of Driving.” Actually there were only four when they were learning; I’ve added a fifth for Camdyn.
First “C” – Citizenship. Always obey the law; it was written for the safety and benefit of all. [OK, speed limits are a little grayish; were you really speeding if ninety-nine out of a hundred officers don’t bother pulling you over? In my defense, it has been over thirty-four years since I got a speeding ticket. However, children must especially obey the law of God and never point out to others their father’s heavy foot.]
Second “C” – Courtesy. Make room for the other driver. Driving is a privilege, not a right. The “golden rule” has special significance on the road.
Third “C” – Caution. Always leave yourself an out. Monitor your available space and always have room to maneuver to avoid an accident. This especially applies to not tailgating and to not getting squeezed between traffic. Avoid driving between two large vehicles.
Fourth “C” – Common Sense. Always drive slower than you think the conditions warrant regardless of the posted speed limit. This requires that you know the road and that you know the weather.
Fifth “C” – Concentration. Always focus on driving. No cell phones, no reading, and no arguments while driving. Accidents most often originate in a blank space in the brain.
Thanks to Coach Plott, my “Drivers Ed” teacher in high school for the second, third, and fourth “C’s.” He gave the words; I constructed the explanations. The fifth “C” came from a teen-ager a few years back to whom I was giving my pastoral/fatherly advise. I was struggling to remember the fourth C and he or she offered one for me. Unfortunately, I have given this lecture so often I can’t remember who it was that suggested “Concentration” as part of the list. I just wish he or she would have suggested it before Alethea totaled our car while talking on the phone. On the other hand, would it have made a difference?
When it came to learning to drive the girls preferred their mother’s “relax and enjoy the ride” approach. However, I did manage to require that they learn my “Five C’s of Driving.” Actually there were only four when they were learning; I’ve added a fifth for Camdyn.
First “C” – Citizenship. Always obey the law; it was written for the safety and benefit of all. [OK, speed limits are a little grayish; were you really speeding if ninety-nine out of a hundred officers don’t bother pulling you over? In my defense, it has been over thirty-four years since I got a speeding ticket. However, children must especially obey the law of God and never point out to others their father’s heavy foot.]
Second “C” – Courtesy. Make room for the other driver. Driving is a privilege, not a right. The “golden rule” has special significance on the road.
Third “C” – Caution. Always leave yourself an out. Monitor your available space and always have room to maneuver to avoid an accident. This especially applies to not tailgating and to not getting squeezed between traffic. Avoid driving between two large vehicles.
Fourth “C” – Common Sense. Always drive slower than you think the conditions warrant regardless of the posted speed limit. This requires that you know the road and that you know the weather.
Fifth “C” – Concentration. Always focus on driving. No cell phones, no reading, and no arguments while driving. Accidents most often originate in a blank space in the brain.
Thanks to Coach Plott, my “Drivers Ed” teacher in high school for the second, third, and fourth “C’s.” He gave the words; I constructed the explanations. The fifth “C” came from a teen-ager a few years back to whom I was giving my pastoral/fatherly advise. I was struggling to remember the fourth C and he or she offered one for me. Unfortunately, I have given this lecture so often I can’t remember who it was that suggested “Concentration” as part of the list. I just wish he or she would have suggested it before Alethea totaled our car while talking on the phone. On the other hand, would it have made a difference?
Monday, February 23, 2009
Last Visit
Here are a few pictures from Alethea's last visit. We went to the Discovery Museum in Chattanooga.
New Calf
We had a calf born on Saturday morning while we were out of town. Star is the mother and it is a heffer. Unfortunately, I wasn’t expecting it for a few weeks and I therefore had not separated the cow from the other animals. When we got back from church Sunday afternoon I found the calf injured. Apparently one of the horses or cows had stepped on it. It is listless and walks with a limp. We have supplemented its food with a bottle a couple of times since it seems unable to stand long enough to nurse well.
Wednesday, February 04, 2009
At The Office
Cheryl in her office.
Dr. Doug Slocumb's office is between mine and Cheryl's.
Royce Atchley is our Graduate Assistant and a member of New Covenant.
Thursday, January 15, 2009
Out Sick
I have been under the weather for three weeks with respiratory infections. I'm on anti-biotics now and improving. This is the third year in a row I have battled this kind of sickness in December/January. It was six weeks last year.
Cheryl is going to Memphis this week-end. We are still adjusting to Alethea and Justin's decision to move to the D.C. area. Those who sincerely desire and seek for the will of God will find it. The rest of us have to accept it.
