“You never know if the Lord is enough until He’s all you have left.”

I don’t know who first said that — I suspect only the Lord does — but these days, with the worldwide economy seeking new subterranean territory, it’s a good reminder. It may well be that before this is all over, He is all any of us have left.

But He will be enough.

Over three thousand years ago, the Lord made a simple little statement to explain the situation concerning the tribe of Levi as Israel made plans to divvy up the Promised Land. That statement resonated with David the Psalmist and soon found its way into a number of his songs—and forever lodged itself in our hearts.

The Lord was laying out the portions of the newly acquired country which would be assigned to each of the twelve tribes. On the east bank of the Jordan, Manasseh gets the territory to the north, Reuben gets the section below that, and Gad the southernmost land. On the west bank, which was much larger, the other tribes were assigned portions large and small, depending on their population. Everyone except the Levites, the priestly tribe. They received no land.

“I am your portion and your inheritance among the children of Israel,” the Lord said (Numbers 18:20). This was repeated in Deuteronomy 10:9, “Therefore, Levi has no portion nor inheritance with his brethren; the Lord is his inheritance; just as the Lord your God promised him.” Deuteronomy 18:1,2 reaffirms it.

When you’re slicing up the pie, so to speak, the Lord is your slice.

The question is: is that enough for you?

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This week, New Orleans has been hosting the national (annual) gathering of the state directors of evangelism from across the country. Included among these leaders were their associate staff members, professors of evangelism from our six SBC seminaries, and leaders in this work from our North American Mission Board. All in all, there must have been two or three hundred here, including a few spouses, all of them champions of the Lord’s work.

Tuesday afternoon, we chartered four buses for tours of the Katrina-affected areas of metro New Orleans. Freddie Arnold, David Rhymes, Keith Manuel (former pastor of Calvary here, now associate in our state evangelism office), and I were tour guides. We left the Westin Hotel on Poydras and drove north into Lakeview, across to Gentilly, down Franklin Avenue, eastward on Galvez to see the Baptist Crossroads/Musicians Village home sites in the Ninth Ward, out Claiborne Street into St. Bernard Parish, past Celebration-St. Bernard and FBC-Chalmette churches, north on Paris Road to Interstate 10, and then westward back into the city. We drove onto the campus of our seminary where an official boarded each bus to give us the grand tour of this site. Then, it was back to the French Quarter for caf

Maribelle was raised by godly parents to be a faithful Christian. During her teens, she rebelled, however, and ended up marrying Geoff, an undisciplined and ungodly young man. Life was parties and drinking and such. When they found they were going to have a baby, they ran to the pastor for a quick wedding. And that’s when Maribelle changed.

One day she announced to Geoff that she wanted their child raised in a Christian home the way hers had been, that she wanted to go to church and worship as a family. She wanted to pray before meals and to read the Bible together. Geoff, understandably, felt betrayed. This was not the woman he had married and not the lifestyle he had signed on for.

The marriage did not survive.

Lawrence sat in Bob’s living room sharing the gospel. “Believe on the Lord Jesus Christ,” he said, “and you will be saved.” Bob admitted he definitely wanted to go to Heaven, that he would like his sins forgiven, and needed peace in his heart. They prayed together and Lawrence assured Bob God had heard his prayer and his sins were forgiven and his name was written in down in heaven. Everything was fine. Almost.

Soon, folks from the church dropped in on Bob and invited him to the services. “You’ll want to be baptized and join the church,” they said. “And here are some offering envelopes.” A letter from the pastor arrived, inviting him to a new members’ class.

So far, Bob has yet to darken the doors of the church. The pastor and Lawrence, meanwhile, scratch their heads and wonder what’s wrong with the church’s discipleship program and why new converts aren’t interested in growing in their faith.

The problem may not be with the church’s discipleship or with the new convert. The problem lies with how they do evangelism. The simple fact is that Lawrence did not tell Bob the full story. He led him to join up, so to speak, without informing him of what he was joining. As with Geoff’s marriage, Bob signed on for the Christian faith and then found the expectations to be more than he had in mind.

Imagine a recruiter for the military bringing in a new recruit, getting him through the physical, and swearing him into the service without informing him of what would be expected. And then, imagine the new recruit thanking the sergeant, wishing him well, and picking up his bag and heading back home, expecting everything to go on as before.

