It would have been almost funny had it not been so serious.

In a session with the leadership of a troubled church, I gave them examples of congregations I’ve seen over nearly a half-century of ministry that dealt with similar divisive situations as they were facing, sometimes wisely and sometimes not.

I told of one church where the new pastor was discovered to be a homosexual and was making overtures to a student in the congregation. When the deacon leadership found out, they dealt with it promptly and firmly. All the congregation knew was that the pastor resigned suddenly and was moved back to South Carolina. Because the members supported their leadership, no one left the church. Six months later, I came as pastor of that wonderful church and stayed over a dozen years.

I told of a church where the new pastor’s girlfriend’s father came to town and confronted him. “Tell these people what you’ve been doing or I’ll tell them for you!” The pastor called a quick meeting of the deacons and informed them of this sordid business in his “distant past which the Lord has forgiven.” The deacons had no clue what to do but within days, the congregation began unraveling at the seams. Seven months later, they finally voted that pastor out, but not before half the congregation had departed. A year later, I came as pastor of that damaged church and stayed nearly fourteen years.

One church handled its problem well, the other did not.

Then, a week after our meeting, the chairman of deacons of the church I was trying to help called. “One of our former pastors was talking to some of our members this week. He told them you were the preacher who tore up that church. He said you were the culprit.” Furthermore, he said, that rumor was being circulated throughout the congregation.

I said, “Can you give me that pastor’s phone number?”

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First.

William Perkins, editor of Mississippi Baptist’s weekly “The Baptist Record,” reports in the December 11 issue of a creative Christmas gift that Planned Parenthood has concocted: a gift certificate for an abortion.

“From the folks who gave us ‘Choice on Earth’ Christmas cards last year in a twisted effort to commemorate this country’s modern-day Slaughter of the Innocents that has claimed more than 50 million babies, the Indiana state affiliate of Planned Parenthood is offering gift certificates that can be redeemed for any of their ‘services.'”

The come-on promises that by giving a friend this certificate you will “contribute to their health throughout the year.” They don’t tell how such a gift will contribute to the health of the aborted babies, William notes.

He quotes Alveda King, niece of Martin Luther King, Jr., who said, “The word inappropriate hardly describes Planned Parenthood’s scheme. To give someone a gift card from the nation’s largest abortion business is to give death for Christmas.”

She continues, “Planned Parenthood really should call these ‘King Herod’ certificates after the Roman ruler who slaughtered tiny babies in his vain attempt to kill the baby Jesus. Better yet, it should just leave Christmas, a celebration of birth, hope, and life, completely alone.”

Amen, sister. And Brother Perkins.

Second.

We in the New Orleans area have just been treated to the most ghastly display of the flesh, a nightmarish picture of what happens when one’s ego goes unchecked.

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“Whose woods these are I think I know,

His house is in the village though.

He will not see me stopping here

To watch his woods fill up with snow.”

Every time we get a snow of any degree, I pull out my volume of Robert Frost poems and walk into the woods and read that one titled something like “Stopping By Woods on a Snowy Evening.” Even those not familiar with it know the last part…

“…but I have miles to go before I sleep, And miles to go before I sleep.”

We woke up granddaughter Leah Peters, our first-born, now 19 years old, down from New Hampshire for a week, and said, “Thank you for bringing the snow!” She sleepily came to the front door and looked out at a world all too familiar to every New Englander, rubbed the nighttime out of her eyes and said, “You’re welcome,” then went back to bed.

The complication for me is that I’m trying to drive north to Jackson, Mississippi today for the memorial service for Dr. Frank Pollard, scheduled for 2 pm at the First Baptist Church. I’ve assured Margaret if the roads get too bad, I’ll turn around. And I’ve given my cell phone number to Mary Glass in Jackson and asked her to let me know if she learns the service has been postponed. I don’t want to miss this opportunity to express my deep appreciation for such a dear brother in Christ.

In the daily call to my nearly 93-year-old mom on the Alabama farm, I was exulting about the snow. She said, “West Virginia ruined you!” We laughed at that.

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After the busiest autumn in memory — with outside speaking in Virginia, Alabama, Oklahoma, Mississippi, and Louisiana, alongside my regular work here at the associational office — I finished up Tuesday night with a ministers and wives Christmas banquet in the western section of our state. Suddenly the calendar is clear for the rest of December and throughout most of January. It’s a strange feeling, after praying so diligently about each one of those preaching assignments for months and then to have them abruptly go away.

Recently, I felt the Lord impressing upon me that just because the event was over (and that I had traveled to that city, arrived at the church, gotten up, delivered the message, and left town without betraying the Lord, embarrassing my hosts or humiliating myself!), that was no reason to quit praying for those who had heard the sermons. Ever since I’ve continued praying for the friends who attended the two day associational meeting in Newport News in October, the directors of missions in Alabama, the pastors and others in Alabama who made up that convention audience in November, the church members in several states where I brought Sunday messages, and the pastors and associational leaders in Oklahoma.

Praying what? Not knowing what else to pray for, I simply ask the Lord to bless the continuing effect of the messages He gave me in the hearts and minds of those who heard. Beyond that, I just leave it with the Lord. (What I most certainly do not ask is that He will let anything about me personally linger in their hearts; it’s about Him, not me.)

The biggest difference in my preaching at special events now and say, twenty-five years ago, is prayer. From the moment the invitation arrives, I add it to my daily prayer routine and intercede for those who will be present and seek God’s will for what to preach. Invariably now, when I rise to preach, I am as sure as I can be that I know what He wants me to say. And that, I confess to you, is a far cry from where I used to be.

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One afternoon last week, driving down Little Farms Avenue in my New Orleans suburb, I spotted the small SUV approaching the intersection from the right. The driver had a stop sign and I had the right of way, so all was well. Then I noticed something disturbing.

The woman behind the wheel was not looking to her left, that is, from the direction of the traffic in front of her. As she eased closer to the street, clearly planning to turn right, she was looking to the right, not to the left. I could hardly believe my eyes. “She’s going to hit me,” I thought. She never once looked in my direction.

But I was ready.

Over the years, I have learned a little trick that has saved me from at least half dozen accidents in the 18 years we’ve lived in metro New Orleans: in busy traffic, my right hand is at three o’clock on the wheel, which puts my thumb on the horn. When a crisis happens suddenly, I tense, my hand squeezes, and the horn blows. The driver of the other car gets the wake-up message and whips back into the lane.

That’s what saved that careless woman and me from colliding that afternoon. At the next traffic light, she had recovered and was now behind me. She signaled with her hands, implying, I suppose, that she was sorry. I gave no indication I had seen her. I wanted her to think seriously about the foolishness of pulling into traffic without stopping or checking to make sure it was safe.

Defensive driving means more than just taking care of oneself and making certain you are driving carefully. It means watching the other guy, anticipating what he or she might do, and being prepared for anything.

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My preacher friend dropped down beside me in the pew. The first session of our annual state convention was about to get underway. I treasure his friendship and rejoice at the outstanding work he is doing in this his third pastorate. He’s new in our city and we are blessed to have him.

“What did you do today?” I asked.

He smiled. “I’ve spent the day at the pastors conference at the seminary.”

“How was it?”

“Great. They had some terrific speakers.”

“How was the attendance?”

“Good actually,” he said, and named two or three mutual friends he had bumped into.

I looked around and said, “I don’t see them here tonight.”

He said, “They won’t be here. I told them I was heading out to the first session of the convention and asked if they were going. One rolled his eyes and said, ‘Boring!'”

That conversation took place a month ago and I’ve thought about it ever since. It bugs me for several reasons.

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