Even in my sickness and with only three sessions I have bumpted Johnmark out of the top spot on three of the Wii fitness programs: jogging, sky jumping, and down hill skying. Not bad for an obese senior citizen.
Otherwise, there's not much to share, at least not things I am at liberty to talk about. Doesn't that make you curious? Or, maybe not.
Cheryl is going to Memphis this week-end. We are still adjusting to Alethea and Justin's decision to move to the D.C. area. Those who sincerely desire and seek for the will of God will find it. The rest of us have to accept it.
Even in my sickness and with only three sessions I have bumpted Johnmark out of the top spot on three of the Wii fitness programs: jogging, sky jumping, and down hill skying. Not bad for an obese senior citizen.
Otherwise, there's not much to share, at least not things I am at liberty to talk about. Doesn't that make you curious? Or, maybe not.
Sunday, January 04, 2009
Obedience is Better Than Sacrifice
We have all met a few ministers who are less than stellar in their character. I have personally been lied to and lied about by fellow ministers. I have grieved as some have treated individuals and congregations with contempt, using them as stepping stones for personal advancement. Too many charlatans have risen in our ranks. Their carnality casts a shadow over the entire church. But let us not forget those thousands who quietly serve in the beauty of holiness as beacons of righteousness.
I have been privileged to know some exceptional servants of God, who accepted the call to preach, publish and defend the Gospel of Jesus Christ. Among them I would name Garland Mills and Larry Higginbotham under both of whom I was blessed to serve as Minister of Education. I would also name Eddie Williams and O’neal McCullough whom I have drawn strength from their example and marveled at the respect they garnered. These men are/were not perfect, but they certainly set a good standard to live toward.
The vast majority of the Church of God ministers I have known fall with me somewhere between the goal posts. We are confident in our call to preach the Gospel but uncertain about ourselves, our abilities. Why did God call us? At its best this reflects humility; at its worst it reflects self disdain. Everyone deals with this tension between call and confidence differently. Some attempt to cover-up their insecurities with an air of competence that comes across as arrogance. Others mask themselves in false humility. Most bounce around between the two extremes. Few are confident enough in their own personhood to truly be themselves with others. Transparency is a worthy concept as long as we’re looking into someone else’s glass house.
Ministers are caught in the dilemma of the already/not yet. We have tasted of the kingdom of heaven but we still eat the realities of this life. We proclaim a truth greater than ourselves but we then have to live with ourselves. What we know struggles with what we are, creating uncertainty in what we do. I am not here talking about sin or immorality; although that may indeed be the consequence of the struggle. I am instead referring to the more subtle questions of how pleasing am I to God?
I am convinced the central issue of life is, how faithful am I to the heavenly vision revealed in Christ? This makes the central question for all believers, what is the will of God? What does God desire for me to be, know, and do? The best of us struggle with this question. All of us will answer for how diligently we struggled.
Ivo Cantrel was the kind of man others wanted to emulate, at least those who desire to live a Godly life. I met him in September of 1980 shortly after moving to Louisville, Kentucky to pursue my doctorate. Larry Higginbotham was gracious and offered me a part-time position at the Dixie Valley Church of God. Brother Cantrel , who was retired at the time, had been helping Larry with some pastoral visitation. It didn’t take long to recognize Ivo as a choice servant of God. His life was marked by the fruit of the Spirit.
Not long after our arrival his health began to deteriorate rapidly; it was cancer. I went to visit him in the hospital a few days before his death. His wife and daughter, Reba, were standing guard. It seems some of our fellow ministers had been by trying to pray the prayer of faith which resulted in upsetting Brother Cantrel ; my impression was that he had already accepted it was his time to go. The vigilant women hesitantly gave me the go-ahead to spend a few minutes with him as they stood in the back of the room.
It was clear he was distressed but lucid. He seemed politely happy for my visit. After a couple of minutes of small talk I felt impressed to ask a question, “Brother Ivo, what do you spend your time thinking about while they’re holding you prisoner in here?”
“The Scriptures.”
Trying to guess his response before I even uttered my follow-up, “And what text is on your mind the most?” Anticipating Psalm 23 or John 3:16 or a reference to heaven, I wasn’t prepared for his answer.
“Luke 6:26 -- Woe unto you, when all men shall speak well of you! for so did their fathers to the false prophets.”
