New Toy

Cheryl and I are planning to go to Ecuador next week, if her mother's condition allows. While there we will spend a couple of days in a nature preserve. Therefore, I have bought a zoom lens (70X300) for my Canon Rebel. I have been looking for a good excuse for a long time. Here are a few of my first experimental pictures. [Please do not report me to the Humane Society for starving my cows.]

Home

Cheryl and I arrived home last evening in time for her to give a Final Exam and for me to mow most of the grass. On the trip we stayed two nights at the Bennett House Bed and Breakfast (pictured here)in Manasses. It was a nice place to stay; friendly hosts, nice room, great breakfasts. On the trip home we clocked 300,000 miles on Cheryl's Toyota Camry.

Dr. Justin Allen

On Sunday we traveled to the Washington DC area for Justin's graduation. He is now Dr. Justin Allen. The ceremonies were this afternoon at the National Cathedral. Justin's brother, Scott, and his mother, Gail, went with us.

Birthday Visit

Alethea and her family stopped at our house on their way to DC for Justin's graduation. We got to celebrate her birthday for the first time in many years. Michael Lawson, a college friend of Alethea's, has recently moved back to Cleveland and came over for a visit.

In My Youth Guest Speakers at Church

In My Youth Guest Speakers at Church
Were the Most Entertaining

We had frequent “special speakers” at church when I was a child. Most were evangelists who came to preach revivals. Revivals lasted two or more weeks and services were conducted seven days a week. Evangelists came in a variety of types and styles. First, there were fiery preachers who moved around the auditorium telling stories designed to convince us Jonathan Edwards was correct in his portrayal of “Sinners in the Hands of an Angry God.” They were intense and loud in presentation. Except for occasional pauses to catch their breath, the preacher gathered us into his sermon like passengers on a runaway freight train, everything building speed until we all crashed into the altar.

A second type of evangelist was the “prophecy preacher.” These tended to be mature men who came with huge charts portraying Daniel’s visions and the great images of the Book of Revelation: the whore of Babylon, the four horsemen, the seven-headed beast, and the Great White Throne Judgment, etc.. They tied together the Old Testament prophesies with those in the New Testament like a seamless garment. To quote Brother James Slay (describing his younger self) these orators could “delve into the indelible, explain the inexplicable, and scrute the inscrutable.” They didn’t have to shout and run around, their images and oratory skill gathered us and transported us into the end of time. I wonder what they could have done with animation and modern projectors; surely it would be more than we could handle.

There were other types. “Lady evangelists” were especially gifted wooing us into the presence of God, like a mother hen gathering her chickens into the comfort of God’s glory. “Prophetic preachers” who came to report on great visions and dreams God had given them. I remember one came in the mid-sixties to warn us that God was judging America for our sins and Ted Kennedy would be our next President. He came back after Richard Nixon was elected with another word from God; it seems the Almighty had heard our prayers and repented of His plans. He had given us a God-fearing, Protestant who would lead our nation in a righteous direction. I lost track of him after that.

There were also frequent guest speakers who were there just for the Sunday morning service or possibly morning and evening. Because we were one of the larger churches in the movement, denominational officials sometimes filled the pulpit. Also, when the pastor was away for Camp Meeting, the General Assembly or vacation, he would have local preachers fill in for him. It was these special speakers that I most looked forward to hearing.

James Cross, our State Overseer and later our General Overseer, captivated me with his deep voice and at a critical time in my development enticed me into theological reflection; he made Christianity more than a collection of stories and emotions. Our faith also included sound doctrines about God.

Sister Deana Lee was another favorite. She was frequently called upon to fill the pulpit when the pastor was out of town. Her personal presence was impressive. Often dressed in white, flowing dresses with impeccable posture and mesmerizing intonation, she was a teacher and exhorter. With the benefit of time, it is impossible for me not to see her as having modeled her ministry on Aimee Simple McPherson, and to think to some extent of her as a (less zany) kindred spirit with Kathryn Kuhlman. Mostly, I think of her fondly because she was one of only a few women allowed to break the Bread of Life and in so doing she helped instill in me a belief women should not be restricted in service to God. (Of course my mother was my primary model for the liberation of women.)

Finally, my all-time favorite guest preacher was Brother J. T. (Jake) Roberts. Brother Roberts had been a prominent pastor and State Overseer for the Church of God. In my childhood, he was the National Overseer for the “Colored Work” which was headquartered in Jacksonville. This made it convenient for him to visit our services on occasion and thus to fill the pulpit. I believe he had at one time (prior to my birth) served as pastor of the Springfield Church of God.

He was a figure larger than life, cloaked in the lore of quixotic behavior made believable by his own accounts and actions. Pentecostalism was rife with stories of the phenomenal, persons with no musical training playing the piano perfectly under the unction of the Spirit or worshippers going to the heaters and withdrawing a handful of flaming coals to hold up before the Lord. The story was told that after the church converted to central heat Brother Roberts would remove a light bulb from its socket and insert his finger as a demonstration of God’s power.

