January 6 each year is “King’s Day,” a tradition originally established to honor Baby Jesus. Someone centuries ago estimated that the Magi arrived in Bethlehem on this day and since they worshiped Him as “the King of the Jews,” ta-da—King’s Day.

Bakeries all over New Orleans are turning out King cakes. If you have ever lived in this area, you need no explanation. These pastries are calorie-rich and more expensive than they should be. Think of taking enough dough to make a cake, spreading it out flat, cutting it in strips, and then braiding the strips together and forming it all into a huge ring (of various sizes, but most are large enough for you to poke your head inside!). Inside or on top of the cake, you’ll find cinnamon and colored sugar and various kinds of fillings. And one more thing.

There’s a baby inside.

Supposedly representing Baby Jesus who was hid from King Herod by Joseph and Mary, the “doll” is plastic and an inch or two long. Just the ideal size for you to choke on it or break a tooth if you happen to bite down on it. That’s why some bakeries have discontinued hiding the baby inside the ring and including it inside a cellophane baggie.

The custom originated sometime in the past that when friends share a king cake, whoever ends up with the baby has to buy the next cake. And that has been the cause of friends falling out with one another! As I said, they’re not cheap.

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Years ago, an African-American friend showed me the worship bulletin his church had prepared for the memorial service of a mutual acquaintance. At the top of the page, I was surprised to read: “The Funeralization of John Doaks.”

Until that moment, it had never occurred to me that a funeral for my people was a funeralization for his. It was the first of an unending line of reminders I’ve received over the years in the ways blacks and whites in this country do things differently. Some readers of this blog reside in other countries — in recent days, we’ve heard from South Africa, New Zealand, Australia, and this morning from Scotland — and they may be surprised to learn while we’re all fellow citizens of the USA, our cultures are vastly different in many ways.

Saturday’s memorial service — they called it a celebration; I like that — for Pastor Marshall Truehill was unlike anything you will encounter in an Anglo service in this town. I counted the names of 17 ministers in the printed program. At one point, host pastor Dr. Dwight Webster (we were at neighboring Christian Unity Baptist Church) asked all ordained men and women in the audience to stand and introduce themselves; there must have been fifty.

I’ve paid tribute to Marshall in previous articles on this website, so I’m confining this to a few things readers will find interesting.

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With all the bowl games coming at us over this long Christmas-New Year’s holiday week, I have found myself wondering something. Why don’t coaches like Joe Paterno and Bobby Bowden retire? JoePa is in his 80s and Bobby is pushing 80. Yet, they hang on.

Brett Farve hangs on as a football player, as does Barry Bonds in baseball. You can think of others.

My question, incidentally, has nothing whatever to do with the win-loss record of the coaches. Paterno took his Penn State Nittany Lions to the Rose Bowl this year, so there may be a tendency to say, “Well, he can still do the job.” Bowden’s Florida State Seminoles went to a lesser bowl, but still had a fair year.

The question, “Why don’t they retire?” has more to do with what is the essence of living for these men.

In his World War II memoirs, “Flights of Passage,” aviator Samuel Hynes tells of a sergeant-major he knew in the war. The man was approaching mandatory retirement and everyone who knew him was concerned. He had no family anyone knew of and he spent all his time — all of it! — on the base doing military stuff. One day, they found his body in the office of his commanding officer. He had ended his life with a pistol.

He was afraid of life after the military.

And that, I offer to you as a proposal just to get the discussion started, is the reason people hang on to their jobs long after they should be handing them off to the younger generation: fear.

Fear of coming home to the family. Fear of having to face who they are when they’re not the coach or quarterback or pastor (or director of missions). Fear of what to do with their time and their lives. Fear of being considered old. Fear of fear.

Fear of life is a real problem.

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We are gathered in the chapel today to pay our last respects to our beloved sister and friend who was called to the Lord a few days ago.

As you look around, you no doubt notice that some friends you thought would be here are absent. I need to let you know that some people shy away from funeral homes with everything in them. Perhaps there are many reasons for this, but the big one is simply this: attending a service like this one forces people to think about the issues of life and death. And it will not come as news to you to learn that many people will do everything in their power to avoid such confrontations and examinations.

But you’re here and I’m here and there will never be a better time. So, let’s do it. Let’s think about life and death.

I’d like to give you four words about Life and four words about death, to take home with you and to reflect on in the days ahead.

FOUR WORDS ON LIFE….

1) Life is a mystery.

One of the great arguments in our society is when exactly life begins. A far greater mystery is the origin of life itself, as to when and how it began on this planet. And then, when the spirit departs and the body is no longer alive, what happened there? Where did the spirit go? There is an eternal mystery about life. Don’t be surprised if we never figure it all out this side of Heaven.

2) Life is a gift.

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1) The current issue of Pulpit Helps (January 2009) has resurrected an article of mine from four years ago and given it front-page coverage. “If you wanted to hurt the cause of Christ…” is both the title and the opening of the first sentence. It may be one of the most important things I’ve ever written. I’d love for you to go back and read it.

http://www.joemckeever.com/mt/archives/000072.html

The fascinating thing about running across something you wrote years ago is you get to read it as an outsider, as though picking it up for the first time. Fun.

2) The current issue of Architecture Digest (January 2009) has a huge article on actor Brad Pitt’s charitable/rebuilding work in New Orleans. He established a foundation and has poured money and time into the building of new “hurricane-proof” (we hope!) homes in the Lower Ninth Ward. Not quite the stereotypical image most of us have of Hollywood-types. Pitt and Angelina Jolie have a home in the French Quarter and remark on how well they’re treated by locals.

I’m not inviting him to fill the pulpit at my church anytime soon, but still….

