I drove 70 miles each way last night to attend the wake of the father of one of our pastors who had suffered a massive heart attack at the age of 72. Pastor Lynn Rodrigue said, “Dad was in great health. In fact, he’d just had a physical and they had to ask him to step off the treadmill because he could have done that all day.” He said, “I suppose it was just his time.”

One never knows. And that’s the reason for this.

I need to say ‘thank you’ to some people while I’m still able to do so. On the one hand, I’ll be retiring from this position with New Orleans Baptists at the end of April, and since so many churches across our land have sent their members and resources our way in the last 3 years and six months, I need to thank them for that. Likewise, since I’m only three years younger than Mr. Rodrigue when he exited this life and since we have no foreknowledge of when our moment will be, I need to thank a lot of people for their input and encouragement to me through all these years.

If that sounds like an impossible job — to thank everyone who ever helped our New Orleans churches and me personally — I’m confident it is. Where to start and when to end!

On a personal level, I thank my family. My devoted wife of nearly 47 years, Margaret, and our wonderful sons Neil and Marty and their incredible wives, Julie and Misha, and our daughter Carla. As the saying goes, “I couldn’t have done it without you.” Of course, the eight grands have added a dimension to my life like nothing else. In order of their appearance, this would be Leah, Jessica, Grant, Abby, Erin, Darilyn, JoAnne, and Jack.

I thank my wonderful Mom and terrific Dad (he’s in Heaven) who brought me into this world and nurtured me and taught me to appreciate work and the good earth, my beloved brothers and sisters who made sure I did not reach adulthood without the requisite numbers of scars and great memories, and my cousins and aunts and uncles who invited me into their homes (I remember every detail of every visit!) and introduced me to their worlds and let me know they believed in me.

Is this getting boring? I was afraid of that.

This must be one of those exercises that is meaningful only to the one doing it. When you finish, you feel like you’ve done something significant, but it’s not anything anyone else would want to read.

Okay, let’s try this approach….

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In the Florida Baptist Witness for January 15, 2009, the mother of Tim Tebow, all-star quarterback for the University of Florida’s national championship football team, tells how she and her husband raised their children, all of them winners. “We told them, ‘if you hang around with fools, you’re going to suffer harm. You need to hang around with wise people.”

How we wish we could get that point across to every kid on the planet.

My grandchildren have a hard time believing that their grandpa was in trouble as a seventh-grader. I was running with two or three fellows whose idea of a good time was to sit on the back row in class and goof off, then cut class in the afternoon and roam around town. We smoked cigarettes (when we could get them), we stood around the pool hall (we didn’t have the money to play), and once we actually stole a student’s billfold.

One day it hit me that absolutely no part of these activities were fun. I was miserable. And that day, all by myself, at the advanced age of 12, I made a life-altering decision: I moved to the front row in class. That means I left the guys I’d been goofing off with on the back row, there were no distractions between the teacher and me, and I began enjoying class once more. Two years later, when a local civic club awarded a trip to the state capitol to the best students in the ninth grade, I was the boy representing our class.

The first Psalm has something like this in mind: “Blessed is the man that walketh not in the counsel of the ungodly, nor standeth in the way of sinners, nor sitteth in the seat of the scornful.”

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Remember the story in Luke 12 that Jesus told about the man who owned a magnificent farm that overproduced? He congratulated himself, tore down his barns and built bigger ones, and set himself up for a life of ease and luxury. God called him a fool and added, “This night your soul will be required of you. Then whose will these things be which you have provided?” The fellow died that night and his farm was left to his heirs.

Frank Pollard calls that story “The farm that owned a fool.”

A month ago, this wonderful preacher of the gospel went to Heaven, and many of us have been having Frank-Pollard-withdrawal ever since. A friend sent me a CD of some of his banquet talks which consist mostly of humorous poems and stories he told over the year. This morning, I ran across the small book Frank produced on the Gospel of Luke for the Southern Baptist annual Bible study a half-dozen years ago.

There are so many Pollardisms in it, I thought you would enjoy some of them. Then, if and when you decide to study this gospel more or if you plan to teach it or preach through it, I suggest you go to any of the on-line used-book-providers (my favorite is www.alibris.com) and order it.