Mild panic hit me. Where do I go with this? Lord, help me? “That’s an interesting verse, why do you think it’s on your mind?”
“Because I am that man. Everybody speaks well of me. But I’m not certain what God is going to say.”
“Why? Is there something you need to talk about?”
“Everybody respects me but I feel like a failure. I worked for the railroad for thirty years* and I planted nine* churches in that time. God blessed every church we started. Every time we got a new church up and going good I had to decide whether to quit my job and go full-time or turn it over to someone else. I had a wife and kids to support and it was always such a hard decision. I fear God is going to hold it against me for not having the faith to go into full-time ministry.”
How does one respond to that? I knew I didn’t have the wisdom and so I prayed a quick S.O.S. and felt the touch of God. “Brother Cantrel, tell me something, when you made those decisions, did you pray about what to do? Did you desire to do God’s will?”
“Oh, yes! I’ve always wanted His will in my life.”
“Then that’s your answer. God is at work in us to ‘will and to do His good pleasure.’ It’s not important that we go into full-time ministry. What’s important is that we seek to do His will each step of the journey. He didn’t say enter in thou good and successful servant. He said enter in thou good and faithful servant. That’s why everyone speaks well of you, they admire your faithfulness.”
I have seldom felt more fulfilled than that moment when the peace of God settled on his face. Brother Cantrel had struggled with the central question of life, am I willing to pursue the will of God and be faithful to what He shows me? His humility gave him a good dose of uncertainty but that was overcome by his testimony. I am confident he heard our Lord say, “Ivo Cantrel, enter in thou good and faithful servant.”
To the extent I know my heart, my desire is to be found faithful.
[*Note: My recollections of this conversation are pretty certain, but I do not vouch for these numbers. They are in the ball park.]
I have been privileged to know some exceptional servants of God, who accepted the call to preach, publish and defend the Gospel of Jesus Christ. Among them I would name Garland Mills and Larry Higginbotham under both of whom I was blessed to serve as Minister of Education. I would also name Eddie Williams and O’neal McCullough whom I have drawn strength from their example and marveled at the respect they garnered. These men are/were not perfect, but they certainly set a good standard to live toward.
The vast majority of the Church of God ministers I have known fall with me somewhere between the goal posts. We are confident in our call to preach the Gospel but uncertain about ourselves, our abilities. Why did God call us? At its best this reflects humility; at its worst it reflects self disdain. Everyone deals with this tension between call and confidence differently. Some attempt to cover-up their insecurities with an air of competence that comes across as arrogance. Others mask themselves in false humility. Most bounce around between the two extremes. Few are confident enough in their own personhood to truly be themselves with others. Transparency is a worthy concept as long as we’re looking into someone else’s glass house.
Ministers are caught in the dilemma of the already/not yet. We have tasted of the kingdom of heaven but we still eat the realities of this life. We proclaim a truth greater than ourselves but we then have to live with ourselves. What we know struggles with what we are, creating uncertainty in what we do. I am not here talking about sin or immorality; although that may indeed be the consequence of the struggle. I am instead referring to the more subtle questions of how pleasing am I to God?
I am convinced the central issue of life is, how faithful am I to the heavenly vision revealed in Christ? This makes the central question for all believers, what is the will of God? What does God desire for me to be, know, and do? The best of us struggle with this question. All of us will answer for how diligently we struggled.
Ivo Cantrel was the kind of man others wanted to emulate, at least those who desire to live a Godly life. I met him in September of 1980 shortly after moving to Louisville, Kentucky to pursue my doctorate. Larry Higginbotham was gracious and offered me a part-time position at the Dixie Valley Church of God. Brother Cantrel , who was retired at the time, had been helping Larry with some pastoral visitation. It didn’t take long to recognize Ivo as a choice servant of God. His life was marked by the fruit of the Spirit.
Not long after our arrival his health began to deteriorate rapidly; it was cancer. I went to visit him in the hospital a few days before his death. His wife and daughter, Reba, were standing guard. It seems some of our fellow ministers had been by trying to pray the prayer of faith which resulted in upsetting Brother Cantrel ; my impression was that he had already accepted it was his time to go. The vigilant women hesitantly gave me the go-ahead to spend a few minutes with him as they stood in the back of the room.
It was clear he was distressed but lucid. He seemed politely happy for my visit. After a couple of minutes of small talk I felt impressed to ask a question, “Brother Ivo, what do you spend your time thinking about while they’re holding you prisoner in here?”
“The Scriptures.”
