(We suggest you read the entire chapter before laying this little bit of creative writing alongside it.)

The mind rebels at so much to give up

in coming to the Savior—

plans, rights, possessions, in exchange

for wholeness, eternity, the unimaginable.

Our Lord spoke of divorce

And the conditions for its granting.

Did someone say,

“I have my rights”?

They were the first to go, friend–

You dead men and slaves.

Become as children, He said,

And sat one before them.

Little people without pride,

Embarrassment or self-consciousness.

Blessed children.

A wealthy youth stood still,

Shocked by the Master’s words:

“Give it all up.”

So much for so little.

He walked away, unwilling to become–

A beggar.

Simon Peter volunteered,”Lord,

We’ve left it all

To follow You.”

You did well, Pete, and will

Receive a hundredfold in return.

Would you call that a sacrifice–

Investor?

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It gets pretty crowded around the oasis this time of year. People from all over are here drinking of this wonderful water. There’s nothing like it in all the desert.

We just had some bad news. Abdul just brought word of a neighbor seen a few hundred yards out there, dying of thirst. His description made cold chills run over me. It’s tough to think about it. That Abdul is great with words. He can make you think it’s you that’s dying. He’s getting up a power-point presentation to go with his talks.

We’ve formed a kind of club. We call it ‘Desert Dwellers Who Have Found the Water.’ Meet every week, officers, the whole bit. We talk about how we came to the water, and we drink.

Right now there’s a discussion–argument, actually–as to whether the water in well A or well B is better. Some prefer A because they say the water is purer. The others say B is cooler. I don’t really know. Seems to me the water is the same since the wells are only twenty feet apart.

One time our club sent out a scout to find and rescue the thirsty. He did all right for a while, but carrying delirious and dying people to the water of life was hard, lonely and thankless work. When the old-timers criticized his methods, he quit. Now there are times when the water goes to waste, actually overflowing the well, because there aren’t enough people to drink it. It’s a shame to see it going to waste like that. Some speak of forming rescue and search parties, but a person has to have a gift for that kind of work.

The children? Oh, you noticed that there are very few of them here. We believe they ought to find the well for themselves. So we don’t try to influence them. It’s funny though–some of them have known very well where their mom and dad quenched their thirsts, but they still act like they’re lost. That’s young folks for you!

We’re having some excitement in the group right now. Seems somebody claims to have a new mint-flavored oasis over the next dune.

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Franklin Avenue Baptist Church returned to its home today, and you may have felt the vibrations where you live, wherever you live. Pastor Fred Luter had the day that pastors dream of and few ever experience.

“Standing room only” doesn’t quite tell the story. When I arrived for the 7:30 am service–a second one would follow at 10:30–the foyer was filled and the crowd was spilling out the front door onto Franklin Avenue. Inside, I learned that overflow rooms had been set up with closed-circuit television. Apparently, they too were filled.

So, my first problem was how to get inside. Having sat on the platform or near it for nearly 50 years of worship services, I am aware that often the vacant seats are down front. The problem is getting there. Then, a woman solved it for me. I don’t know who she was and it had nothing to do with me, but she had that official air about her. “Excuse me,” she called to the standees in front of her. They opened up like the Red Sea to let her through, so I just followed. I’m sure it appeared that she was opening a path for me, and that suited me just fine.

Inside, every seat seemed to be taken, although I was well-prepared to sit on the floor down front or to one side. I ended up at the very first row beside Karen Willoughby of the (LA) Baptist Message and David Crosby, pastor of the First Baptist Church of New Orleans. The sign on their row said “reserved,” and the row was comfortably filled, but everyone moved over and made room. I now had a ringside seat for the event of the year, or any year, in these wonderful people’s lives.

The choir loft was filled–that might have been a hundred or more–and the musicians were earning their pay. The people sang, they rocked, they swayed, they clapped, they laughed and hugged and shouted. Quite a few tears were shed. The joy was so thick you could have cut it with a knife.

Pastor Luter said, “Franklin Avenue! We’re back!” The place erupted in cheers and shouts. “We’re back, y’all!” “Welcome home!”

I wish you could have heard Elizabeth Luter’s welcome. This pastor’s wife took the microphone on the floor level and said, “I fell in love with a young man over 30 years ago. I never imagined what a ride it would be.”

She looked up at her beaming husband behind the pulpit and said, “To my mate for life, you are my hero. You persevered like a true champion and I love you more today than ever. I salute you for staying the course in troubled times!”

Then she welcomed the visitors.

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Friday and Saturday, the women’s ministry department of the Louisiana Baptist Convention held its annual meeting, this year at the First Baptist Church of Baton Rouge. They invited all the Directors of Missions in the state to come as their guests, so we all showed up–and even wore coats and ties. Anything for these wonderful ladies, who are also known by their more familiar name: the Woman’s Missionary Union. Janie Wise is the state director and she’s absolutely terrific.

