“The Commission” magazine exists now only on-line but for many generations it arrived in the homes and churches of Southern Baptists all over the country. I’ve known and appreciated several of its editors and grieved when it went out of business. (It was the monthly publication of the SBC Foreign Mission Board, headquartered in Richmond.)

Two things in “The Commission” when it was a print magazine changed my life forever. They were so tiny, I’m confident that the people who dropped them in had no idea how significant they were.

The first was a tiny notice in the fall of 1976 announcing that a cartoonist was needed by the missionaries in Singapore. As a part of their urban strategy, they wanted to produce an evangelistic comic book and distribute to teens all over that island nation.

They needed someone to draw it.

I read that in my office and thought, “I could do that.” The phone rang. Margaret was calling from home. “Did you see this little note in ‘The Commission’ that they need a cartoonist to draw a comic book in Singapore? You could do this.”

That’s how it happened that in May of 1977 I traveled to Singapore and spent two weeks with missionaries Bob and Marge Wakefield. The urban strategists who had conceived the idea–Ralph and Ruthie Neighbour–had returned to Houston, but they continued working with us on this.

I worked with the Singaporean believers on developing a workable script and sketched people and places all over the city. Then, returning to my pastorate in Mississippi, I set about drawing the full-length comic book. Ralph Neighbour got the drawings transferred to acetate cels, which we–my family, my church members, my neighbors!–worked at coloring BY HAND over the next few weeks. We did it in precisely the same way the Disney studios do their hand-drawn cartoons such as “The Princess and the Frog.” We found out it was a job!

That’s one thing so fascinating about visiting the Disney display in the New Orleans Museum of Art (the exhibit runs through March 14, 2010). Here are all these cels on view that were so gorgeously done, and I know exactly how they got that way. Except in our case, we did about 30 or 40 pages (I forget the exact number) and the Disney folks turned out something like 80,000 for a full-length cartoon movie.

My church members kicked in the money to print that comic in full color and it was shipped to Singapore. Ten thousand copies. Some were sold on newsstands for only the amount needed to give the seller a profit and the others were distributed by the churches. I kept out enough to give one each to our helpers and contributors and my children. (I have one copy left, plus the acetate cels, stowed away in a drawer or box somewhere.)

That was memorable and life-changing for me–I hope it was for some Singaporeans, but we’ll have to wait for Heaven to find out–and it began with a tiny announcement in our missions magazine.

The other thing “The Commission” did that made a lasting difference for me was a small news item which I clipped out and have used in sermon after semon ever since.

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Everyone I know has read the William Paul Young book, “The Shack.” Everyone except me.

Why I didn’t get around to reading it over the last couple of years as it zoomed to the top of the best-selling list and stayed there, I don’t know. I observed that no one was neutral about it, some cursing it and warning everyone off and others testifying to how it changed everything about the way they think of God.

That’s pretty powerful stuff. Wouldn’t mind writing a book that would do that, myself.

I confess that the only reason I read the book this weekend is that my niece Lisa McKeever Hollingsworth asked me to and to tell her what I think. She had wept through it and said that nothing has affected her the way this book did.

I bought it at the local used paperback book store. The sticker on it reads “$9.00 cash.”

It was a fast read. It’s well written. Mr. Young clearly has written before and has a knack for expression. A knack for the shack? Sorry.

The good thing about penning one’s thoughts on a blog is that he can always re-enter the website and tweak what he has written. I expect I’ll be doing that since I have so many currents running through my mind on this little book, and doubtless I’ll forget to jot some of those thoughts down.

It hits me that writing a review of a book long after it has run its course is par for me. The only time I saw the movie “Gone With the Wind” was 30 years after its debut. It came to the theaters in Greenville, Mississippi, where I was pastoring my first church following seminary, and so affected me that I sat down at the typewriter and put on paper all the thoughts rushing through my mind. What I did with it in those pre-blog days, I have no memory.

As I sit at the computer, the clock in the lower right corner identifies the time as 3:02 a.m.

I had planned to sleep last night and did for some four hours. At 2 a.m., I awakened and made the customary journey to the smallest room in the house which people my age take in the middle of nights. I took a couple of pills I always take at that time, and then, wide awake, went to my drawing table and worked on six cartoons for a pastor friend in Michigan who asked me to illustrate a mission lesson he is doing.

And I decided to get back into bed and read the last 25 pages of “The Shack.” Those who have read it will vouch for that being a climactic part of the plot. When I laid the book down, far from being ready for bed, I knew I’d have to write down all those emotions and thoughts fighting in my brain for expression.

So, here goes.

Dear Lisa.

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The January 9, 2010, edition of The Times-Picayune gives the sad tale of an emergency room doctor–of all people–who let his road rage get the best of him. He’s going to prison for five years because of his lack of self-control.