We’ve all known of unscrupulous salesmen conning unsuspecting buyers into signing on for a set of stainless steel-ware or a used car or a set of encyclopedias, without telling them of the fine print in the contract. Later they would find their obligations to be beyond what they expected and would feel betrayed.

We who call ourselves disciples of the Lord Jesus Christ would do well to see how the Lord reached people and then imitate His methods. Luke 18:18-23 presents a case full of insights.

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A pastor friend told us of the time he took his family to a neighboring church’s Christmas Eve midnight service. He and his wife loved it — they could enjoy the presentation without worrying about the details, a rarity for a minister — but for his seven-year-old daughter, it was a different matter. She was eager to get home and into bed so Christmas could arrive on time. As the worship service dragged on, the child became impatient. When the minister began reading the second chapter of Luke — “Now, it came to pass in those days that a decree went out from Caesar Augustus…” — she said in a voice that carried into the next county, “I have HEARD this story!”

We have all heard it. But it bears repeating again and again.

My friend Doug Oldham loves to sing, “Tell me that name again. Tell me that name again. Tell me that name again—that name is Jesus.” The old hymn goes, “Tell me the story of Jesus. Write on my heart every word. Tell me the story most precious — sweetest that ever was heard.” When I was a child in that wonderful Methodist church in Affinity, West Virginia, number 100 in the hymnal was one I have loved ever since: “I love to tell the story of Jesus and His love….tis pleasant to repeat, what seems each time I tell it more wonderfully sweet.” It goes on to say, “And when in scenes of glory, I sing the new, new song, ’twill be the old, old story that I have loved so long.”

Granted, some stories do not bear repeating even once. And some that can stand a couple of repetitions get old quickly. My cousin Annette Spain interrupted the family reunion to take a call from her daughter Renee who had stayed home that weekend. “How was church this morning?” Annette asked, then broke into laughter. A couple of minutes later, she explained that the home church pastor had pulled out an old time-worn story and used it on the congregation for the umpteenth time. It involved a little girl who had strayed from home and fell into an abandoned well. The neighbors came together to search for her and eventually to rescue her. “I get so tired of that story,” Annette said, “that sometimes I find myself rooting against them finding the kid just out of pure meanness!”

We all know the feeling.

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It’s my very own piece of furniture, the only one I don’t share with my wife. It stands higher than my head and opens with two doors to reveals shelves where I can stock handkerchiefs and socks and odds and ends and unload my pockets each night. The various drawers contain the usual assortment of clothing as well as winter sweaters and long-forgotten personal items. When I die, the family will commence strip-mining operations on my armoire. My coin jar is there, filled with buffalo nickels I collected in 1964 while working at the Coca-Cola Bottling Company in New Orleans. My DVD player is there, for some reason, and cards and photos from the many times I have unloaded and simplified my wallet.

So, now, think of today’s blog as my armoire: lots of interesting and mostly unrelated stuff.

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I’m sporting a red bruise high in the middle of my forehead that Mikhail Gorbachev would envy. Friday, after throwing a log on a fire in the middle of the field, I raised up and whacked my head on a low-hanging limb. More about that below.

Wednesday, at Alpha Cottingham’s funeral, evangelistic singer (and her husband W.O’s cousin) Ronnie Cottingham provided special music and told a story about this wonderful pastor’s wife. “Miss Alpha called to ask if I could come and do a full one-hour concert. I told her I could if the preacher invited me. He did and we worked it out. The night of the concert, I came in and got set up and started singing — but Alpha wasn’t in the crowd. I checked and discovered she was keeping the nursery. No one else was available, so she took care of the little ones so others could attend the concert.”

A servant heart.

Early in the week, Margaret suggested I ought to go see my Mom for Thanksgiviing. I’d thought about it. I’ve not been home in several months and it’s a 7 hour drive, but at Mom’s age (nearing 93), I need to get there when I can. So, Thursday morning, I left the city early and drove to north Alabama. I’d asked the family to save some leftovers for my supper. Leftovers where my Mom and sisters are concerned would be a feast anywhere.

After supper, we did something we’ve not done in a couple of years: played rummy. (This has been our family’s pastime since Dad taught us to play when we were children.) My brother Ron and I played sister Patricia and her husband James. How the game turned out is never the point; the fellowship and camaraderie is. And that’s how it came about that we received the best laugh of the week from our Mom.