Trying to guess his response before I even uttered my follow-up, “And what text is on your mind the most?” Anticipating Psalm 23 or John 3:16 or a reference to heaven, I wasn’t prepared for his answer.
“Luke 6:26 -- Woe unto you, when all men shall speak well of you! for so did their fathers to the false prophets.”
Mild panic hit me. Where do I go with this? Lord, help me? “That’s an interesting verse, why do you think it’s on your mind?”
“Because I am that man. Everybody speaks well of me. But I’m not certain what God is going to say.”
“Why? Is there something you need to talk about?”
“Everybody respects me but I feel like a failure. I worked for the railroad for thirty years* and I planted nine* churches in that time. God blessed every church we started. Every time we got a new church up and going good I had to decide whether to quit my job and go full-time or turn it over to someone else. I had a wife and kids to support and it was always such a hard decision. I fear God is going to hold it against me for not having the faith to go into full-time ministry.”
How does one respond to that? I knew I didn’t have the wisdom and so I prayed a quick S.O.S. and felt the touch of God. “Brother Cantrel, tell me something, when you made those decisions, did you pray about what to do? Did you desire to do God’s will?”
“Oh, yes! I’ve always wanted His will in my life.”
“Then that’s your answer. God is at work in us to ‘will and to do His good pleasure.’ It’s not important that we go into full-time ministry. What’s important is that we seek to do His will each step of the journey. He didn’t say enter in thou good and successful servant. He said enter in thou good and faithful servant. That’s why everyone speaks well of you, they admire your faithfulness.”
I have seldom felt more fulfilled than that moment when the peace of God settled on his face. Brother Cantrel had struggled with the central question of life, am I willing to pursue the will of God and be faithful to what He shows me? His humility gave him a good dose of uncertainty but that was overcome by his testimony. I am confident he heard our Lord say, “Ivo Cantrel, enter in thou good and faithful servant.”
To the extent I know my heart, my desire is to be found faithful.
[*Note: My recollections of this conversation are pretty certain, but I do not vouch for these numbers. They are in the ball park.]
Thursday, January 01, 2009
When I was Young Sunday School Was Important
When I was young Sunday school was important. At the Springfield Church of God more people went to Sunday school than attended morning worship. In Sunday school I made friends, sang, learned a lot about the Bible, and got to know adults who loved Jesus and me.
Sunday school started at 9:45 with “Opening Session.” In smaller churches like my grandmother’s this was a time when everybody gathered in the sanctuary for an official opening for the day; the Sunday school superintendant presided over a reading of the “golden (Scripture) text”, prayer, and announcements. Since Springfield was larger with several hundred attendees we had our opening session in age graded departments: Kindergarten – ages 3 to 5, Primary – grades 1 to 3, Junior – grades 4 to 5, etc.
I seem to recall that younger children went straight to their classes. I first remember opening sessions when I entered the first grade and joined the “Primary Department.” I felt big going to Opening Session. We met in the Fellowship Hall on the first floor of the Education Building. Shirley and her friends were there. My mother’s best friend, Evelyn Bayer, played the upright piano for us to sing. We sang songs like “I’ll be a Sun Beam,” “The B-I-B-L-E,” “I’m in the Lord’s Army,” and “Jesus Loves the Little Children.”
One Sunday I was sitting behind Shirley while we stood to sing. Her best friend Terry Heath was standing next to her. When she went to sit I pulled the chair out from behind her and she went down, a gag I had seen somewhere. Sister Juanita Jones, a friend of my mother, told her what I had done. “I never would have thought Jackie would have done such a thing. He’s always such a good boy.” I was just having fun but suddenly I was caught in a moral dilemma, fun can be bad but feel so good. People had perceptions of who I was, a good boy, and I liked that. I doubt those lessons were in the printed curriculum.
In the 4th grade I went upstairs to the Junior Department. We were crowded into a smaller room. It was often noisy. Bigger kids talk to each other a lot. In the Primary Department we sat with our teacher and class. In the Junior Department we got to sit wherever we wanted. I liked to sit on the back row. There I could watch everything. I was becoming self-conscious of myself as a social being. I didn’t feel like I fit in although I had friends. But I loved to sing; we sang songs like “Only a Boy Named David,” and “V is for Victory.”
