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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From NPR.org:

Mike Kilgore’s grandmother [and mine, and Lois McKeever’s mother]

We’re making Adam Gillespie “bonafide” tomorrow, Saturday. The ordination council comes at 4 pm, followed by the ordination service 90 minutes later. Obviously, we’re fairly confident he’ll pass the first easily to have scheduled the second on its heels.

“Bonafide” comes from the Latin meaning “good faith.” Fans of the wonderful movie “O Brother, Where Art Thou?” will recall the term being bandied about regarding George Clooney’s character. “Mama says you’re not bonafide!”

I use the term here tongue-in-cheek to mean that Adam is officially becoming a minister of the gospel with all the rights and privileges and even legal standings pertaining thereto.

Every denomination has its own procedures and qualifications to be ordained. Southern Baptists, easily the most loosely organized religious family on the planet, have our own also.

Even though every one of our thousands of churches is independent, we have a commonly recognized tradition as to who can be ordained. Either you have finished seminary or you are called to a ministerial position with a church, one or the other.

Usually, the church you will be serving sends a request back to your home church saying, “We’ve called this person to our staff and would like to request that you ordain him to the ministry.”

The home church does two things: One, schedules an ordination council in which the candidate (i.e., the minister-to-be) goes before a group of veteran ministers for a time of testimony and questions, and if everything is in order after that, two, arranges for a service of ordination, the official “setting aside” ceremony.

The ordination council has no official standing in the church and is formed by whoever shows up, of all the ones invited by the host pastor, in this case, Pastor Sam Gentry. All the council can do is recommend to the church that the minister be ordained. The congregation actually votes in the service to proceed with the event.

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Here’s one from Lincoln on humility. The source is Brian Lamb’s book, “Abraham Lincoln,” in which a chapter from David Herbert Donald contains the story.

Toward the end of the Civil War, Lincoln decided to visit Richmond to see what it had been like. A tugboat was found to carry him and his small party — including son Tad — up the river. Soon, they ran into barriers and obstructions placed to impede traffic, so they transferred to a smaller boat. Before long, a message arrived saying the army needed that boat. This time, the presidential party transferred to a rowboat. Lincoln uncomplainingly got into the rowboat and they slowly made their way toward Richmond.

“You know,” Lincoln said, “this reminds me of a little story.” Everything reminded him of a story; one more reason we adore him. “When I first came into office, there was a man who came to me applying for office from Illinois, I believe it was. He said, ‘I want to be secretary of state; won’t you appoint me?’ And I said, ‘I’m sorry, I can’t do that, I’ve already appointed Secretary Seward.’ ‘Oh,’ he said, ‘well, can’t you appoint me consul general to Paris?’ ‘No,’ I said, ‘that post is already filled.’ ‘Well, could you appoint me collector of customs in Austin?’ ‘No, that post is already filled.’ ‘Well,’ said the man, ‘at least, at least could you give me an old pair of pants?'” Lincoln added, “It pays to be humble, and I’m not upset by coming to Richmond in a rowboat.”

President Lincoln must have known our Lord’s teaching in Luke 14.

Here’s a story that is making the internet circuit, arriving at my desk this morning from longtime friend Ann Allen in Columbus, Mississippi.

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“Thank you” may not be the most profound thing you will hear or speak today. The person you direct those words to–let’s be honest–will not find them the most rewarding of utterances they receive throughout the day. In our society, they’re rather routine.

However, and this is what keeps us coming back to reminding ourselves to give thanks, the absence of those two words creates a deafening silence that may wound good people who have served well.

Thanksgiving can be trite or it can be a treasure. How we give it, the way we speak it, the smile on our countenance, and the sincerity in our voice, these infuse it with authenticity or diminish its worth.

Though I have the gift of eloquence and can move great audiences with the force of my words and have not thanks, I am become a self-righteous prig and an insufferable elitist.

Though I give the gift of great sacrifice and cause institutions to erect buildings in my honor and have not thanks for what others gave to me, I am become a royal pain and a Pharisee of the first order.

Thanks becometh the wearer, charms the receiver, softens the character, and eases the burdens of life. A grateful spirit is better adornment than jewels, a finer treasure than gold, and a greater attainment than all honors.

Thanks is not just words, but is imperfect until put into words. Thanks is more than an attitude, yet it is the best attitude.

Thanks is not godlike, for the God of the universe is beholden to no one and owes gratitude to none. And yet, we become most like our Heavenly Father when we acknowledge our debt to others and confess their contributions to our lives.

Thanks frees others up to do more, encourages them to do better, liberates our spirits to give more, and inspires everyone to his highest ideals.

Thanksgiving builds bridges between the estranged, maintains highways between friends, and erects barriers against pride.

So, go ahead. Give thanks today. It can’t hurt, and it might make a lasting difference in someone’s day.

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