People often ask me this when I’m speaking in other cities. I’m happy to report it’s doing just fine.

In fact, today, Friday, I sat in Leavell Chapel at New Orleans Baptist Theological Seminary and had a fresh update on the seminary’s comeback from Katrina. President Chuck Kelley was addressing a gathering of students, faculty, and friends who had assembled for a campus homecoming of sorts. I arrived late, and slipped into the back.

Two rows ahead of me sat Dr. and Mrs. Landrum Leavell. He was president of the seminary for some 20 years from the mid-70s to the mid-90s. Prior to that, he pastored FBC Wichita Falls, TX, FBC Gulfport, MS, and other outstanding churches. If you recognize that his name is the same as the chapel–and a number of other places on campus–it’s because his “Uncle Roland” was president of the seminary in the 40s and 50s. This gentleman hails from one of Southern Baptists’ most distinguished families. I might add that Dr. Landrum Leavell added to the luster of his family’s history. (He reads this blog, too, so I’ll watch myself here!)

As we sat taking in Chuck’s report, I quickly sketched out a cartoon of Dr. Landrum and the lovely JoAnn sitting in this beloved chapel. Above his head, the caption indicated that he was thinking, “I kept telling the trustees, ‘Apres moi, le deluge.'”

You history students will recognize that as a line from France’s 18th century King Louis XV who was predicting a flood of woes after his departure. I could see Dr. Leavell’s body shaking as he laughed at my little attempt at humor.

After testimonies from students and professors on the Lord’s care for them and their families through the Katrina tragedy, Dr. Kelley went into detail about the Father’s watchcare over both the campus and the seminary family. He called attention to a handout with facts seminary-lovers will want to know.

During and after Hurricane Katrina’s storm and flooding….

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You are a priest, you know. As a follower of Jesus Christ, the Bible includes you in what it calls “a kingdom of priests.” (I Peter 2:9) Some translations make it “a royal priesthood.” Same difference.

Now, a priest has two main functions. Standing between God and man, he represents one to the other. Facing God, he speaks to Him on behalf of humanity. Christians call that intercession. Then, facing the people, he speaks to them on behalf of God. We call that witnessing.

Intercessory prayer and personal witnessing are the two primary assignments of priests such as you and me in this world.

Moses is a good example of such a priest. In Exodus 32, he has to deal with the rebellious Israelites who took advantage of his 6 week absence receiving the Law atop Mount Sinai by creating a golden calf and then lapsing into a particularly debauched kind of idolatry. Moses rebuked them for their sin, then said, “Whoever is on the Lord’s side, come to me!” (32:26) Notice that he is with the Lord, addressing the people for God. They are to get up and come to the Lord’s side. Witnessing.

Later, Moses prayed to the Lord on behalf of the people, saying, “If you will, blot out their sin. But if not, blot me out too.” (32:32) Intercession.

In effect, he said to the people, “I’m with God,” and to God, “I’m with the people.” He had a hold of both and refused to turn loose of either.

Recently while reading through Malachi, the last book of the Old Testament, I noticed a strong word to priests. And since you and I qualify on that account as followers of Jesus, it occurred to me that you might appreciate this brief insight. Here it is, Malachi 2, verses 6, 7, and 8.

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In Southern Baptist life, the associational director of missions–my job–is at the bottom rung of the leadership ladder. The churches in a county or parish, or several counties or parishes, are organized into an association–they do it themselves, however they choose–and then, if they have the money for a salary, they select someone as their leader. In the early days, they called him an associational missionary. When I was in seminary, the guy for New Orleans was Dr. Mercer Irwin, his offices were at the seminary, and he wore the exalted title of Executive-Secretary.

Most associations choose to call their leader a director of missions, or DOM. In Mississippi, they made it ADM, meaning Associational Director of Missions. The joke is they were tired of people referring to the DOM as a “dirty old man.”

I’ve been on the lookout for a director of missions named King, just to see his business card or letterhead: “King, DOM.” Haven’t found one yet.

All the Baptist churches in a state organize themselves into a state convention, select a headquarters office somewhere, choose someone as their Executive-Director and give him a budget with which to hire a staff, then sit back and wait on him to lead them to do something. Nationwide, all the SBC churches form themselves into the Southern Baptist Convention. We put our headquarters in Nashville, turned the keys over to an officer whose unusual title is President of the Executive Committee of the SBC–that office has been held for a generation now by Dr. Morris Chapman–and go from there.

The odd thing about this denominational organization is that the associations do not comprise the state conventions, nor do the state conventions make up the Southern Baptist Convention. You would think they would. On an organizational chart, each is separate and has nothing to do with the other.

The churches make up the association, the churches make up the state convention, and the churches make up the SBC.

There may be another religious denomination organized like this somewhere in the world, but I’ve not heard of it. As the fellow said, “I’m not a member of any organized religion; I’m a Baptist.”