It was also in the Junior age that my Sunday school teachers became important. I was growing up and like all children that age I was beginning to understand who I was apart from my family. When I was younger I felt connected to my mother through my teachers. They were all women and they were friends of my mother. In the Junior Department the boys and girls were divided during class time. My teachers were men who I didn’t connect with my mother: Brother Grant - 4th grade, Brother Hutto -- 5th grade, and Brother Ellington -- 6th grade.
Brother Grant was a lawyer. His conversion and membership in our church was something of a milestone for the congregation. He was the first professional with a graduate degree to become one of us. Up to that time Sunday school teachers had to be filled with the Holy Spirit, but an exception was made for Brother Grant. He had to be seeking to be filled with the Spirit. For several years I watched him seek and he was serious about being filled with the Spirit. He would frequently pray in the altar, weeping and sweating profusely, until he became like a drunk man. Sometimes, for reasons I did not and do not understand, a couple of men would get him up and walk him around the sanctuary, one under each arm, praying as they went.
On the first Sunday of the school year Brother Grant told us he had a goal for us for the year. He wanted us to memorize the names of the books of the Bible in order. He would help us and test us each Sunday. Within a couple of weeks we had all memorized the names of the books and he announced a new set of goals involving a lot of Scripture memorization: the Lord’s Prayer, the Ten Commandments, etc.
He also started us on a pattern of engaging the Scriptures looking for meaning. His method of teaching was simple; after giving us an opportunity to recite from memory the assigned text we started the lesson. We each took our turn in the order in which we were seated reading one verse and commenting on its meaning. After each there was an open discussion. He would guide the conversation and add other points. Mostly, he affirmed our opinions and questions as important. Occasionally he would refer us to our parents (“What is circumcision?” “What does it mean ‘Abram knew Sarai’?”) He was learning with us. More than once I overheard him say “Those boys are teaching me more than I am teaching them.”
Grady Hutto was a burly, brick mason who had become a building contractor. On our first Sunday that year he announced he had a goal for us. He goal for the year was that we would all be baptized in the Holy Spirit. He encouraged us to seek for the baptism. He prayed for and with us in the altars of our church. Before the year was out we each had powerful experiences with the Spirit.
Although he never said so, Brother Hutto also set out to involve us in ministry. He would periodically take us, one or two at a time, out on visitation. We would visit the homes of boys our age who did not attend church. I am not sure where he got the names and I can’t remember any of them coming o Sunday school but I remember the long walks to the front doors. He also took us fishing a couple of times that year.
Brother Ellington was a smaller, quiet, piano mover. He had recently married Sister Jones, a widow with two sons a few years older than me. On the first Sunday he also announced a goal for us. He shared that when he first got active in church as an adult he became an usher and one Sunday the Pastor asked him to pray over the offering. He had never done anything like that and couldn’t get the words to come out. He wanted us to be able to pray in public. Every Sunday we had multiple opportunities to pray: the beginning of class, for prayer requests, and at the close of the class. We became comfortable praying in public.
The boys with whom I went to Sunday school during my Junior years grew up to serve the Lord, most as pastors. Timmy Hicks and his cousin Calvin Hammontree are Church of God pastors. Danny Smart and Aubrey Dykes (Aubrey was actually a year older but often attended our class) became Assembly of God pastors. I have lost all track of David Spencer although the last I heard about him in young adulthood he was an active church member. Gerald Jones joined our class sometime around the middle of the fifth grade and has remained an active church member.
I have little or no contact with the men those boys became. I lost contact with most of them when as I entered the 7th grade the church split over a relocation plan and my family went with the new congregation located closer to our house. About a decade ago Timmy took a class I teach at the seminary. I have bumped into Calvin a few times at church meetings. I periodically see Danny’s younger brother David, a graduate of our Seminary who is a career military chaplain for the Church of God. Perhaps more than any other group outside of my family these boys helped me sort through whom I wanted to become. They were mirrors of what it means to discover God in the presence of discovering myself. By God’s grace, with the influence of our families and a loving church, we resolved together to be faithful followers of Christ.
I have often reflected on the influence of these three Sunday school teachers on the Kingdom of God. None of them ever became famous or even well-known outside their families and local churches. And neither would any of us in the class. But how does anyone measure their influence? Collectively that small Sunday school class of boys has grown up to touch tens of thousands with the Gospel of Jesus Christ. We have traveled around the world, married and raised children to serve God. We have preached unknown numbers of sermons, given Godly counsel, performed weddings and funerals. At our best we have extended the ministries of these three Godly men by becoming co-learners with others on the journey toward Heaven. They helped point us in the right direction and deserve to share the credit for anything we have done for God. Perhaps, the true giants of the faith are those who serve faithfully, give themselves to others, and risk being transparent in their own search for fulfillment.