3) The December 2008 issue of National Geographic has a display on King Herod whom they call the architect of the Holy Land. Fascinating, instructive.

One photograph shows small boulders that are “spiky with salt crystals” on the shore of the Dead Sea. Doctors ordered the nearly 70 year old King Herod to bathe in those waters. He was “feverish, itchy, and wracked with pain.” And then, “the therapy failed, and Herod, despondent and increasingly paranoid, tried to kill himself.”

It couldn’t have happened to a more-deserving fellow, one of the original “baddies” from history.

The same issue of the Geographic contains thought-provoking stuff on “Necessary Angels,” the illiterate women from India’s Untouchable class who are curing diseases and saving lives. Also, stand in awe of the incredible photographs from Mars. The article following the one on King Herod deals with the ever-persisting problem of looting archeological sites in that region of the world.

Aren’t we grateful for the public library where we can read these magazines without spending a dime!

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Pastor Marshall Truehill went to Heaven on Christmas afternoon. He pastored First United Baptist Church on Jefferson Davis Parkway in downton New Orleans and was a community activist on behalf of the poorest of our society. Saturday morning’s Times-Picayune carries a long obituary and tribute to him. I understand it was a heart attack.

Marshall was one of the most unforgettable characters you would ever meet. (You’ve heard me point out that this city has more than its share of those.) He was not content to sit in his pastor’s study and mourn over the conditions in this city, but got out and did things. Last election, he ran for City Council. He headed up several community organizations dedicated to solving the homeless and housing problems. He was a graduate of Xavier and New Orleans Baptist Theological Seminary (with a doctor of ministry) and just a few days ago, received a doctorate from the University of New Orleans.

Arrangements for his funeral have not been announced. Those wishing to contact Marshall’s wife Miranda may send notes to the church at 131 So. Jefferson Davis Parkway, New Orleans 70119.

Marilyn Woodward was no pastor but leaves a vacuum just as surely. She was a member of the First Baptist Church of Kenner when I was pastor there. For a number of years she worked in the welcome center at the entrance to Kenner just off Interstate 10 (at the Loyola exit). I cannot tell you the number of times she called me with information on new people to our city or old friends of mine she had met in her job. She had a heart for people and a gift for hospitality. I grieved when the city closed the center due to budget constraints a few years back.

Marilyn’s funeral will be Tuesday at 11 a.m. at Muhleisen Funeral Home on Williams Boulevard in Kenner.

Monday of this week, I drove to north Alabama to spend a couple of days with my Mom. Three miles this side of the house lies the cemetery where my wonderful Dad is buried. I always run by there. Lately, every time I visit the grave, I’ve found myself thinking the same thoughts….

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The ad for Macy’s in the Christmas edition of the Times-Picayune indicated that those incredible neckties would be 75 percent off Friday morning. By 1 o’clock, however, the price escalates by 10 bucks, and later in the day, the price returns to normal. As I considered the crowds jamming the aisles of the malls and the overstuffed parking lots, reality set in and I realized, “I don’t actually need a new necktie.” In fact, most of the forty hanging in my closet never see the light of day.

This year, for the first time in memory, I received not a single necktie for Christmas. If that’s not a sign of changing times, nothing is. My grandfather Virge Kilgore once remarked that his kids thought he had nothing but feet and a neck, judging by the socks and ties they sent his way for Christmas. That was 75 years ago. We’re still wearing socks, but the neckties are going the way of cutaway coats and ascots for preachers.

I’m not complaining, though. Life is always evolving in various ways, on numerous levels.

The best story I’ve read in a while….

“Sister Mary, a home health nurse, was visiting homebound patients when she ran out of gasoline. As luck would have it, a gas station was just a block away. She walked to the station to borrow a gas can and buy some gas. The attendant told her the only gas can he owned had been loaned out, but she could wait until it returned. Instead of waiting, she walked back to her car and grabbed the bedpan she was taking to a patient. Always resourceful, she carried the bedpan to the station and filled it with gas. As she was pouring the gas into the tank, two men watched from across the street. One turned to the other and said, ‘If it starts, I’m turning Catholic.'”

(from Pulpit Helps magazine, January 2009)

Random thoughts on sharing our faith with family members….

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(This was written a dozen years ago. I found it today and still mean it. If you know what real poetry is supposed to look and sound like, you may skip this!)

I’m grateful for my burdens,

For they have made me strong.

Thankful for my friends

Who tell me when I’m wrong.

I’m grateful for my critics

For sometimes they’ve been right,

And have been the voice of God to me

Even if doing it out of spite.

I’m thankful for my wife —

We’ve covered many a mile.

She’s signed on for the duration

And does it all in style.

I’m grateful for my children —

Two sons and a daughter.

This is where I thank Margaret again —

I’m so glad I caught her!

I’m particularly grateful for my grands —

Leah, Jessica, and Grant,

With several more on the way;

I think I may faint!

I’ve not had a real job in years.

I spend all my days around church.

I pray with folks, share their sorrows and their tears;

You couldn’t improve on this without a search.

I’m thankful for the deacons

Some have been my dearest friends,

Though I’ve wished they all would see me

Through rose-colored lens!

I’m grateful for our staff,

Ministers of God every one.

Not a lazy bone in their bodies,

Who don’t mind having some fun.

I’m thankful for the churches

The Father called me to pastor.

Though I’ve wished they all responded

To my leadership a little faster.

It’s great to know the Lord,

And to serve Him alongside you.

I expect we’ll be doing this

Until Gabriel takes his cue.

So let’s determine to help each other

To make the burdens a little easier,

To bless and pray, work and sing,

And make life a whole lot sweeter.

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