Going into B.R, I had a blowout, the second in two weeks, and this after going 15 years without a flat tire. The earlier one occurred when I was driving to North Alabama and the tire blew apart on the interstate just below Meridian. Friday, I was entering Baton Rouge on Interstate 10. Traffic was heavy and fast when a woman leaned out of a window on my left to say my tire was flat. Thankfully–and I give the Lord praise for this–there were wide safe shoulders on the side of the highway both times. I pulled off and turned on my blinkers. The tire was three-fourths flat. I called AAA and waited.

I suggested to the mechanic that he inflate the tire and I’d drive to Wal-Mart and get it fixed. He’s stooping beside the car with the traffic zooming by, filling the tire with air. He fills it…and fills it…and fills it…and suddenly, it explodes. Talk about a shock. Neither of us had ever seen that happen.

Once again, twice in two weeks, we put my spare down–the one I had bought at Wal-Mart in Meridian–and I drove to another Wal-Mart and repeated the earlier process. Then went on my way.

First thing Monday morning, I plan to have the other two tires–part of a foursome I bought a couple of years back–replaced, even though they have plenty of tread. Those tires are apparently separating on the inside, and too dangerous to continue in use.

The skies were overcast as we arrived at the church Friday evening, but storm warnings were out. By 9 o’clock when we exited, the heavens had opened up, lightning was striking, and the parking lot was a shallow river.

One of the things I learned to do a long time ago is not to judge the effectiveness of an organization by the number of people who attend its annual meeting. In fact, I have three observations about this women’s ministry.

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The April 7, 2008, issue of TIME devotes a full page to Martin Luther King with an article titled “The Burdens of Martyrdom.” Georgetown University professor Michael Eric Dyson points out how the years have transformed Dr. King from the three-dimensional man that he was into some kind of card-board saint. The change has not been complimentary to the man nor good for the country.

In his prime–that would be the 1950s and 1960s; he was assassinated in 1968–Dr. King was the most controversial figure in America. Dyson says that in the years just prior to his death, King was left off the Gallup-poll list of the 10 most admired Americans, financial support for his work dried up, editors across America vilified him for his position on the Vietnam war, universities withdrew speaking invitations, and publishers shied away from printing his books.

Now, fast forward four decades. These days, if one didn’t know better, he would think that Martin Luther King was continually loved and revered, that he was always thought of as another Mother Teresa, and that he was, in Dyson’s phrase, “a toothless tiger.” People have forgotten “just how much heat and hate the thought of King could whip up.”

Today, Dyson says, “many whites want him clawless; many blacks want him flawless.” He concludes, “We must keep him fully human, warts and all.”

As I read that, I kept thinking of something the New Testament says about the nature of prophethood. One of the first deacons, Stephen–who is generally accorded the position as the very first Christian martyr–was on trial for his life before the Jewish council and was invited to defend himself.

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Case in point: Philip Vandercook and Global Maritime Ministries. Today, Wednesday, at our pastors meeting, Philip put out a call for volunteers to help man the port ministry center from 6 to 10 pm each night. “We don’t have enough workers to keep it open,” he said, “and we’re having crews get off their ships and walk over to our place and finding it locked.”

Definitely not what you want to happen after constructing a million dollar center one block from the Mississippi River so you can minister to the thousands of port workers and crew members who arrive in our city every day of the year.

Freddie Arnold ran by the ministry center the other evening for something. A couple of crew members from a ship that had just arrived were standing outside the building, wanting it unlocked so they could go inside. Unfortunately, he was on a mission and did not have time to let them in and to stay with them.

Inside the front door, the center presents a huge living area, a large television, a library, videos, computers, bathrooms, and a kitchen. With volunteers on duty, we can welcome these strangers to our shores, most of them foreigners who spend 6 months a year or more on the open seas and rarely get a chance to come ashore or to e-mail their families. Volunteers serve as hosts in the building with all the opportunity to do “foreign missions” they could ever ask for. New Testaments and “Jesus” videos in many, many languages are plentiful for our guests to take home with them.

Several of the cruise lines have welcomed our chaplains, Philip said, and we’re able to come and go as we wish when they are in port. He mentioned one line with a large number of believers among its crew. They hold a Bible study on board from something like midnight to 1 am, after their duties have ended. When they dock in New Orleans, forty or more will descend on our port ministry on Tchoupitoulas Street all at the same time.

Thanksgiving week, Philip is getting up a ministry cruise on one of the liners. The cost for team members will be no more than $100 per day, for a 7 day trip. Once we get underway, our people will be able to counsel with crew members, hold Bible studies, and anything else our hearts desire. Philip said, “Hey, we’re on the open sea–they can’t put us off.” Truth is, they don’t want to. They welcome the ministry of Global Maritime. It’s a quality outfit in every way. All this ministry does is give, and asks nothing in return.