Sunday school started at 9:45 with “Opening Session.” In smaller churches like my grandmother’s this was a time when everybody gathered in the sanctuary for an official opening for the day; the Sunday school superintendant presided over a reading of the “golden (Scripture) text”, prayer, and announcements. Since Springfield was larger with several hundred attendees we had our opening session in age graded departments: Kindergarten – ages 3 to 5, Primary – grades 1 to 3, Junior – grades 4 to 5, etc.
I seem to recall that younger children went straight to their classes. I first remember opening sessions when I entered the first grade and joined the “Primary Department.” I felt big going to Opening Session. We met in the Fellowship Hall on the first floor of the Education Building. Shirley and her friends were there. My mother’s best friend, Evelyn Bayer, played the upright piano for us to sing. We sang songs like “I’ll be a Sun Beam,” “The B-I-B-L-E,” “I’m in the Lord’s Army,” and “Jesus Loves the Little Children.”
One Sunday I was sitting behind Shirley while we stood to sing. Her best friend Terry Heath was standing next to her. When she went to sit I pulled the chair out from behind her and she went down, a gag I had seen somewhere. Sister Juanita Jones, a friend of my mother, told her what I had done. “I never would have thought Jackie would have done such a thing. He’s always such a good boy.” I was just having fun but suddenly I was caught in a moral dilemma, fun can be bad but feel so good. People had perceptions of who I was, a good boy, and I liked that. I doubt those lessons were in the printed curriculum.
In the 4th grade I went upstairs to the Junior Department. We were crowded into a smaller room. It was often noisy. Bigger kids talk to each other a lot. In the Primary Department we sat with our teacher and class. In the Junior Department we got to sit wherever we wanted. I liked to sit on the back row. There I could watch everything. I was becoming self-conscious of myself as a social being. I didn’t feel like I fit in although I had friends. But I loved to sing; we sang songs like “Only a Boy Named David,” and “V is for Victory.”
It was also in the Junior age that my Sunday school teachers became important. I was growing up and like all children that age I was beginning to understand who I was apart from my family. When I was younger I felt connected to my mother through my teachers. They were all women and they were friends of my mother. In the Junior Department the boys and girls were divided during class time. My teachers were men who I didn’t connect with my mother: Brother Grant - 4th grade, Brother Hutto -- 5th grade, and Brother Ellington -- 6th grade.
Brother Grant was a lawyer. His conversion and membership in our church was something of a milestone for the congregation. He was the first professional with a graduate degree to become one of us. Up to that time Sunday school teachers had to be filled with the Holy Spirit, but an exception was made for Brother Grant. He had to be seeking to be filled with the Spirit. For several years I watched him seek and he was serious about being filled with the Spirit. He would frequently pray in the altar, weeping and sweating profusely, until he became like a drunk man. Sometimes, for reasons I did not and do not understand, a couple of men would get him up and walk him around the sanctuary, one under each arm, praying as they went.
On the first Sunday of the school year Brother Grant told us he had a goal for us for the year. He wanted us to memorize the names of the books of the Bible in order. He would help us and test us each Sunday. Within a couple of weeks we had all memorized the names of the books and he announced a new set of goals involving a lot of Scripture memorization: the Lord’s Prayer, the Ten Commandments, etc.
He also started us on a pattern of engaging the Scriptures looking for meaning. His method of teaching was simple; after giving us an opportunity to recite from memory the assigned text we started the lesson. We each took our turn in the order in which we were seated reading one verse and commenting on its meaning. After each there was an open discussion. He would guide the conversation and add other points. Mostly, he affirmed our opinions and questions as important. Occasionally he would refer us to our parents (“What is circumcision?” “What does it mean ‘Abram knew Sarai’?”) He was learning with us. More than once I overheard him say “Those boys are teaching me more than I am teaching them.”
Grady Hutto was a burly, brick mason who had become a building contractor. On our first Sunday that year he announced he had a goal for us. He goal for the year was that we would all be baptized in the Holy Spirit. He encouraged us to seek for the baptism. He prayed for and with us in the altars of our church. Before the year was out we each had powerful experiences with the Spirit.
