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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First, let me tell you what my pastor said and then what he did. It’s what he did that bordered on the outrageous.

In his sermon this Sunday, Pastor Mike Miller told the congregation of the First Baptist Church of Kenner, Louisiana, that Jesus’ message in Luke 14 has a direct application to us today. (My disclaimer: I did not get Mike’s permission to give a representation of his sermon; so consider this a 25 minute message from a great communicator filtered through the mind of a senior preacher who was sometimes distracted by his grandchildren and at other times by his own untamed imagination.)

In the parable of the great supper, Luke 14:16-24, the order of the invitations that went out is significant:

1. Friends first.

2. Outcasts next.

3. Then the strangers.

You’d think telling our friends and family about Jesus and inviting them to know Him as Savior and Lord would be the simplest thing in the world. Often, it’s the hardest.

Outcasts are those rejected by “respectable people” and would not normally feel accepted in church. Yet, our Lord seemed to have a certain affinity for them, and so should we.

Strangers are anyone and everyone outside the family of God.

Mike challenged the congregation to invite five family members/friends, outcasts and strangers to church in the next week. He ended the service with a video making that point and a benediction reinforcing it.

Now, what Mike did.

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This Sunday morning at the men’s breakfast, it was announced that Houston and Eleanor Glover have moved to Madison, Wisconsin, to be near their son. This move is all about advancing age, declining health, and the absence of any family members down here. The Glovers have rented a small apartment and are putting their house on the market and starting life in a state which we call “the north” and Wisconsonians call “the midwest.”

A request went out to the men for assistance in loading the truck next week. “Everything left over will be given to Goodwill,” church administrator Danny Moore said.

When I commented that this has to be traumatic for the Glovers, easily some of the nicest people on the planet, Danny said, “They’ve lived here 61 years. Moved here in 1948.”

Houston was a life deacon in the First Baptist Church of Kenner and Eleanor served as wedding director for years. Classy, loving, gentle people. Low maintenance for a pastor; high returns of faithful service and dedicated labor for the Lord.

When Eleanor expressed that they would probably not find a church home there, Pastor Mike Miller made some calls, talked to a pastor in Madison, and located them a church family.

Still, the transition has to be extremely difficult. Danny said, “Eleanor is from Grand Rapids, Michigan, and has family there.”

But after 61 years, New Orleans is home.

Or to be exact, River Ridge and the Kenner/Metairie community is home. As locals will tell you, even though we are part of metro New Orleans and you can hardly tell when you drive from one into the other, it ain’t the same.

As the morning’s benediction was spoken and we gathered up the clutter of breakfast to toss in the trash, someone said to Danny Moore, “This is our future. Every one of us.”

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We pastors are always looking for ways to make our wedding ceremonies more interesting and more helpful.

Friday afternoon, an hour before time to head across Lake Pontchartrain for the 6:45 wedding of Steven and Laci, on a whim, I typed the following into my Facebook page and posted it:

“Give me your best ONE SENTENCE advice on marriage and I’ll work the best of them into the wedding for Laci and Steven tonight. Funny is good, inspiring is great, true and catchy is best.”

An hour later, I had a half dozen responses. Fifteen minutes before the wedding was to begin, I called son Marty in North Carolina and had him go to my Facebook page and read off every entry. There were 20 by that time. I jotted a few down and used them.

So. Here is the setting. There are 200 people sweating it out (the temperature at 7 o’clock was still in the 90s) on the back deck of Palmettos-on-the-Bayou in Slidell, Louisiana. Most are sitting on white plastic chairs, but a number are standing in the back near the giant blowers. Six gorgeous bridesmaids and an equal number of handsome groomsmen line the front. There’s no microphone so we have to speak up to be heard.

I’ve known Laci since she was a child. She is the granddaughter of one of our deacons and related to more of our church members. She is bright and creative and cute and never meets a stranger. Steven, I met for the first time when they drove over for pre-marital counseling. He’s handsome, bright, and adores Laci. They both are young Christians and making a genuine effort to live for God. I was honored to be asked to do their wedding.

Early in the proceedings, I said, “Two hours ago, I asked my Facebook friends to give Laci and Steven advice about marriage. Here are some of the responses….”

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Dr. Chuck Kelley has more nerve than I. A lot more.

On March 3 of this year, the president of our New Orleans Baptist Theological Seminary gave his analysis of the Southern Baptist Convention–our family of churches–concerning the 89 percent of our churches that have either stopped growing or are in decline. He made this statement:

“We are the new Methodists.”

