We need to apologize to a church in Memphis.

Members of the Deliverance Temple Church of God in Christ bought a $75,000 house in Memphis for a New Orleans couple displaced by Katrina. The couple–Joshua and Delores Thompson–never even moved into the house, but sold it and pocketed $88,000, then returned to New Orleans. Got a problem with that? “Take it up with God,” Joshua Thompson told a TV reporter who confronted him.

We are outraged and I expect the people of Memphis are, too. There is a time for anger and this is it.

According to Wednesday’s Times-Picayune, the couple came to Memphis literally begging for a new home. The church had decided it would do something special for a Katrina-displaced family, in addition to its other ministries to evacuees. They established a committee which interviewed a number of applicants, and chose the Thompsons. According to Delores, they were in great need. She had lost her job as a nurse and Joshua lost his in the import-export business. Their home and possessions had been destroyed, and their two children–a 14 year old girl and a 16 year old son–were eager to get back in school. They would be so honored to resettle in Memphis.

They took possession of the house in February and sold it in September.

Questions have arisen as to whether the Thompsons were truthful. Property transfer records for the resale of the Memphis house list Delores as unmarried; papers from the original sale show her as married. She claimed they were living in a FEMA-provided apartment in Memphis, but no one ever saw it. The realtor–a member of the Deliverance Temple church–says, “She didn’t want me coming over there. She’d say, ‘I’ll meet you.'” No one has verified the past history of this family, whether they actually held jobs in this city or for that matter, whether they owned a house down here and if so, if it was destroyed.

I’ll tell you this. People like this did not start taking advantage of others only after a hurricane. Check into it and you will find that such calloused people have a long record of this kind of shenanigans. The Memphis church says it has not discussed legal action, but I hope the District Attorney there will get involved. Fraud is a crime whether the church initiates a lawsuit or not.

On the subject of their selling that house at an instant profit….

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Last Monday, Wanda Murfin sent a note from Silverhill, Alabama, asking, “Did this happen? I read about the revival in New Orleans with Billy and Franklin Graham, but somehow I must have missed this.”

She forwarded an internet article showing photos of Billy Graham and a French Quarter scene. The reporter purports to tell what happened on Sunday evening March 12 of this year at the end of Mr. Graham’s sermon in the New Orleans Arena. It’s fascinating and would be wonderful if it had happened. But it didn’t. No way. None of it.

Here’s what the phantom writer–whoever he or she may be–says took place that night. “Graham invited the packed house of evangelical Christians and the hundreds of new converts to join him on the one mile walk from the arena to New Orleans’ infamous Bourbon Street.”

The mysterious writer quotes Mr. Graham, “I last preached in the City of New Orleans in 1954 and I felt then that there was some unfinished business. Tonight, in what very well might be my last evangelistic service, I aim to finish that business and lead as many of you that would follow me to the multitude of lost souls that fill Bourbon Street tonight…. That is where we shall see the harvest!”

The writer says the stadium erupted in cheers that lasted several minutes, then Graham boarded a scooter and joined Franklin and headed for the French Quarter. The capacity crowd followed in a 20 minute trek while singing “When the Saints Go Marching In.”

According to the article, Christians outnumbered sinners up and down Bourbon Street and soon the raunchy music which normally emanates from the bars was silent, as people began to pray and weep. Veteran police officers say they’ve never seen anything like it. After two hours of this, Mr. Graham departed, leaving behind hundreds of believers witnessing on the streets. “New Orleans will never be the same.”

Alas, it didn’t happen. None of it. Oh that it would. I have read this bogus article to several people who were present for Mr. Graham’s service at the New Orleans Arena and halfway through, they’re shaking their heads saying, “That didn’t happen.” I invite skeptics to go back to my blog from March 12, 2006, and read of Mr. Graham’s visit. I took notes on everything he said and sat down at the computer that very evening and recorded it all here. (NOTE: I just checked and the date on my blog-article is March 13, which is a Monday. But I wrote it Sunday night.)

So, where did this come from? And why was it written as factual, like a genuine newspaper account? I haven’t the slightest.

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Last Thursday afternoon, as CBS-TV’s resident curmudgeon Andy Rooney sat on the panel at the World War II Conference, someone in the audience asked him why so many veterans who returned from the war were reluctant to talk about it, while he and others write entire books about their experiences. “I’ll tell you why most of them don’t talk about it,” he said. “They didn’t do anything worth talking about. They served in the 10th Shoe Repair Batallion.” He explained that only about 10 percent of the members of the armed services actually shot at the enemy or were themselves shot at.

Now, I realize he said it that way to make his point, and being a journalist/humorist, he doesn’t mind offending you a little in the process. But it was offensive.

The members of the “Shoe Repair Batallion,” as he put it, are the soldiers and sailors who fed and clothed the men on the front lines, who served as medics and truck-drivers and communications people and mechanics. In other words, you couldn’t have won the war without them.