Although he never said so, Brother Hutto also set out to involve us in ministry. He would periodically take us, one or two at a time, out on visitation. We would visit the homes of boys our age who did not attend church. I am not sure where he got the names and I can’t remember any of them coming o Sunday school but I remember the long walks to the front doors. He also took us fishing a couple of times that year.
Brother Ellington was a smaller, quiet, piano mover. He had recently married Sister Jones, a widow with two sons a few years older than me. On the first Sunday he also announced a goal for us. He shared that when he first got active in church as an adult he became an usher and one Sunday the Pastor asked him to pray over the offering. He had never done anything like that and couldn’t get the words to come out. He wanted us to be able to pray in public. Every Sunday we had multiple opportunities to pray: the beginning of class, for prayer requests, and at the close of the class. We became comfortable praying in public.
The boys with whom I went to Sunday school during my Junior years grew up to serve the Lord, most as pastors. Timmy Hicks and his cousin Calvin Hammontree are Church of God pastors. Danny Smart and Aubrey Dykes (Aubrey was actually a year older but often attended our class) became Assembly of God pastors. I have lost all track of David Spencer although the last I heard about him in young adulthood he was an active church member. Gerald Jones joined our class sometime around the middle of the fifth grade and has remained an active church member.
I have little or no contact with the men those boys became. I lost contact with most of them when as I entered the 7th grade the church split over a relocation plan and my family went with the new congregation located closer to our house. About a decade ago Timmy took a class I teach at the seminary. I have bumped into Calvin a few times at church meetings. I periodically see Danny’s younger brother David, a graduate of our Seminary who is a career military chaplain for the Church of God. Perhaps more than any other group outside of my family these boys helped me sort through whom I wanted to become. They were mirrors of what it means to discover God in the presence of discovering myself. By God’s grace, with the influence of our families and a loving church, we resolved together to be faithful followers of Christ.
I have often reflected on the influence of these three Sunday school teachers on the Kingdom of God. None of them ever became famous or even well-known outside their families and local churches. And neither would any of us in the class. But how does anyone measure their influence? Collectively that small Sunday school class of boys has grown up to touch tens of thousands with the Gospel of Jesus Christ. We have traveled around the world, married and raised children to serve God. We have preached unknown numbers of sermons, given Godly counsel, performed weddings and funerals. At our best we have extended the ministries of these three Godly men by becoming co-learners with others on the journey toward Heaven. They helped point us in the right direction and deserve to share the credit for anything we have done for God. Perhaps, the true giants of the faith are those who serve faithfully, give themselves to others, and risk being transparent in their own search for fulfillment.
Monday, December 29, 2008
Conversations with Sam: You Can’t See What I Have Seen and Not Believe
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.
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.
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.
Sunday, November 30, 2008
Free Our Church of God Women to Serve
I invite all members and friends of the Church of God to join a group on Facebook. The name of the group is Free Our Church of God Women to Serve. The group description reads as follows:
This group exists to encourage the removal of restrictions that prevent women from serving in some ministry offices in the Church of God (Cleveland, Tennessee).
By joining this group you publicly affirm the following statement: "I have studied the role of women in the church as presented in the Scriptures and I have concluded there is no Biblical justification for restricting women from full participation in any office or rank of ministry within the Church of God."
You also affirm that you are a member or friend of the Church of God (Cleveland, Tennessee). Upon joining this group, if you are a current member of the Church of God, please indicate your local church membership.
I started this group last Wednesday morning and it is growing rapidly. In a few days, look for posts on Jackie Speaks that will clarify why I started the group and what I hope will be accomplished.
http://www.facebook.com/group.php?gid=51567096534
This group exists to encourage the removal of restrictions that prevent women from serving in some ministry offices in the Church of God (Cleveland, Tennessee).
By joining this group you publicly affirm the following statement: "I have studied the role of women in the church as presented in the Scriptures and I have concluded there is no Biblical justification for restricting women from full participation in any office or rank of ministry within the Church of God."
You also affirm that you are a member or friend of the Church of God (Cleveland, Tennessee). Upon joining this group, if you are a current member of the Church of God, please indicate your local church membership.
I started this group last Wednesday morning and it is growing rapidly. In a few days, look for posts on Jackie Speaks that will clarify why I started the group and what I hope will be accomplished.
http://www.facebook.com/group.php?gid=51567096534
Saturday, November 29, 2008
When I Was Young We Went To Church Often
(Another Story for Charlie and Camdyn)
When I was young we went to church often. We went two times on Sunday. On Sunday morning we went to Sunday school at 9:45 A.M. and stayed for morning worship at 11:00 A.M. Worship usually ended between 12:30 and 1:00 P.M. The Sunday evening “Evangelistic” service began at 7:00 P.M. and never ended before 9:00 P.M. Wednesday evening was the Mid-week Prayer Meeting from 7 to 9, and Friday night was the Young People’s Endeavor (YPE) service at 7:00 P.M.