Frank Pollard, I might ought to insert here for the few who are unfamiliar with him, was the longtime pastor of Jackson, Mississippi’s First Baptist Church. Time Magazine called him one of the 10 best preachers in America a generation ago. That was no fluke. Anyone who heard him preach regularly agrees. For fresh content, excellent application, and fascinating exegesis of Scripture, he had few peers.

Regarding the story of the prodigal son in Luke 15, when the boy comes home to a grand reception by the father, Frank writes, “Hollywood certainly would let the credits roll here. The boy is back; there is a joyous homecoming; the best calf has been butchered. The smell of barbecued beef and the sound of happy music are everywhere. A huge party is in process. Turn the house lights on.” Then he adds, “Our Lord did not end His parable there. The plot was just heating up. Jesus was getting to His main point.” He moves on to considering the older brother, who Frank says, “left his father without ever stepping off the front porch.” (pp. 15-16)

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Today is Inauguration Day in America, one unlike any other in our long history.

If I were writing President Obama’s inaugural speech, I’d have him approach the podium and call out, “Americans, we have overcome!”

We still have a lot of overcoming to do, but thank the Lord, some things are behind us.

It’s good to see Americans of all political stripes uniting behind our new chief executive. He will need all the good will and prayers we can direct his way as he faces the tough decisions of his new office.

“God bless him and keep Him. The Lord make His face to shine upon him and be gracious unto him. The Lord lift up His countenance upon him and give him peace.”

Now, other matters….

My friend Devona Able, wife of one, mother of three, and lawyer for the Social Security Administration up in Alexandria, Louisiana, tells about her two-year-old tumbling down the stairs. Her family was visiting in the home of friends, and both families’ young’uns were having a grand time throughout the house. After the child thump-thump-thumped down the stairs — Devona assures us he’s fine — they noticed a change in the children.

Thereafter, the kids hung around close to the adults. Before, they had been whooping it up and freewheeling around the place. But now they seemed to want an adult in their space. Their host made the observation — one which the theologian in us agrees with heartily — “Everything changed after the fall.”

Did it ever. Devona’s website is http://devonaable.org. You can read the whole story and Devona’s interpretation of it. She’d be proud to have you among her readers.

Writing in Time magazine for January 19, 2009, Justin Fox suggests that just as Congress passed a law in 1980 to make producers of toxic waste pay for its cleanup (the Superfund law), it ought to do the same with the perpetrators of the financial mess the country is having to rectify now. He suggests we find “the financial polluters and force them to ante up some of the bank-bailout money.” When we hear about the multi-million-dollar salaries and bonuses the executives of failing companies took home, it makes perfect sense to require them to give a great deal of it back.

Fox says the word for this is called “clawback,” and he does not expect it to happen. But a fellow can dream. (Justin Fox’s daily take on the economy is http://curiouscapitalist.blogs.time.com/. )

It’s been a while since a local newspaper columnist got my dander up, but James Gill did it Sunday morning. This ancient curmudgeon was waxing-an-elephant (okay, waxing eloquent) on the 2008 Louisiana legislature’s bill which allows schoolteachers to bring in interpretations on the origins of the universe other than evolution. The bill specifically says that nothing in it shall be construed as promoting religious doctrine. What it does and what it was meant to do, I expect, is to allow a science teacher to talk about “intelligent design” if he or she wants to without bringing the wrath of the ACLU or the board of education down upon their heads.

Well, Gill is sure that this opens the door for nutty religious people like you and me to bring our pulpits into the classroom and turn the place into a tent meeting. He is so anti-religion it isn’t funny.

The statement that really set me off was this: “Religion takes everything on faith, and science nothing.”

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The USS Astoria was a heavy cruiser that saw duty during World War II’s Battle of the Coral Sea and at Midway, then was sunk in August of 1942 at the Battle of Savo Island. On board in the fight for Savo was Signalman 3rd class Elgin Staples. Sometime around 2 a.m. on the ship’s final day, Staples was blown overboard when one of the Astoria’s gun turrets exploded. In the water, wounded in both legs by shrapnel and in a state of near-shock, Staples was kept afloat by a narrow lifebelt which he had activated by a trigger.

