When Maria Bousada of Madrid, Spain, contacted the California fertility clinic, she lied about her age since 55 was the maximum age for their clients.

When she gave birth at the age of 66, she assured the world she was a good choice for being the oldest woman on record to give birth. After all, her mother had lived to the ripe old age of 101. Twin sons, Paul and Christian, were born to this single mother who had experienced menopause two decades ago. The boys are now three years old.

Maria died this week at the age of 69.

You never know.

I said to a deacon in my church, “Your father is in his 90s. I suppose we’ll be having you with us for a long time to come.”

He died at the age of 66.

People say to me, “Your dad lived to be 95-plus and your mom has just celebrated her 93rd birthday. You’ll live to a ripe old age, too.”

Maybe so. Hope so. No way to tell. If it’s up to me, I’ll do all the things I know to do in order to assure it.

But there is a great unknown in this equation. “Thou art my God; my times are in thy hands.” (Psalm 31:14-15)

What does the Lord want?

When my cousin, Dr. Bill Chadwick of Clanton, Alabama, went to Heaven on Wednesday of last week–in his office in the middle of a work day–it caught us all by surprise. At his funeral, his pastor said, “Bill had planned to live to 100.”

God had other plans.

Which brings me to this personal note.

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A couple of days ago, my Mom–Lois McKeever of Nauvoo, Alabama–celebrated birthday number 93. You helped to make it special. So far, she has opened nearly 100 cards and notes and they’re still arriving, a few each day. Thanks so much. She enjoys every one, and I take your doing this as a personal favor. (Of course, she received cards from friends outside the circle of this website. But still…)

Mom jokes that “they all say you must be a wonderful person to have raised such a special son.” She adds, “Don’t they know I raised four special sons? and two special daughters?”

No favoritism with this lady. Even though she’s proud of her two preacher boys (Ron and Joe), the other four (Glenn, Patricia, Carolyn, and Charlie) are just as precious.

These days she looks outside her large front window onto fields that are lovely in every way. With her two sons-in-law James and Van plowing and planting the fields (in their spare time; James works for the telephone company and Van for the Jefferson County Sheriff’s Office) and Ron growing his own garden up there, one would think we were back in the 1950s when all the kids were at home, everyone had an assignment in the fields, and every tillable acre was blooming with productivity.

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The first prayer I criticized, I was in college. Eventually, I became quite good at it.

It’s not a skill to be desired.

A church across Birmingham had invited me to speak to their young people that morning. I was the guest of a leading church family for the service and lunch to follow. Their pastor was out that day, so the minister was a college professor who taught the Bible.

At the sermon time, the guest preacher strode to the pulpit, looked out at the congregation and led us in prayer. I was struck by the way the last sentence of his prayer and the opening sentence of his sermon lay back to back, separated only by the “amen” of the prayer.

Here is what he said:

“Bless us, O God, as we come to worship Thee—for we are here for no other reason. Amen.”

He took a breath, looked out at the congregation, and began:

“People come to church for many different reasons!”

Instantly I reacted. Wait a minute. You just told the Lord we were here to worship Him and nothing else, and told us we had come for a variety of reasons.

He was not being honest to someone, either the Lord or us, I reasoned. And I think I know who it was. He was telling the Lord what He felt the Lord wanted to hear, it seemed, but knew he could not get by with that with us. So he had to tell us the plain fact of the matter.

It occurred to me his view of God was severely lacking.

My criticism was valid, I believe, but unfortunately that little event started me on my life of crime.

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On Tuesday, July 14, my wonderful Mom, Lois J. McKeever, reaches age number 93. Far from keeping it a secret, she’s justly pleased to have attained this pinnacle. I think this makes her the oldest member of her (Kilgore) family in memory. Also, probably the oldest living member of her church (New Oak Grove Free Will Baptist). She still lives on the home place, across the hill from the house where she was born. Each day, she reads the newspaper, reads her mail and her Bible, watches the TV news and “The Price is Right” and “Wheel.”

Thanks to all who have sent (or are sending) birthday cards or notes to her. At last check, she has received 70 or so. However, anyone who would still like to send one, Mom loves getting mail, so go right ahead. The address is 191 County Road 101, Nauvoo, Alabama 35578. Thanks!

Mom says so many of the cards she is receiving are from my friends (from this blog and Facebook) who all say things like, “You must be a wonderful person to have raised such a fine son.” She laughs and says, “I have three fine sons–which one are they talking about?”

You can see why I like her to get these notes!

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(This concludes with a short Bible study from Luke 6; don’t miss it.)

A good question to ask ourselves: what subject or issue could my pastor speak on–and disagree with me concerning–that would send me over the edge?

What trips my cord? What provokes my wrath? Invites my hostility, stirs up my rage, arouses my ire?

Nothing tells the tale about us like the answer to this.

A few weeks ago, I wrote a rather uncomplimentary piece concerning Rush Limbaugh. The editor of our state Baptist paper asked if he could reprint it. I agreed, but came to question that decision. All the mail the editor received (and forwarded to me) was not just negative, but hostile. I was a raving liberal, a satan, unworthy to call myself a preacher or even a Christian.