Christopher Thompson of Los Angeles, age 60, was convicted in November for assault with a deadly weapon (his car), battery with serious bodily injury, reckless driving, and mayhem. What he did was to throw on his brakes suddenly, causing the bicyclists to slam into his car. One came through the rear window. Both were injured.

What led up to that moment we’re not told. But we can imagine.

If the cyclists were anything like those around this city, they were not obeying the traffic laws. I would wager not one biker in a dozen in any city in America knows that they are required to obey the same laws as automobiles, stop at the same stop signs, stay in the same lanes, give the same signals, etc.

It can be infuriating watching them dart in and out of traffic, scooting around cars in a line, speeding through four-way stops. Motorbikes and motorcycles are worse, of course, because they are bigger and faster.

You can get angry. But you cannot get even.

Road rage is a condition we experience when other drivers blatantly ignore written or unwritten laws of respect and safety on the highways.

It’s a rare driver who has not experienced that sensation. You’re tooling along the highway, it’s a lovely day, you’re feeling good, and suddenly out of the blue a speedster appears out of nowhere and fills up your rear view mirror.

He flashes his lights for you to move over, practically paints himself onto your back bumper, and endangers everyone in your car and his. Your first impulse is to stay right where you are, to slow down even, and to guarantee that this guy is never going to pass your car in this lifetime.

Not good. Let him by. He’s an accident looking for someone to happen to. Don’t let it be you.

Anger is a normal reaction of the human mind when we are crossed, offended, endangered, or hurt. Everyone gets angry now and then.

Even God.

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I sat in the theater Wednesday weeping and hoping no one would notice.

The Victory Theater is a part of the National World War II Museum just off St. Charles Avenue in New Orleans, and I had taken my grandson who was out of school the week after New Year’s. The “movie,” I suppose we can call it that, was called “Beyond All Boundaries,” and showed how this war was conducted, how it affected everyone, how it changed everything.

I forget how many millions of lives were ended as a result of that war. The number is astronomical but gets into the stratosphere when we add the millions exterminated in Hitler’s concentration camps.

What hit me–and this was never an actual part of the story on the huge curved screens–was that much of the cause for the war was a failure in the politics of past years.

In saying that, I do not discount the sheer-genius and near-insanity of Adolf Hitler. No amount of diplomacy could have prevented him from doing what he did. He seemed to have understood only the language of brute force.

That said, it’s still true however that the greater war was a failure of the politics of the previous generation. And that’s what needs to be gotten across to our younger generation today.

Young people are bored with politics. Heads of states meet and deliberate and issue dull news releases. Embassies close down, secretaries of state exchange documents, summits are held, the television covers it all and newspapers blare it in their headlines. The football game is more interesting, so we turn to another channel.

Politics is (are?) mind-deadening to the vast majority of our people. Especially the young. And therein lies the problem.

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Someone pointed out to me once that most preachers were blessed by their mothers, rather than by their fathers.

I’ve not done a George-Barna and looked into that theory, but my observation is that it’s accurate.

Billy Graham and I (ahem!) were blessed by our mothers. When I pastored in Charlotte twenty years ago, people still reminisced about the elder Mrs. Graham who taught Bible studies in the retirement home where she spent her last days and what a Godly influence she was.

In my case, it was my mother whose spiritual example and godly influence turned me in the direction of living for the Lord.

A few remembrances….

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A young friend messaged her pastor and me this morning asking for our counsel. She wants to speed up her spiritual growth, she said, and asks what books she should be reading and what preachers she should be listening to.

The pastor gave her excellent suggestions on books and preachers, so I took a different route. I said, “If you want to move your spiritual growth to warp speed, I suggest reading large blocks of Scripture at one sitting.” In doing so, I said, she would see lessons, learn insights, and experience blessings she had missed before by the kind of piecemeal intake most of us practice regarding God’s Word.

When the Apostle Peter was concluding his second epistle, he counseled, “But grow in the grace and knowledge of the Lord and Savior Jesus Christ.To Him be the glory both now and forever. Amen.” (II Peter 3:18)

I take it that the grace of Jesus Christ is one thing and the knowledge of Him is another. But I also find them to be complementary, partners or colleagues in the lives of believers, if you will. The more we grow in His grace, the better we know Him.

As the old song says about love and marriage, “you can’t have one without the other.”

When the disciples first learned of Jesus, they must have been puzzled, then interested, and then attracted to Him. Bit by bit they were learning of Him. The day the Lord Jesus walked by and called them to follow Him, some from their fishing boats, one from his tax books, and others from various pursuits, they began to experience His grace.

“I am so honored; He called me as a disciple!” They were celebrating His grace.

Then, day after day as they walked the hills of Galilee in His steps and saw His works and heard His teaching, they learned more of His heart, His mind, and His agenda. They were appreciating the knowledge of Jesus.

Over the next three year period, the disciples failed Him, disappointed Him, embarrassed themselves, and most eventually forsook Him. Each time, however, He forgave them and loved them and patiently went on with the training.