There’s a good point from early in the life of the future king David that works here. David and his six hundred men (perhaps not unlike Robin Hood and his merry men, outlaws and living on the lam) were chasing some bad guys who had raided their camp and taken everything they owned as well as their people. Day and night they traveled. Finally, some of David’s men were exhausted, so he allowed them to stay behind and guard the baggage which allowed the others to travel lighter and faster. A day or so later, David and his victorious four hundred return. They’ve recaptured all their people, made short work of the enemies, and taken all their treasures. That’s when a dispute arose.

The four hundred who had actually faced the enemy insisted that the two hundred who had stayed behind would not share in the bounty. “Give them their people back and their possessions which were stolen, but nothing more,” they protested. David held up his hand. “You must not do this, my brethren, with what the Lord has given us.” Then he instituted a principle which has come down through the centuries as the ultimate in fairness.

“As his share who goes down to battle, so shall his share be who stays by the baggage. They shall share alike.” (I Samuel 30:24)

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Who Taught Us To Call God ‘Father’?

When I was a freshman at Berry College in Rome, Georgia, in the late 1950’s, our chaplain was a lovely cherubic gentleman who looked a lot like Winston Churchill. Dr. Gresham was a superb speaker and was admired by everyone. Now, I was 18 years old and 3 years away from the call into the ministry, but I remember like it was yesterday something he said about “God the Father.”

“Occasionally, I hear people say, ‘I believe in God the Father but I do not believe in Jesus Christ.’ I always ask them, ‘Who taught you to call God ‘Father’?’ Because it was Jesus. You can search the writings of antiquity and you will not find anywhere the teachings that God is our Father. The Old Testament has a couple of places where the Jews referred to Him as the Father of Israel, but no individual ever looked up toward Heaven and addressed Him as ‘Father.’ It was Jesus who gave us this privilege.”

You will recall that when the disciples asked Jesus to teach them to pray, He said, “When you pray, say, ‘Father….'” That was new. Now, I’ve not done the research but I’ve heard that the Koran has over 90 names for God, but not one of them is Father.

(NOTE: The reason I attribute this to Dr. Gresham instead of just proclaiming it myself is simply that I have not delved into all the historical writings in various cultures on God, and have no way of knowing whether what he said is true or not. I want to believe it; it sounds right. Our history professor, Mae Parrish, said she had never caught Dr. Gresham in a historical inaccuracy, and she was not particularly favorably inclined toward preachers.)

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Love, Love, Love–Is Christianity So Sentimental?

Back in 1968, Joe McGinnis worked on the Richard Nixon campaign for president. Later, he wrote a book on what he observed, calling it “The Selling of the President 1968,” a takeoff on the Theodore White books “The Making of the President 1960,” 1964, etc. McGinnis said they packaged and sold Nixon like he was a brand of cigarettes. And he told one little story I’ve been telling ever since.

The campaign’s advertising agency prepared a one minute television commercial depicting Nixon’s views on the Vietnam war. They took a series of black and white photos from the way and lined them up, then had the camera pan down them. What you saw on the TV screen was all these photos going by, and you heard Nixon’s voice telling what he would do about the war if he were elected. The final photo showed an American soldier in full battle gear and wearing a helmet with the word “LOVE” scrawled across the front.

Now, remember that this was in the days of the hippie movement, free love, etc. As soon as the commercial began airing on TV, the campaign headquarters started receiving irate phone calls from Nixon supporters. “Get that hippie off that ad,” one said. Another said, “That is no word for a soldier to wear on his helmet when he’s going into battle to kill or be killed.” Well, when you’re running for president, you don’t want to offend needlessly, so the Nixon people told the ad agency to pull the commercial and change the last photograph.

The agency was reluctant to make the change. Their people had thought what an interesting young man that soldier must be to go into battle wearing the word “LOVE” on his helmet. But they complied and put a picture of a soldier with a generic helmet on the ad.

The upshot was a few days later, the Nixon people received a letter from that soldier’s mother. She said, “It was so nice of you to use my son’s photo. He’s on the other side of the world and I worry about him. It made my day to see his picture on the television screen.” The letter was signed, “Mrs. William C. Love.”

Can’t a fellow even wear his name on his helmet?

I use that story to illustrate how the wonderful concept of love has fallen onto hard times. It’s used in a thousand ways and many of them bad. Perfect love, the ideal, what God intended in the first place is what I John is all about.

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We Shall Be Like Him

The British poet Francis Thompson–forever enshrined in the hearts of Christians for his “The Hound of Heaven”–was in France and ran into an old friend. He called her name across a crowded sidewalk and she came over. “Shhhh,” she said. “Don’t call me by my name. I’m traveling in embryo.”

Thompson laughed and said, “I think you mean you’re traveling in cognito. In embryo means you’re not born yet!”

Reading I John 3:1-2, Christians see how both of those Latin terms apply to us. “In cognito” means “unknown,” and John says “the world does not know us.” “In embryo” means “unborn,” and he adds, “it has not yet appeared what we shall be.”