I forget what we were talking about. James happened to mention that one of his co-workers for the phone company, many years ago, was a part-time preacher. They were working out of town and one night, James walked into the man’s hotel room and found two Playboy magazines laying on the bed. The man recovered quickly and said, “James, look what was laying on the floor when I checked into this room today!” Um hummm. Sure.

I had my own contribution to the story. “When our younger son Marty was four years old, we were living in an apartment complex in Jackson, Mississippi. One day, he found a Playboy out behind the building. When Margaret tried to take it from him, he wouldn’t let her have it. ‘It’s my magazine,’ he kept insisting.”

They all smiled. Then from the kitchen, Mom said, “Why? He was only four. He couldn’t read.”

A pure heart.

(Everyone around the table agreed that Mom has probably never even seen that magazine.)

Now, about that tree burning.

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“When the Son of Man comes, will He find faith on earth?” (Luke 18:8)

What Jesus is looking for — was when He walked the dusty roads of Galilee and is today — is faith. Nothing touches His heart like encountering someone who believes in Him and accepts that He is the living Son of God. “Without faith it is impossible to please God,” we read in Hebrews 11:6. That’s the point.

Four men heard Jesus was in the little house down the road and sprang into action. For days, they had been waiting on this moment. They hurried down to their friend’s house and loaded him onto a pallet. (A pallet could have been something as simple as a quilt.) Each grabbed a corner and they hoisted up their paralyzed colleague and proceeded out the door and down the road. Today, their friend would meet Jesus the Healer.

At the house, they ran into a problem. The place was packed out. People were stuffed into the doorways and hanging out the windows. No one made any move toward opening a way into the house for them.

No problem.

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“Pastor, I’m sorry, but I can’t just walk up to strangers at church and introduce myself and welcome them the way you’re asking us to. That’s just not my nature. I’m sorry.”

We all know the feeling. You walk into your church on Sunday morning, thinking about your Sunday School lesson or a hundred unrelated things. You greet a couple of friends on the way in, see some elderly member who needs a hug, get stopped by someone with a question about tonight’s fellowship, and you rush along. You did happen to notice that unfamiliar family looking lost in the entranceway, but you were in a hurry. Hopefully, someone will step up and assist them.

You hope someone will. You hope.

Now to be honest here, not every visitor to church looks as though they would welcome a greeting. Some wear frowns that signal their distaste for any social contact. Some may as well wear signs around their necks shouting, “Stand back!”

And, being respectful people, we don’t want to intrude. If they don’t want to be greeted, we can accommodate them. So, we look away and walk on.

Not all unfriendly churches are made up of cold people. Most are composed of salt-of-the-earth church members who want to do the right thing, but are a little shy and do not want to come across as pushy. They don’t want to intrude.

I have a word — two, actually — to shy Christians.

First: Get over it.

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Pastor Lawrence Armour of Epiphany Baptist Mission went to Heaven on Thursday of this week after a lengthy hospitalization at Ochsners and Tulane Hospitals. Over the years, Lawrence had had to deal with a series of on-going strokes which limited his life in important ways. We’ll post the funeral details here when we learn them.I don’t know Lawrence’s age, but estimate that he was around 50. Our hearts and prayers go out to his family.

Lawrence’s sister, Winniefred, is married to another of our fine pastors, Johnny Jones of Free Mission Church.

Alpha Cottingham, wife of Pastor W. O. Cottingham, of St. Rose went to Heaven last night (Friday). This incredible lady was in her early 80’s, I imagine, and was a constant fixture at associational meetings, right beside her husband. She and W. O. started the First Baptist Church of St. Rose in 1959 and they stayed with that ministry until his retirement in 2005.

I dropped by the FBC of St. Rose one weekday just after becoming director of missions. W. O. and I had known one another since my seminary days (mid-60s) when we pastored in the same parish (I was just across the river in Paradis). He and I had a nice visit that day as he filled me in on his ministry (he was police chaplain and associational hospital visitor among other things). Then he asked me to go home with him and see Miss Alpha. This was a church running perhaps 30 on Sunday morning, but that weekday morning Alpha had a dozen women and girls in her living room for a WMU meeting. She was something. A charming and classy lady.

Josh Carter pastors FBC St. Rose now. The services are expected to be at the church on Wednesday afternoon. Muhleisen Funeral Home of Kenner is in charge.

Please pray for these two families. We claim for them the assurance of Hebrews 6:10. “God is not unjust so as to forget your work of faith and the love which you have shown toward His name in having ministered to the saints and in still ministering.”

Now, other things….

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