What he meant, he went on to say, is that this major denomination–the United Methodists–once set the pace for the Christian church in America, both in reaching large numbers for Christ, and teaching the rest of us how to evangelize. “What Baptists know about evangelistic harvesting,” Dr. Kelley said, “we learned from Methodists.”

Gradually that great denomination lost its zeal and is now in serious free-fall, declining in numbers of members at the fastest pace in the history of the American church.

Southern Baptists are following in their footsteps, Chuck pointed out.

President Kelley’s statement and his analysis have been reported and quoted far and wide by news services and countless blogs like this one.

No one has reported (to my knowledge) how the Methodists took that. It’s no fun being pointed out to the other children as the wrong kind of example.

That’s why I say he has nerve.

He’s right, of course.

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The wife of President Theodore Roosevelt was chatting with French diplomat Jean Adrien Antoine Jules Jusserand (don’t you love that name!), when she decided to teach his countrymen a lesson.

Mrs. Roosevelt said, “Why don’t you learn from the United States and Canada? We have a three-thousand-mile unfortified peaceful frontier. You people arm yourselves to the teeth.”

The ambassador replied, “Ah, madame. Perhaps we could exchange neighbors!”

France’s neighbors, you may recall, include Germany on the north and Spain on the south. Over the centuries, that neighborhood has seen countless wars and constant strife.

When people are house-hunting, I wonder if they ever stop to consider the neighbors who will come with the purchase. They look at the structure and the furnishings, do a detailed search of the title and consider the value of the homes in the area. But have you ever heard of a potential home-buyer checking out the people who are about to become their neighbors? Maybe they should.

Do realtors furnish buyers with that kind of information? Do buyers have the right to go door-to-door on the street interviewing residents about the people who live on each side of the home they’re considering buying? Is that a good idea? Would that permanently injure the relationship with the future neighbors?

I don’t know. It’s worth thinking about.

I have neighbors.

For 15 years now, we have lived with the same neighbors in every direction. For a community as transient as metro New Orleans, that is something of an oddity. All our neighbors are nice and, like us, keep to themselves. With the houses practically crammed against one another and yards the size of postage stamps, people tend to stay inside when they return home at the end of the day. So, we barely know one another.

If you could choose your neighbors, would you?

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I bought a newspaper last Friday for ten dollars. It was worth a hundred.

Last year Reed Books relocated to 2021 3rd Avenue North in downtown Birmingham from an obscure upstairs location on 20th Street South it occupied for years. This is easily my favorite nostalgia hangout. The posters and memorabilia from past decades covering the wall can occupy a person for an hour. I could spend the day in this place and never spend a dime.

Sometimes I just browse, usually I comb the World War II book section, but Friday, I asked to see old newspapers. “Anything in particular?” the gentleman whom I assume to be Jim Reed, proprietor, asked. I said, “World War II era.”

He said, “We have an incredible amount of stuff categorized in the warehouse. If you ever have a specific date in mind, let me know.” Otherwise, I could sort through several stacks of yellowing newspapers in the back of the store. No problem.

I’m in heaven. Man, I love doing this.

In the stacks, there were papers from around the country from the day of Elvis’ death, several from JFK’s assassination, and likewise for days such as the Challenger explosion. But I was going back farther than that. I was looking for the late 1930s and early-to-mid 1940s.

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…the children and me.

When my friend Nikki of Double Springs, Alabama, invited me to be camp pastor for her church’s annual children’s retreat this summer, I quickly said ‘yes.’ Only later did I think to ask, “What ages are these children?” Mostly older elementary children, she said. But not all. A few younger ones, including a couple of 5 year olds.

Talk about a challenge for Grandpa!

The camp was this weekend on the grounds of Camp Lee, near Anniston, Alabama. A great place with super food and the nicest people on the planet (in case you’re looking for a location for your retreat; we recommend them highly). The fifty children and perhaps 20 adults from Double Springs–one of my four hometowns!–were wonderful in every way.

As usual, as soon as the event went on my calendar, I began praying that the Lord would prepare me and the people who would attend.

And then I began worrying.

“How long has it been since I’ve done such a retreat for children? (Answer: many years) Can I even connect with them on their level any more? They’ll see this grandpa up there and wish they were anywhere else but at this camp!”

Then one day, it hit me: these children are the same ages as most of my grandchildren. So, I’ll just imagine Jack and Abby and Erin and Darilyn and JoAnne are the audience. I’d have no trouble with that group. They’re wonderful and we all adore each other.

So, that’s what I did. And it worked just fine (well, it did from my end; I’ll let the Double Springs folks speak for themselves). I sketched everyone over the 48 hours and spoke at four services, and loved every minute of it.

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