I liked going to church. I especially liked Y.P.E. The youth were in charge of those services. They seemed old to me, but they were mostly teenagers. They sang, read poems, and performed skits. It was different. The adults mostly watched except they helped with the singing. Each week after church the Ladies Willing Worker Band (LWWB) sold refreshments in the Fellowship Hall to raise money for special projects. Everyone seemed to enjoy this time together. There was a lot of talking and laughing while we ate cake or pie and drank soft drinks.
Sunday and Wednesday evenings were special, too. Many people came early to pray and to share fellowship. Before church began many adults moved around the sanctuary shaking hands, hugging necks, and kissing each other in a way that made everyone feel welcomed. It was kind of like going to a big family reunion several times a week. In fact, all of the adults were called Brother or Sister: “Brother Newman”, “Sister Newman”, etc.
Momma made Shirley and me sit down and be still. She sat with us to insure we did not wonder off. Jimmy was older and he got to talk with his friends before church started. I carefully watched the adults move around the sanctuary shaking everybody’s hand, and greeting them with a smile. I waited with excitement to see if they would shake my hand. Some would, but others would skip Shirley and me talking only to my mother.
Brother Murray would always shake my hand with a firm, gentle jerk and say, “Good evening young man; I’m happy to see you tonight.” During winter Brother Murray came to our house to deliver fuel oil. He drove a truck with a big tank. At our house he pulled a long hose out of the back of the truck and attached to the fuel drum behind our house.
Several times a year we had a “Revival.” A special preacher would come. He or she was called an “Evangelist.” During revivals we had church every night of the week and the services were longer than usual. Revivals lasted for two weeks or longer. Evangelists seemed to preach longer and louder than our pastor, and people prayed much longer after the sermon. I often went to sleep before church was over.
When I was young I spent a lot of time in church.
When I was young we went to church often. We went two times on Sunday. On Sunday morning we went to Sunday school at 9:45 A.M. and stayed for morning worship at 11:00 A.M. Worship usually ended between 12:30 and 1:00 P.M. The Sunday evening “Evangelistic” service began at 7:00 P.M. and never ended before 9:00 P.M. Wednesday evening was the Mid-week Prayer Meeting from 7 to 9, and Friday night was the Young People’s Endeavor (YPE) service at 7:00 P.M.
I liked going to church. I especially liked Y.P.E. The youth were in charge of those services. They seemed old to me, but they were mostly teenagers. They sang, read poems, and performed skits. It was different. The adults mostly watched except they helped with the singing. Each week after church the Ladies Willing Worker Band (LWWB) sold refreshments in the Fellowship Hall to raise money for special projects. Everyone seemed to enjoy this time together. There was a lot of talking and laughing while we ate cake or pie and drank soft drinks.
Sunday and Wednesday evenings were special, too. Many people came early to pray and to share fellowship. Before church began many adults moved around the sanctuary shaking hands, hugging necks, and kissing each other in a way that made everyone feel welcomed. It was kind of like going to a big family reunion several times a week. In fact, all of the adults were called Brother or Sister: “Brother Newman”, “Sister Newman”, etc.
Momma made Shirley and me sit down and be still. She sat with us to insure we did not wonder off. Jimmy was older and he got to talk with his friends before church started. I carefully watched the adults move around the sanctuary shaking everybody’s hand, and greeting them with a smile. I waited with excitement to see if they would shake my hand. Some would, but others would skip Shirley and me talking only to my mother.
Brother Murray would always shake my hand with a firm, gentle jerk and say, “Good evening young man; I’m happy to see you tonight.” During winter Brother Murray came to our house to deliver fuel oil. He drove a truck with a big tank. At our house he pulled a long hose out of the back of the truck and attached to the fuel drum behind our house.
Several times a year we had a “Revival.” A special preacher would come. He or she was called an “Evangelist.” During revivals we had church every night of the week and the services were longer than usual. Revivals lasted for two weeks or longer. Evangelists seemed to preach longer and louder than our pastor, and people prayed much longer after the sermon. I often went to sleep before church was over.
When I was young I spent a lot of time in church.
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