In his book, “The Grand Weaver,” Ravi Zacharias tells the fascinating story of what happened next.

Four hours after being blown into the Pacific, Staples was picked up by a passing destroyer and returned to the Astoria. Even though the cruiser had been severely damaged, her captain was trying to beach the ship in order to save her. When his attempts failed, Staples found himself back in the water. By now, it was noon.

This time it was the USS President Jackson that plucked him out of the water. On board, Staples studied that little lifebelt which had saved his life twice that day. He noticed the belt was manufactured by the Firestone Tire and Rubber Company of Akron, Ohio, and carried a registration number.

Allowed to go home for a visit, Staples related his story to the family and asked his mother, who worked for Firestone, the purpose of the registration number on the belt. She pointed out that the company was holding employees responsible for their work in the war effort, and that each worker had his/her own number. Staples recalled everything about that lifebelt, including the registration number. As he called it out, his mother’s eyes grew large. She said, “That was my personal code that I put on every item I was responsible for approving!”

His mother had made the belt which had saved his life twice.

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Sunday morning, the lay leader of Faith Baptist Church, Calvin Watson, announced that as they were entering their new sanctuary and educational building for the very first time, the church is debt free. This lovely edifice at the corner of South Claiborne and Fern in New Orleans is the culmination of the hopes of this nomadic group of wonderful friends who left the membership of FBC of New Orleans some 7 years ago when the mother church relocated to the Lakeview area. The Faith folks wanted to maintain a witness in the Uptown area. For several years, they worshiped with the First Presbyterian Church, then after Katrina scattered everyone, met with Riverside in River Ridge, and then ever since with Rayne Memorial United Methodist Church on St. Charles Avenue.

Emile Wagner, member of a Catholic church and devoted friend of Faith Church (he’s a lawyer who has helped negotiate the rapids of purchasing the new property; his daughter Lori leads the worship at Faith), told the congregation, “See the wooden pegs coming out from the base of the pews? Those used to hold kneeling rails; the pews are from St. Rita’s Catholic Church.” A few moments before, the congregation had been kneeling at the front altar to dedicate the church and themselves. Emile said, “As a Catholic, it did me good to see us all on our knees!”

During the announcements, Calvin Watson said, “When you enter the bathrooms, look under the door latch and you’ll find the privacy button. Just push that and you’ll have privacy. When you turn the latch, it clicks off.” Everyone smiled. I said, “I’ve been coming to Baptist churches all my life and that’s the first time I’ve ever heard that announcement!”

Pastor Tim Searcy preached on the praise passage at the conclusion of Romans 11 and the first two verses of Romans 12, emphasizing the result of our praise and celebrating: we give ourselves to the Lord as living sacrifices.

Early Sunday morning, I ran up against a great Bible truth we all need from time to time. As Israel moves toward Canaan, Moses begins to get the Lord’s people mentally ready to face their enemies in battle. He emphasizes that they are not to be afraid (20:1,3), and then he does something really fascinating. He identifies four groups exempt from warfare: anyone who has built a new house and hasn’t dedicated it, anyone who has planted a new vineyard and not eaten of it, anyone engaged to a wife who hasn’t married her yet, and anyone scared out of his wits.

Think of that — if you’re afraid, go on home. You don’t have to fight. (We can easily envision every last member of the military saying, “Okay. See you.”)

Why such a liberal policy concerning the fainthearted? “Lest the heart of his brethren faint like his heart.” (Deut. 20:8)

Fear is contagious.

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My nearly-93-year old mother said the other morning in our daily phone call, “You know, I really think Obama is going to do well, don’t you?” I assured her I’m praying that he will.”

Fun to see her so engaged in this. And thrilling to see millions of Americans so caught up in this inauguration.

The Parade magazine this Sunday morning says Obama just finished reading Jonathan Alter’s book on FDR’s first one hundred days — The Defining Moment — a book we have alluded to in this blog. I finally finished it last night, and am pleased he has read it. It covers two things in great detail, first, the transition from the old Hoover presidency to the incoming presidency of Roosevelt. The lessons in that are massive. Hoover kept urging the incoming president to take action to prevent the further decline of the economy. FDR kept reminding him that “you are the president; do it yourself.” In his memoirs, we’re told, Hoover blames FDR for the sad state of the country’s financial mess at the time of the transition. Seems to me like a leader who refused to lead, then blames others for his own failures.