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He has been sheriff of Jefferson Parish since 1980. There has been no one like him on the political scene in this state before and won’t be after. One of a kind. At the same time, the most frustrating bull-headed strong-willed character and the kindest gentlest sweetest strongest leader. Take your pick. No one was neutral about Sheriff Lee.

He was second-generation Chinese-American. His family ran the House of Lee Chinese Restaurant on Veterans in Metairie for many years. He served as a driver for well-known Congressman Hale Boggs before getting a law degree and entering the political fray himself. He was big. The gastric bypass surgery he had four years ago pared off a good deal of excess weight, bringing him down 90 pounds from a high of 375. But he was still big. And opinionated. And wonderful and narrow minded. Love and feared.

In a state that has turned out more than its share of political characters, Lee ranks up near the top. Since the deputies worked at his pleasure, he said, “That means they have to please me.” And they did, otherwise, they sought other employment. These people hired for law enforcement sold tickets to Harry’s annual fund-raisers which raked in large amounts of cash. Lee then donated money to various candidates he wanted elected, bought ads for positions he took, and assisted churches and community organizations. He then expected–and received–the votes and support of those groups. There was nothing subtle about this man. What you see was what you got. Like it or not.

I suppose he was a Catholic, not sure. In an email Monday evening from Robert Storey, the Youth For Christ worker in our area, I learned that Sheriff Harry had given testimony to Robert’s wife Kathy–who works for the Sheriff’s office–that he had found a new closeness to the Lord and a peace with God recently. He expressly asked that Kathy participate in his funeral.

Last year, Harry was found to be with leukemia. A tough kind of cancer, fast-moving, the type that moves in and kills you quickly, as we were made to understand. He spent time in and out of hospitals in California getting strong doses of chemotherapy and other drugs, and then was in and out of Anderson Hospital in Houston. He had a great weekend, we’re told, even going fishing with his grandchildren. Sunday, he suffered some kind of attack, couldn’t get his breath, and was rushed to Ochsner. Evidently, he went into a coma, perhaps from the medications they gave him. No one wanted to say to the world what everyone feared, that the end may be near. Turned out to be nearer than any of us thought.

The sheriff’s office in this parish gets a certain percentage of sales taxes. Since the money does not come from the parish council, Sheriff Lee resisted any attempts from the council to look at his budget. He was not chosen by them, but elected by the people, same as them, so he felt no accountability to them. Therefore, no one on the planet that I know of, has a clue as to precisely how he spent the money in his office’s budget. We’re talking many millions of dollars a year.

Tell me if that’s not frightening. And yet, even with such an obvious problem about the sheriff’s office operations, political leaders in this part of the state were afraid of the man. They did not dare cross him. Now that he is dead, they will say the finest things about him–and there is much good to be said–but I suspect that a great sigh of relief has just gone up from all those who did not have the courage to stand up to what he did and what he would not do. He was the law. And I don’t just mean ‘the sheriff’.

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Our association is conducting what is called a “Strategic Study” these days, under the direction of seminary professor Reggie Ogea, to make some crucial decisions about the future of our work in New Orleans. Lately, we’ve been hammering out vision and mission statements. A “vision statement,” we’re told, is a word picture of what you intend to become. The “mission statement” is how you plan to get there.

One of the candidates for judge in Jefferson Parish has drawn a reaction to her billboards. Underneath her name and picture are these words: “One Tough Judge.” Critics point out that she is not a judge, and that putting that phrase on her ads implies that she is. Since the public loves to re-elect officials doing a good job, the intent of the candidate seems to have been to mislead the voters into voting for her.

She pulled the ads and had her advertising people add one more phrase in smaller letters just above the disputed line. Now it reads: “will make a” and then under that, ONE TOUGH JUDGE.

I suppose we could say that “one tough judge” is her vision statement. Getting elected is her mission.

Monday and Tuesday of this week, a group of ministers will be flying into New Orleans to take part in our VISION TOUR. A team composed of representatives of the seminary, our association, the state Baptist convention, and the North American Mission Board have planned activities over this two-day period to acquaint our visitors with the local religious landscape, hoping to interest some or all in either starting a new church here or helping to sponsor new starts.

Most of our meetings will be at a hotel near the airport. Seminary students who work with Professor Jack Allen have done demographic studies of certain neighborhoods where new churches are needed, and will be making presentations. Tuesday morning, we will board a number of church vans and tour these areas. We plan to feed them some New Orleans cuisine and let them know how much we appreciate their coming this way.

“Come and see” is an invitation found all through Scripture, and a great answer to those questions about what goes on in your city, your church, or your spiritual faith. Don’t take my word for it; come check it out. See for yourself.