That was grace.

By the time Jesus ascended into Heaven and left the earthly work with the disciples, they felt they knew Him pretty well. Every day had brought new challenges, each miracle had taught new lessons, every setback presented new opportunities.

That is knowledge of Him.

No wonder Peter’s one wish for His people was that they would grow in this dual direction: the grace and knowledge of the Lord and Savior Jesus Christ.

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Pastor John Hewett attended the Carolina Panthers-Minnesota Vikings football game in Charlotte last Sunday evening. Just outside the gates, two stern-faced men stood holding up huge signs.

“JESUS CANNOT BE YOUR SAVIOR UNLESS HE IS YOUR LORD.”

Noticing the grimace on John’s face, one of the men said to him, “Jesus can save you.”

John said, “He already has.”

The fellow said, “You sure don’t act like it.”

Fascinating the way some Christians find one single aspect of the Christian faith and turn it into the end-all of salvation and righteousness and go to seed on it.

Thereafter, it becomes the theme of their sermons and the thrust of their conversations. If they’re Facebook friends with you, that’s all you ever read from them.

For some, it’s the KJV Bible. If you’re using anything else, you are a compromised liberal and naive to boot. Either you have been taken in by the con men in the faith or you are a scam artist yourself.

For some it’s Calvinism. Unless you cross every ‘t’ and dot every ‘i’ as they do–or Brother John himself did–you’re shallow, don’t know your Bible, and a blind leader of the blind.

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Susan is my wife’s youngest sister. Margaret was 11 when she was born and almost feels like her mother. Even though Susan lives in Seattle and we’re in New Orleans, those two are joined at the hip.

Twenty-five years ago, Susan married Jim Schroeder, a native Washingtonian. Jim worked in the post office and after hours refereed high school basketball games. This large man–he was 6’2″ at least–loved flowers and grew prize-winning dahlias and roses all over his back yard.

For the past few years, Jim battled both ALS and MS. On the first Sunday of October, pneumonia ended his earthly life. We were so sad at losing him, but relieved his suffering had finally ended.

Last February–Mardi Gras weekend–our New Orleans family, all 7 of us, flew to Seattle to be with Jim and Susan while he was still well enough to enjoy the visit. Our grandkids were his delight as he was theirs. Even though he was not able to speak, he went everywhere they did and communicated through Susan who, like all wives everywhere, knew everything he was thinking.

Today, Susan’s Christmas letter arrived. It is so sweet and poignant, I thought some of our readers would enjoy it, though you did not know Jim Schroeder. It’s a fine and funny tribute of a wife to a husband.

Susan begins, “Oh, how I miss Jim this Christmas, every moment really. During the Christmas seasons of 2006 and 2007, he was so tired from overwork, some nights too tired to eat dinner–and we all know how much Jim liked dinner! He’ll never be tired again, God bless him.”

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A friend handed me a book. “We’re studying this at our church,” he said. I was struck by the incongruity of that, because the title was, “I Love My Church, But–”

He said, “We all have this love/hate relationship with the Lord’s church, don’t we? We love it for a thousand reasons, but hate what it tends to become when we’re not careful or the wrong people sit in the driver’s seat.”

That started me thinking. I do love the church when it’s loving and strong and good, and I hate it when it’s bickering and splintered and selfish.

I love the church when it’s like Jesus and hate it when it’s too much like me.

I love the church when it’s into giving and hate it when it’s all about getting.

I love the church when it’s serving the community and hate it when it’s complaining about its neighbors and throwing its weight around.

I have devoted all my adult life–literally, I was 22 when I began pastoring and will be 70 my next birthday–to serving the Lord’s church. In fact, you could say Jesus and I have in common that we both love the church, for we read that “Christ loved the church and gave Himself for her.” (Ephesians 5:25)

I have not “given myself up for her” in the sense the Lord did, of course. I do carry a few scars on my soul from my years of fighting for the church, but they are nothing compared to His sacrifice of love.

I sat down one day and made a list of my wishes for the church. You might be interested in reading it, and perhaps in adding your own items to it. In doing so, let us both remember that the church is the Lord’s however, and what we want more than anything is for His will to be done and not ours.

One: I wish the church were less of a business and more of a family.

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I stood in the “Book Nook” in Monroe, Michigan, the other day, perusing their huge assortment of Christmas books for children. I’m mainly interested in the artwork, and have been known to purchase a children’s book just for that reason.

Other than the Nativity of our Lord, the two most common themes of these books were Dickens’ “Christmas Carol” and “The Night Before Christmas” by Clement Clarke Moore.

You probably have a copy of that poem in your home somewhere. It’s as ubiquitous in this season of the year as decorated trees and jingling bells. But there is something vastly wrong with it.

That poem–“The Night Before Christmas” (also known as “A Visit From Saint Nicholas”)–is a fraud.

No matter how many book covers say otherwise, Clement Clarke Moore did not write it.

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