Secondly, Alter covers the first few months of FDR’s administration. To my surprise, it turns out the new team had no grand scheme for how they were going to turn things around in this country. They just pulled leaders together and brainstormed and tried various things. Some worked and some didn’t.

I spoke Friday night to a large meeting of pastors and deacons and their spouses in Jackson County, Mississippi, meeting at the FBC of Moss Point. They asked me to speak on “giving it away,” which is another way of saying, “share your faith in Christ.” I was glad to do so.

From the time the invitation came my way, I did what I always do and began praying the Father would lead me about what to tell them. Usually, the answer arrives in time for me not to be anxious, but in this case, it was Friday before I knew.

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Do you know Sumner Redstone? His autobiography is called “A Passion to Win.”

In the days when he was chairman of Viacom, Redstone ruled over an empire which included CBS, Paramount, Blockbuster, Simon and Schuster, and about half the channels on your cable system. As a young man, he graduated first in his class at Boston Latin, sailed through Harvard in three years, learned Japanese and decoded messages for the O.S.S. (forerunner of the CIA) during World War II, and argued cases before the Supreme Court—all before beginning his business career.

Not your average joe.

In 1979, Sumner Redstone checked into Boston’s Copley Plaza Hotel. Sometime after midnight he smelled smoke and made the mistake of opening the door. Immediately he was engulfed in flames. Just down the hall, his co-worker opened his door and stepped into the corridor — and was burned to death.

Redstone staggered across his room and managed to open a window. He was able to climb onto a ledge just outside his third-floor window and kneel there, his right hand clinging to the windowsill. Flames shot out the window, roasting his arm and hand. His legs had been burned to the arteries and now his arm was charring. He thought if he could just hold on a little longer, surely help was on the way.

What he did not know was that Copley had not wanted anyone to know they had a problem and had not called the fire department.

For what seemed an eternity, Redstone held on to the ledge. “The pain was excruciating,” he writes, “but I refused to let go. That way was death.”

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It was near midnight when the phone rang and Pastor Jim Cymbala answered. A pastor in South Dakota was on the phone. He wanted the Brooklyn pastor to know God had laid the inner city on his heart and seemed to be directing him to bring his family to New York. Pastor Jim listened politely, then told him how things were there.

Jim and Carol Cymbala were just beginning the work which would become the great Brooklyn Tabernacle. In those days, only a few people were meeting, the finances were small, and both the pastor and his wife were holding down two jobs to make ends meet. That night, he promised the South Dakota pastor he would ask the Lord to direct their steps.

One week later almost to the minute, the phone rang again. “We’re coming!” the South Dakota pastor said. “My wife, two kids, and I are packing up and leaving for New York tomorrow!” The Lord had spoken so clearly to them, he said, they had no doubt this was what they were to do.

This surprising turn of events unnerved Pastor Cymbala. What are these folks expecting from him? He had no work for them and no place for them to stay. He had not invited them to come to New York and yet they were on their way.

He asked the preacher to call him when they got to New Jersey.

Four days later, the phone call came. They were almost to New York. Jim ran to the store and bought the cheapest steaks he could find. Relating this story in “The Church God Blesses” (Zondervan, 2002), Pastor Cymbala says, “We didn’t have much money, but we wanted to be as hospitable and gracious as possible.”

That evening the Cymbalas received the young husband and wife and two beautiful children into their home. Over supper, they listened to their plans to make their lives count for God in New York City. Jim writes, “I was too shy and inexperienced to ask about their former pastorate or how they were able to leave South Dakota on such short notice.”

Soon the question arose as to where they could stay. Eventually, Jim and Carol decided they could make them a bedroom on the second floor of the church. “It wasn’t much but an elderly lady lived up there in a tiny apartment and another church member lived on the premises with her daughter.”

During the Friday night activities at the church, the visitors met some members of the congregation. On Sunday, Pastor Cymbala introduced them to the church. “I noticed he had gotten friendly with some of the members very quickly.”

Everything was going fine. Or so it seemed.

Then everything began to unravel.

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