“Remember that for three years I did not cease to warn everyone night and day with tears…. I have coveted no one’s silver or gold or apparel…. I have shown you in every way, by laboring like this, that you must support the weak. And remember the words of the Lord Jesus, that He said, ‘It is more blessed to give than to receive’….” (Acts 20:31-35)
I wonder how it would be to stand before a group of elders and tell them of the 13+ years I served the Lord at the First Baptist Church of Kenner, or the 3+ years before that at the Church in Charlotte. Or the 12+ years prior to that at the Church in Columbus, Mississippi.
Could I get it right? Would I be prone to brag or exaggerate? Or to omit and gloss over?
This Spring, I returned to Greenville, Mississippi, where we pastored Emmanuel Baptist Church as our first congregation after seminary. We had never spent any time in Mississippi prior to this and knew absolutely nothing about life in the Delta, particularly in the late 1960s when racial unrest was at its height. Greenville lies only a few miles west of the birthplace of the (white) Citizens Council.
We served in Greenville from November 1967 through December of 1970. Three years and two months. Not long by most standards. But looking back and reminiscing, I am amazed at all the things that took place in that brief time. Consider….
My friend Lydia was helping her 6-year-old daughter out of her Sunday clothes.
“Honey,” she said, “Did anyone tell you how pretty you look in your new dress?”
Little Holly said, “No. They thought it. They just forgot to tell me.”
I love the self-esteem that answer reveals. Such parents–Terry and Lydia Martin of Columbus, Mississippi, my friends for over 40 years–surely did something right with this child.
Our task is to convey a healthy esteem not only to our children but to our spouses, our husband, our wife.
The popular comic strip “L’il Abner” used to feature a character who lived under a constant, tiny storm cloud. It followed him around wherever he went, maybe 12 inches above his head, always pouring rain down upon him. (The character’s name was an unpronounceable “Btfsplk.” When asked, cartoonist Al Capp said “It’s a rude sound.” Maybe what’s called a raspberry or Bronx cheer. Google Btfsplk and see the cartoon.)
I’ve felt like Joe Btfsplk all this week.
Analyzing that me-sized stormcloud–“why am I feeling so sad?”–I can identify several forces that are raining on my parade, if you will.
“Faithful are the wounds of a friend…” (Proverbs 27:6)
Perhaps the most dangerous place on the church campus is the pastor’s counseling office.
When the minister is shut up in a tight space with a vulnerable female who confides in him the most personal things of her life, often the two people do something completely natural and end up bonding emotionally.
The bonding process is simple: she opens up to him, he sympathizes with her, she reaches out to him, and there it goes.
Many a ministry and a great many marriages have been destroyed in the counseling room.
Can we talk about this?
Pastor, if you are like the rest of us, you’ve had this happen….
You brought a sermon on an important scriptural passage which you knew beyond a doubt was from the Lord and inspired of God. You had a great time studying and praying for this sermon, and you knew this was cutting edge stuff. So, why was the sermon itself so poorly received? Halfway through, you could sense the congregation’s collective minds wandering. How could this happen?
Clearly, the problem could be any of one thousand things. But if I may, I will share a strong conviction on the number one reason your excellent sermon was so poorly received.
“But his delight is in the law of the Lord, and in that law doth he meditate day and night” (Psalm 1:2).
The Lord never intended for His Word to collect dust on a table in your back bedroom.
People paid for your right to own a Bible in your own language with their very lives.
What are you doing about that?
Christians who own numerous Bibles which they rarely open are thumbing their noses at the saints of old who paid the ultimate price.
This hard-won treasure lies buried under the dust and detritus of your life.
My son Neil and I had a few days to work on Margaret’s obituary. Understandably, he could not bring himself to think about it while she lingered in the hospital on life support. It was hard, but I worked on the essentials.
Margaret and I used to talk about these things. But not seriously. Somehow, you think this could never happen to you.
Margaret’s sister, widowed perhaps four years ago, told how someone praised her husband Jim with a good line which she later used as an opener in his memorial. So, we began thinking about that.
“This shall be written for the generation to come; and the people who shall be created shall praise the Lord” (Psalm 102:18).
Please go to the front of your Bible and write in it.
Start by putting your own name.
Often, when I pick up the Bibles of friends to see what they have written in them, I’m chagrined to see they don’t even have their names.
Write in your Bible, friend. Please.
At Christmas 1973, my aunt Eren gave to her mother, my wonderful grandmother Bessie Lowery McKeever, a Bible. Grandma died in 1982, but not before marking up that Bible.
The McKeever crest actually claims that as our family motto, going back to somewhere, Ireland or Scotland or both.
I used to laugh at the irony of that. I mean, what were our people, a bunch of boy scouts?
I’m not laughing any more. My dad taught me how it works.
Carl J. McKeever, the 6th generation descendant of Cornelius “Neil” McKeever who arrived from the old country on the east coast around 1803, was definitely an original. The first-born of an even dozen children, Dad started working inside the coal mines in 1926 when he was 14. His formal education ended with the seventh grade, but he never stopped growing and learning and being curious.
At the time this happened, I thought this was hilarious.
One of our colleagues in the ministry has collated a list of the 100 best Christian blogs. Here is his announcement:
Last year, ours did not make his list. This year, we showed up at 39.
Okay, it’s nice, and we’re flattered. But who really knows? And does it really matter?
Personally, I dislike lists of the 100 biggest, 100 greatest, 100 most. The upside is that such a list might alert readers to some good blogs they had missed. The downside is the pride. “Let me add that to my resume.’ His blog was voted among the most popular!”