–To the motorcyclist on the interstate this morning, I’d like to say: “Friend, you need to understand a law of physics. The faster you go, the smaller you become and the more invisible you appear to the other motorists.”

People who ride these killer machines — and some are dear friends and brothers in the ministry — do so for the freedom, the exhilaration of the fresh air and the open road, and yes, let’s admit it, the sensation of speed. Nothing has the pick-up of a Harley on a highway. That’s what makes them doubly dangerous.

In the first place, other drivers don’t see you as a matter of routine. They’re watching for other cars and trucks, not for a bicycle-on-steroids, and that’s why even good and faithful motorists have sometimes inadvertently pulled into the path of an oncoming motorcycle. Secondly, if you increase your speed to something horrendous — this morning, the traffic was moving at 65 to 70 mph and the motorcycle had to have been doing 90 — I can almost guarantee you that no motorist will notice you until you are on top of them. That’s why every week in this city — every blessed week! — we have people killed on motorcycles.

–to the pastor who has lost his vision for his community, I’d like to say: “Dear brother, either resign or ask God to give you a new vision for the people inside and around your church.”

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The stark headline — in large red letters against a black background — blaring at the reader from the front of the April 13 Newsweek announces “The Decline and Fall of Christian America” by Jon Meacham, the editor.

The first thing Meacham admits in his personal column, however, is that the title is overblown. They’re selling magazines. Meacham says, “Christianity is not depleted or dying; it remains a vibrant force in the lives of billions.”

So, what happened?

Someone took a poll and found that fewer people are calling themselves Christians than a few years back and more Americans say their religion is “nothing at all.” Publishing houses quickly went into overdrive churning out books announcing the failure of Jesus Christ’s mission. The religion page of Saturday’s Times-Picayune depicts a book titled “Nothing: Something to Believe In.”

Give me a break.

I’m by this the way I am about the television news a couple of days ago describing the panic in America as a result of a) Obama’s election and b) the increase in murder/suicides by crazies, both of which, we’re told, have resulted in a rush to buy more guns and stock up on ammunition.

Talk about over-reacting.

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How does this look for a sermon on prayer? Text: “But certainly God has heard me; He has attended to the voice of my prayer. Blessed be God, who has not turned away my prayer, nor His mercy from me” (Psalm 66:19-20).

And here are some possible points:

HOW DEAR

HOW NEAR

HOW CLEAR

HOW QUEER

Still with me? “How dear” is our God who would deign to hear from people such as you and I, sinners all. Somewhere I recall hearing of some pagan who for the first time learned about the God revealed in Scriptures. He exclaimed, “There! I always told you there had to be a god like that!”

“How near” is our God to us when we pray. He is near to the brokenhearted (Psa. 34:18) and near to all who call upon Him (Psa. 145:18). We are wise to call upon Him when He is near (Isa. 55:6). God says, “Am I a God who is near? And not a God far off (Jeremiah 23:23)?”

“How clear” is the Scripture’s teachings on this. “It will also come to pass that before they call, I will answer, and while they are still speaking, I will hear” (Isa. 65:24). “You have not because you ask not” (James 4:3). “Ask and you shall receive” (Matthew 7:7). What could be clearer?

“How queer” it is that even with all these insights and promises and a Lord so great, so loving and so available, we pray so little, so poorly, and so ineffectively.

The Lord Jesus said, “Until now you have asked for nothing in my name. Ask and you will receive that your joy may be made full” (John 16:24).

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I’m struck by Paul’s tribute to Stephanas in I Corinthians 16. Along with his circle of family and friends, this brother in the Lord did three things earning him an “honorable mention” in Holy Scripture—

1. Stephanas and his circle of family and friends were addicted to ministry. That’s quite a tribute. In our day, when people see needs, they do as the Lord’s disciples did in the early part of John 9 and get into debates over who is to blame. But there are among us a few who have no time for such pointless dilly-dallying. They jump in to see what they can do to alleviate the situation.

2. Stephanas and his gang filled the cracks of service. Paul says, “They completed what was lacking on your part.” It would have been so easy for Stephanas to become angry over dropped commitments and failed promises. But he didn’t. When the pledges of support from Corinth did not arrive as promised, Stephanas stepped in and ministered to Paul in whatever ways he required. (There’s no way to know, but I’m betting Paul needed some cash!)

3. As a result, Paul says, “they refreshed my spirit.” (I Corinthians 16:18) All around the great apostle were people who were bleeding him dry — draining his spirit, eroding his strength, exhausting his patience. Then, along comes Stephanas and his friends. When they depart, Paul is recharged, renewed, refreshed, and ready to go again.

That’s the kind of person I want to be. “Lord, make me a refresher. I want to be one who finds the brother in the ditch or sprawled along the wayside where life has felled him, and stands him on his feet.”

I like finding signs with misprints. Often these are the results of a miscommunication between the person who orders it and the one who prints it. For instance, a sign in front of a local neighborhood center announced: “A DULT DANCE — Thursday 7 pm.” It was repeated just like that on the other side.

I read that and wondered, “What is a dult? And why are they invited to the dance and no one else?”

In a book, this misprint gave me a chuckle: “They are up there hugging one anther.” Someone had written underneath, “I’ll hug an anther. Show me one.”