Global Maritime’s website is currently in transition: www.portministry.com. Some limited information is available there. If you want to contact them via e-mail, send it to me (joe@joemckeever.com) and I’ll forward it.

“We need two vans to run back and forth to pick up crews from the ships,” Philip said. Problem is, they’re expensive.

No money is available in the Global Maritime budget for transportation. The board is still trying to pay off the remaining $400,000 on the building, while work continues intermittently on finishing the second floor so they will be able to host church volunteer teams in their center.

A half hour later, Philip interrupts our pastors meeting to say he had just gotten off the phone. Someone had just called to say they’re donating a van to the center.

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When Elvis Presley died, someone asked Pastor Adrian Rogers of Memphis’ Bellevue Baptist Church if he thought “the king” had gone to Heaven. He answered, “Even if I thought he did, I wouldn’t say it. I don’t want people thinking you can live the way he did and still go to Heaven.”

A local priest had no compunction against that this week.

Al Copeland was laid to rest Monday. He was, in the words of one of his neighbors, our very own Elvis. If New Orleans has ever had a character, it was Mr. Copeland.

I’ll try to make this as brief as possible. Copeland started out in life poor, then became a millionaire with the Popeye’s fried chicken franchises, got into financial trouble when he bought Church’s Fried Chicken and had to sell out. But he kept a lesser known company, one selling spices for his chicken–and that is what has kept him rich. The paper says he was pulling down 9 million a year and was worth a fair piece of change. He raced speedboats and drove Rolls Royces and Bentleys and married the prettiest girl in the land–four times to be exact.

Each of his weddings was more lavish than the one before. The last two are still being talked about. The third took place in the Museum of Art in City Park, and the fourth in St. Louis Cathedral. When criticized for allowing this oft-married and gaudily-divorced man to hold his wedding in the Cathedral, the spokesman for the church pointed out that only his first marriage had the blessing of the church and that wife had died, so in the eyes of God this was only his second wedding.

Cosmetic surgery kept the 64 year old looking as youthful as his women. Cancer of the salivary glands killed him a week ago. He died in Germany where he had gone seeking a cure.

His divorce from the third wife ended up with the judge being thrown in jail for taking a bribe from Copeland’s attorney, although Al himself was never implicated.

The Christmas display at his Metairie home was one you loved if you lived elsewhere and drove in with your kids, or hated if you lived anywhere nearby due to the lights and the traffic. Newspaper columnists lauded him for lighting up his house after Katrina as a symbol that everything was going to be all right.

I never met the man. I have no first-hand knowledge of his eternal destiny. I am not his judge and wouldn’t want to be.

But I wanted to tell you about the funeral. It took place at the ritziest of Catholic churches in town, the Holy Name of Jesus Church on St. Charles Avenue, next door to Tulane University.

The priest, Monsignor Christopher Nalty, said during the funeral mass, “Most people knew Al Copeland as someone who lived in the fast lane. They didn’t realize that he knew that the Catholic Church was the one road to heaven.”

That’s what he said. (**CORRECTION. wEDNESDAY MORNING’S TIMES-PICAYUNE RUNS A CORRECTION ON THE FRONT PAGE. APPARENTLY, THAT IS NOT WHAT THE PRIEST SAID. SEE NOTE AT THE BOTTOM OF ARTICLE.)

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The sweetest thing I’ve seen in a while happened last week when I was preaching in Pickens County, Alabama. Some mornings, I would meet host pastor Tommy Winders and another preacher or two down at the diner for breakfast. The first time Tommy told me about it and how to find it, I said, “What is the name of the cafe?” He looked puzzled. “I don’t know. It’s just the cafe.” Translation: it’s the only one in downtown Carrollton, Alabama. I found it without any trouble. Its name is “The Diner.”

The first morning as we exited the diner, two large dogs met us on the sidewalk. Now, where I live, dogs don’t run loose and my first reaction was to step back inside. But Pastor Tommy knew these animals. He said, “Hey, you guys are supposed to be around back.” And off they went, just like that, their tails wagging.

The second morning, I had parked at the bank’s lot on the side of the cafe and as I was leaving the car, I noticed those same two dogs with a buddy standing guard at the rear of the cafe, their tails swinging. While the other two held back, the leader of the bunch walked up to the back door and looked up expectantly. After a moment, he said, “Woof!” That’s all. Just “Woof!” One time, nothing more.

In a minute, the door opened and the cook tossed out some breakfast leftovers. I thought, “Boy, these dogs sure have the humans trained.”

I have not been able to erase that image from my mind—the dogs at the back door, tails a-wagging, and one of them calling to the kitchen to announce their presence.

Here’s the cartoon of that scene with my comment. Feel free to post it or reprint it.

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