I had touched a nerve. Stepped on some toes.

Ann Landers or Dear Abby–one of the advice-giving twins–used to say, “Throw a rock among a bunch of dogs; the one that hollers is the one that got hit.”

This week, it was the Michael Jackson thing.

On this website–and nowhere else, not in any newspaper anywhere, but in the blog which I personally pay for–I wrote about the memorial service which was going on at the time. I started by pointing out that the expected crowd of a million did not materialize, quoted Sean Hannity and New York Times columnist Bob Herbert on the MJ phenomenon, and then commented on Rev. Al Sharpton’s glossing over of the MJ child abuse in his sermon. He assured the Jackson children (and said to the world), “There was nothing strange about your father. What was strange was the way he was treated,” or something to that effect.

The fascinating thing about cyberspace is you put something on a website and it’s gone. The world has it now. It gets passed around and people find it by googling and your thoughts are in the public domain.

It’s great and it’s terrible.

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In my early-to-mid-teen years, for two weeks each summer, the Chadwick family rescued me from the farm in north Alabama and made me their honored guest in Birmingham. We were kin. Our mothers, Lois and Ruby, were sisters. Ruby was married to John Chadwick, a Birmingham policeman. The McKeever and Chadwick children were closely matched in age.

My brothers Ron and Glenn matched up with Bill Chadwick, the oldest of Johnny and Ruby’s four. I thought they were all daredevils.

Nelda Chadwick and I were almost identical in age. In between came Betty and Barbara Chadwick, lovely older cousins whom I idolized. (In case they read this, just a tad older, not much!)

Going from the drudgery of the farm to the excitement of the city–the soda fountain at the drug store, the street cars downtown, movies with Nelda, bike-riding, going to VBS at Calvary Baptist Church, carpet golf, but particularly, this wonderful loving family–made this the high point of my year.

To Bill Chadwick, perhaps 6 years my senior, I must have appeared as a little squirt. A nuisance. But he never made me feel that way.

In fact, he did some things that minister to me even today, over a half century later.

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First.

The crowd of a million expected to jam the streets of Los Angeles for Michael Jackson’s memorial service at the Staples Center did not materialize, they’re announcing on the radio. My guess is they were scared away by–what else–predictions of a crowd of a million.

The best way I know to kill a high attendance is to talk about all the traffic, parking, seating and crowd control problems one can expect. Most people will choose to stay home.

Sean Hannity said today, “If you think this is the last of this (the Michael Jackson business), you are wrong. This is just the beginning. They’re already beginning investigations of four doctors.”

The editor of a newsmagazine whose staff rushed to put together a special edition on MJ pointed out that the pop star’s life conveniently divided into three sections: a) the Jackson Five (his life with the family group), b) the rock star years, and c) Jocko (the last 15 years of weirdness).

At the memorial service today, the last segment of Jackson’s life does not exist. The children he hurt along the way do not exist. The program is all about Neverland.

In this morning’s Times-Picayune, the New York Times’ Bob Herbert gave his take on “Michaelmania.” Meeting the star back in the mid-1980s was “one of the creepier experiences of my life.” He says he knew that MJ was unable to make small talk. “Lots of people have trouble with that.” But Jackson had a child television star with him and for all the world, they seemed to be two little children playing around the furniture.

Herbert, who is African-American, mentions the reality of MJ with these words: “Behind the Jackson facade was the horror of child abuse. Court records and reams of well-documented media accounts contain a stream of serious allegations of child sex abuse and other inappropriate behavior with very young boys.”

Finally, this sentence: “One case of alleged pedophilia against Jackson, the details of which would make your hair stand on end, was settled for a reported $25 million.”

Now, in light of that, consider the accolades being thrown his way by the parade of preachers and celebs at the Staples Center today.

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Google that–the number one sin of the church–and almost all the responses will be the same: Jim Cymbala, pastor of the Brooklyn Tabernacle telling Mark Buchanan the church’s leaders are not on their knees crying out to God for the outcasts of this world–the prostitutes, the gang leaders, the druggies.

Included among all the Cymbala citations, I found only two other mentions of the church’s primary sin.

Scott Peck said the number one sin of the church is its arrogance and narcissim, the attitude that we have God all sewn up, that all truth resides with us.

Another pastor said it is “tolerance to the point of obsequious stupidity.” Obsequious: “fawning,” a “servile attitude,” “sycophantic.”

Each of those makes a great point. But here is my candidate for the primary failure of the church in our day.

The greatest sin of the church today is that it does not take itself seriously enough.

By that I mean, it does not take its Lord, its message, its identity, and its role seriously.

Go into almost any city in the land and drop in on church after church. You will find some great congregations and hear the occasional excellent sermon, to be sure. However, again and again, you will walk away shaking your head, convinced that instead of visiting the power center of the planet, ground zero for the actions of Almighty God, you have just sat in on something akin to a family reunion, a civic meeting, or a community improvement session.

A weak sister of the Oprah self-improvement society.

Instead of a sense of urgency, you saw half-heartedness on every side.

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