That all brings to mind a famous bit of graffiti observed on a New York subway. Someone had scrawled, “I love grils.” Underneath, another person had written: “Girls.” And under that, a third person had penned: “But what about us grils?”

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Our firstborn son Neil was ordained as a deacon Sunday night at the First Baptist Church of Kenner. He and five others “are already deacons,” said Pastor Mike Miller. “We’re only recognizing the reality of who these men are — servants in every way.”

Unbeknownst to Neil, some of our family came in for the occasion. One day last week, I told him, “I need two times with you Saturday—at 3:30 and at 7 o’clock. I need you to go somewhere with me.” He said, “Dad! That’s the Final Four weekend! I have these games to watch.” I laughed, “Tough.” And then assured him he wouldn’t miss much of them.

Saturday at 3:30, he and I drove toward the airport, only 5 minutes from his house. He said, “Who do I know who is flying in for this?” Then, when he saw I was pulling into the departure area, he said, “You’re sending me somewhere.” Earlier, he guessed we were renting him a convertible since the weather was so stupendous. (I might have if I’d thought of it!)

As we cruised along slowly in front of the terminal, he said, “There’s Marty!” (His brother) He jumped out and they bear-hugged. A precious moment.

At 7 o’clock that night, he (per instructions) drove to my house in his van. I said, “Let’s go downtown.” Since we have never ever met any incoming visitors downtown — they either drive in or fly in — he had no clue what we were doing. When I said, “Turn left on Loyola,” he said, “Okay, who do I know who would come to see us on Greyhound?” I said, “Or Amtrak.” (The same building offers both bus and train service.)

We parked in the loading zone and I said, “I’ll stay with the van. Go inside and walk around until you see someone you know.” A few minutes later, he exited carrying luggage, and was followed by my two sisters, Patricia Phelps and Carolyn Lampman and Trish’s daughter Deanna. A great surprise. Neil told them, “I am so honored you would do this for me.”

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We wrote this caption on a poster Wednesday at our monthly ministers’ meeting. Before soliciting their suggestions on what to tell our congregations concerning the economic situation our country is facing, I posed a different question to them.

“How many of your churches are hurting financially, how many are holding their own, and how many are doing better this year than last?”

Interestingly, only four pastors indicated their congregational giving was down, a larger number — perhaps ten — said their giving was about the same, and six indicated their contributions are higher than last year.

I was surprised. The church contributions to the association for both February and March are down considerably except for a substantial gift from one church in February that offset the otherwise negative numbers. My hunch was that, just as we hear of denominational agencies cutting back on expenses as a result of declining revenues, at the grass roots level our church incomes are suffering and are thus the ultimate culprit.

The fact that we are doing well (in the local churches) might be an anomaly for Louisiana, since we constantly hear that this state is not suffering the declines in employment or personal income other states are facing. Much of this is due to the rebuilding boom in the New Orleans area, a phenomenon associated with post-Hurricane Katrina life.

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I hate it when a call like this comes in. A young man whom I wed to his fianc

My grandson Grant is nearing 15 years of age and I love him dearly. However, it will not surprise readers who are grandparents that I miss the Grant who was the little boy of two or three or four. I was pastoring the First Baptist Church of Kenner and, with his parents’ permission, would often spend one afternoon a week with him. We would have lunch at McDonald’s — he was enamored with Ronald McDonald — and then visit the Audubon Zoo or a park to feed the ducks or a playground somewhere.

One day, I wrote this little poem about our relationship, from Grant’s perspective—

Title: “We’re very good friends, my grandpa and I.”

He tells me long stories

Of bad guys and thieves,

Of boys Joe and Jason

Who live in my trees.

He takes me to McDonald’s

At least once a week.

He reads his magazine,

We play hide and seek.

We love to feed the ducks

And sea gulls and squirrels.

We throw them bread and popcorn

–just us guys, no girls.

He tells me how much he loves me;

I say I love you more.

I love you all the way to Alabama.

He loves me to Singapore.

(This seems to have been inspired by a child’s book of a similar title. I should have gone further with the poem, and as I recall, that was the original plan. But this is all there is of it.)

In his commentary on James, Kent Hughes tells of an experience Howard Hendricks had while speaking at a Sunday School convention. (Hendricks taught Christian Education at Dallas Theological Seminary for over 40 years; he’s one of the Lord’s true originals.)

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As of last Saturday, I am the age of Ronald Reagan when he was elected president the first time. With him as my role model, I now have time for another career.

Someone asked this morning if I intend to enter politics. I said, “No. The movies.”

Two days before me, Speaker of the House Nancy Pelosi and movie actor James Caan also reached the advanced age of 69. They look better and younger than me because they color their hair.

I’m considering going into denial about future birthdays. I may resort to the Greer Garson line: “Age is just a number and mine is unlisted.”

Got time for some stuff?

(In a conference, a friend, observing me dropping in an occasional humorous line, accused me of shallowness. I responded, “Everyone of those quips is profound. But most people don’t take the time to study them. That’s their problem, not mine.” That’s not entirely true, but I like to pretend it is!)

This fellow said their family used to have a “mobile” outhouse. In the summer it was 65 steps and in the winter it was a mile-and-a-half.

I had a garage sale. In the very first hour I sold $849 worth of stuff—for 39 dollars and 50 cents.

Two old men were talking. One said, “I’m going to live to be 120.” The other said, “I’m gonna miss you.”

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