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Three years ago, I became a charter member in what was then called the D-Day Museum on Magazine Street downtown. Later, it became the “official” World War II Museum. I bought a brick on the walk just outside the front door to honor my father, enscribed with his name and what he did during the war (“Dug the Coal that Powered the Ships”). And I dutifully sent in my annual membership fees of $35 dollars at first, and now seems to have climbed to $140. I still write them a check though. It’s a great museum.

Today another appeal came from the museum. They’re going on line with the “official” listing of the charter members. Would I please check how my name is listed (“Mr. Joe McKeever- River Ridge, LA”) and send this back to them, alongwith another $140 dollars. Oh, my dues are current. They just want more money for the expansion they’re doing.

I have sometimes thought the main benefit of membership is that it entitles one to receive letters asking for more money. They seem to come at a regular clip, several times a year. Those poor non-members never do get these things.

Oh, and the letter said I would be happy to know that the actual count of “charter members” of the museum is now up to 170,000. Apparently, they keep the charter membership rolls open for the first couple of decades.

Reminds me of the time I “joined” the support team of our public radio station here, the one that airs classical music in the day and “All Things Considered” in the evenings. By “joining,” I mean I sent them a check. That’s all it took. Thereafter, I was bombarded by requests for more money.

If anything, I felt penalized for having contributed. “Poor sucker. You sent us money? That must mean you have more money! We want it. Send it now.”

Now, I have been pastoring churches since I was 22 years old and have long forgotten, if I ever knew, what it was like to be a regular, normal member of a church. But I find myself wondering….

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As I write, my parents are ages 91 and 95. Carl and Lois McKeever still live in the house Dad built in 1954, just on the next hill from the old homeplace hand-crafted by Mom’s father in the years just after 1900. Across the country lane from Mom and Dad lives my sister Patricia and her extended family. She cooks a big meal for the folks every noonday, and any kin within driving distance gets there for the feast. Mom does breakfast for her and Dad, and the evening meal is leftovers.

Our younger sister Carolyn lives in Jasper, some 15 miles away. Several times a week she drives up, bringing groceries. One of Dad’s pensions from his years as a coal miner goes straight into direct deposit from which she writes the checks for household expenses. Older brothers Ronald and Glenn live in the Birmingham area, from 50 to 70 miles off. Ronnie has the power of attorney and manages the other pension and covers their utilities and other expenses. Glenn and I–I live in New Orleans, a seven-hour drive–provide the cheering and emotional support for the others.

There’s a lot to be said for having a large family. If nothing else, in your later years, they sure do come in handy. Mom and Dad birthed seven children, with the 1939 son dying soon after his birth and Charles, born in 1944 and the last of the brood, leaving us too early in April of 2006. Ronnie is the first-born, arriving in 1935, and I came onto the scene in 1940.

I call Mom every morning on my cell phone, usually while driving across town to my office. I know it’s not good to use a cell phone while driving, but I do. I get in one lane and stay there, and try to pay attention to what’s going on around me.

These mornings, Mom reports, “Pop is going downhill.” His weight has dropped into the 140s from a lifelong robust 200 pounds. As a child, I thought he was the strongest man in the county. For his size, he probably was. And smart. He mined coal for a living, then raised a crop on the farm and did anything necessary to make that happen. Once as a child, I saw him tear down an old Farmall tractor and lay it out on the ground, hundreds and hundreds of strange parts. Then, he put it back together and it ran. Nothing he ever did impressed me more than that.

Being the first-born of a family of 12 children, Dad had to drop out of school after the seventh grade and go to work, first carrying water for a planer mill, then, two years later, doing a man’s job inside the coal mines. He put in 35 years without a loss-time accident before a heart attack and other problems almost took his life in 1961, and the doctors put him on disability.

You could never have told us back then that 46 years later, he would still be with us. For most of these years, we have felt he was living on borrowed time, and we sure have appreciated the kindness of the Heavenly Lender.

The longtime pastor of our home church, Rev. Mickey Crane, comes by to visit a couple of times a month, Mom says. He calls on his cell phone from the front yard so Mom will come to the door, and stays an hour. Mom thinks he’s one of her sons, he’s such a part of this family.

Ronnie called me yesterday. He’s reserving some more spaces in the church cemetery for various family members and wanted to know if I would like two, for Margaret and me. No money is involved, so I said to go ahead. The massive tombstone with Mom and Dad’s names–everything is there except the dates–stands in place near Charlie’s. I’ve taken Dad’s picture standing beside it; I knew the day would come when I’d want to imagine him standing there beside me. But Mom has not wanted to see their monument. She laughs, “I have this dread about being in the ground.”

I assure her, “You won’t be. You’ll be with Jesus.” She says, “I know. But when I was a child, we would hear reports of people being buried alive. Maybe someone made a mistake and thought they were dead. That always worried me.” I tried to get a laugh out of her and said, “Mom, that’s one worry you don’t have. If you’re not already dead, the embalming fluid in your veins will finish you off!” I’m not sure how much comfort that gave her, but I thought it pretty well took care of the matter.

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