His raspy voice was heavy with a southern drawl and further fashioned by association with the distinct dialect of southern Blacks. His sermons were one-person theater, dramas of Scriptural stories and personal anecdotes woven into a single presentation. He performed the message with his whole being. He did not limit this embodiment to wild gesticulation; He made props out of whatever was at hand. On one occasion as he proclaimed “He will cast your sins as far as the east is from the west” he frisbeed a hymnal over our heads sailing it into the back wall with a thump. On another, he reported confronting the Devil “Get thee behind me Satan” slinging a convenient folding chair across the width of the platform.

Jake Roberts was a showman for Jesus. He was entertaining. He was passionate. He was fun. He was serious. He was never boring. His presence was known. The last time I saw him was around 1974; he was standing on the campus of Lee College in front of one of the women’s dorms, leaning on a cane, dressed in brightly colored striped pants, a polka dotted pink and purple shirt, white shoes, and a checkered hat. Nothing matched, but neither could you ignore the elderly gentleman who gave the strange ensemble both flair and dignity.

Deep inside of me is a little Jake Roberts. I had not made the connection until now, but when I talk to my alter ego I call myself Jake. One day I shall dress as I please, say what I want and let my passion for Christ overwhelm my need to represent Him with dignity.

I Am Not a Poet

Last week we had Ministers' Week at the seminary. Cheryl directed the program with a theme of integrating the arts with ministry. At the President's request she gave two powerful lectures originally presented at Columbia Theological Seminary last fall. She also volunteered me to read some of my "poetry." I agreed but began with the following disclaimer.


I Am Not A Poet

Poets are artists.
Painting on the canvas of our imaginations,
With words, rhythms, and sounds
Fused into a single medium,
Evoking a knowledge from within.

Poets are sculptors of the mind,
Molding, bending and shaping ideas
Until they serve a greater end,
Exposing hidden forms
Forged in our collective consciousness,
Framed by human experience.

Poets are jewelers
Matching words with emotions,
Spinning phrases into golden chains
All linked by mystery more than grammar
Highlighting subtle facets of thought
Each complementing the other,
Valued for the whole and for the part.

Poets are musicians
Connecting the tangible
And the eternal
With the melody of angels.
Tapping out a cadence
With Syllables and silence
Harmonizing and resonating
In sequential tones of thought.

Poets are magicians
Waving syllables and phrases
Before our very eyes
Entertaining us with the ordinary
Set in motion in plain sight.
Only to surprise us
With unexpected delight.
Words, once dull and listless in our minds,
Suddenly enlightening,
Enchanting, poised and refined.

I am not a poet
I lack the wisdom, grace and skill,
Not to mention the will,
To weave a tapestry
Of our shared humanity.
I cannot carve a sculpture of your inner self
Nor paint a portrait of who you long to be.

I am not a poet
I am just a collector,
A hoarder
A gatherer of thoughts and ideas.
From time to time
I open the closet of my mind
Allowing all the clutter
To spill out in a mess.
Just so I can pick it up
And arrange the words in rows
Connected like fingers and toes
Flowing down a page
In feigned complexity
Made clear for all to see.
Implying some great significance
Yet void of such intent.
I leave it to the reader
To plumb their deeper meaning.
Add whatever intention
You imagined in my conception.
As for me, I only wanted
To make a connection.

JDJ
April 9, 2009

Chicks

Camdyn and Charlie,

I took these pictures of two of the chics last night. Look at how many feathers they have.

Love You.
Papa

Family Visit

This has been a week of blessed time with family and friends. On Wednesday Cheryl and I met Alethea and Justin in Huntsville and brought Camdyn and Charlie home with us. On Saturday we had the church Easter Egg hunt and cook-out at our house. I missed it because I went to Nashville for a hospital visit (the nephew of a church member is in the burn unit at Vanderbilt Hospital -- pray for Mark). Alethea and Justin arrived last evening. Today, Darlene, Shirley, Ryan and Andrea drove up from Atlanta to spend the day with us. It was great to be together (except I ate too much).

SPS Friends

We always see a lot of friends at the Society for Pentecostal Studies. This year I attempted to take pictures of former members of New Covenant. Unfortunately, my camera wasn't working well and several shots didn't get recorded; shots of Larry McQueen were lost, as were shots of the Knoke's that included Katherine. A picture of Derek and their baby appears below as do pictures of Eloy Nolivos, Dale Coulter, and Kathleen Reid-Martinez. I have included a picture of Tony and Sue Richie (Tony preached a revival for us a few years ago). There is also a picture of Daniel Castelo who we are hoping to have at New Covenant when he and his family move back to Cleveland. (He teaches at Seatle Pacific University and has no plans to return that I am aware.) Finally, there is a picture of Rick and Caroline Rhoades, former students from Northwest Bible College.

Oregon

Oregon is absolutely beautiful. Here are a few pictures we took.

Second Calf

Blessing had her calf this morning, a baby bull.

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.

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 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?

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.

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.