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Sunday morning, little First Baptist Church of St. Rose, Louisiana, about 5 minutes west of the New Orleans airport, honored its longtime pastor Rev. W. O. Cottingham and his incredible wife Alpha. They birthed that church in 1959 and led it until the middle of 2005, when they retired for health reasons. Former members, friends, and family drove in from long distances to be there to honor them. W. O.’s cousin and full-time music evangelist Ronnie Cottingham of Mississippi led the worship and sang, and I preached the morning message. The sermon from Hebrews 6:10 was a new one for me, but I think I was more blessed than anyone there. (Ask any preacher. You know when you have one from the Lord!) We printed the outline here a day or two ago.

As the director of missions, I have an unofficial membership in each Southern Baptist church in metro New Orleans, and so try to use that advantage to say something to the churches which almost no one else can. I reminded this congregation that it’s hard for a church to change gears after nearly half a century of the same pastor, and to follow a new leader. “And yet, Larry Pittman is your pastor. He will not do things the way Brother Cottingham did. The question is whether you will let him be himself and lead out.”

In similar situations to this, I frequently tell a church that when I left the First Baptist Church of Kenner in 2004, after 14 years, I was replaced by a 27-year-old pastor, Tony Merida, who had never pastored before. I let that sink in, then add, “In a church business meeting to discuss him, someone said, ‘He doesn’t have any experience.’ Someone else said, ‘Well, he’s about to get some!'” Then I tell them, “And he’s wonderful. He’s my pastor.”

Pray for this church and Pastor Pittman.

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(This is an article from the Times-Picayune, written by Christine Bordelon. The two women in the story are connected by us. Gloria Twiggs is a longtime member of my church, FBC Kenner, and Karen Adams and we have e-mailed back and forth about her group’s ministry in New Orleans. It ran in Sunday’s paper.)

When Gloria Tiggs suffered a broken heel and fractured scapula after she fell off scaffolding while floating drywall in her Hurricane Katrina-damaged home, the future of her home repairs was in doubt.

As luck would have it, Twiggs, 61, a telephone switchboard operator at the Kenner Police Department, had come in contact with Karen Adams, a former New Orleans resident now living in Pennsylvania, and helped her organize a shipment of donations (paper products, bedding, towels, cleaning supplies, etc.) that were distributed from First Baptist Church in Kenner in February.

Adams and Twiggs remained in contact and when Adams realized Twiggs, too, was in need–her home had a foot of water inside and five feet of mold when she returned–she put her on the list of homes to repair on a special, nine-day ‘Christmas’ mission recently completed.

With 50 volunteers in tow from various churches in Pennsylvania, the mission group left in its wake a restored church, gutted and repaired homes in Metairie, Kenner, and eastern New Orleans and happy children in St. Bernard. For Twiggs, volunteers completed plumbing and roofing work and more at her Kenner home.

“It has been an unbelievable blessing,” Twiggs said. “Just to see them work, they were just wonderful. Everything I asked them, they did. I am just humbled by their kindness and generosity.”

Many of the Pennsylvania volunteers–ranging in age from 14 to 83–were regulars on mission trips, but this one struck a special chord with several.

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Saturday, my assignment at the National World War II Museum was to be a monitor in a section known as the Contemporary Arts Center. I showed up at 2 pm for my 2:30 start, not having done this before and wanting to be briefed by whoever had the position prior to my shift. I signed in, got my badge, and worked my way through the massive crowds to the CAC. “Stand here and open the door for people,” said Walt, my supervisor. Okay. I can do this. An hour later, he moved me into the CAC to check people’s badges or bracelets to make sure they were in the correct place. That’s where I stayed the rest of the afternoon, monitoring two sessions with several veterans on each panel.

The first panel discussion involved three fighter pilots in the War and was scheduled to go from 2:45 until 4:00 pm. Here’s what happened. The first pilot was fascinating but spoke in short sentences and brief paragraphs. Ten minutes into the program and he’s through. Then the second one spoke. Different story. He was a good storyteller and had a terrific story to tell, one that went on and on. He had become an Ace in the war, shooting down 5 enemy planes. As he moved his story from scene to scene, I glanced at the moderator, a professor I suppose, standing at the podium and charged with moving the discussion along and keeping it on schedule. At 4 o’clock–the announced time for this session to end–the Ace is just getting wound up. On and on he went. At 4:15 pm, some people are getting up and leaving and a few are arriving for the next session. At 4:20 pm, the museum people turned the lights on full, hoping he would get the point, I guess. He finally did and everyone clapped. Meanwhile, pilot number 3 had sat there silently the entire time. He had come all this way–from wherever he came–and the second speaker had used all his time. As the crowd applauded, he held his hand up and the emcee quietened everyone. The pilot spoke two sentences–I didn’t get what he said–and that was that.

Museum people standing near me in the rear could not believe what was happening. “We instruct our moderators how to lead these meetings,” one said. Another said, “Someone is supposed to be down front holding up signs saying ‘five minutes’ and ‘one minute.'”

Now, the crowd loved the fighter ace and they had sat on the edge of their seats, drinking in his stories. Problem was he completely shut out the third guy. Was it thoughtlessness or selfishness or old age or what? Perhaps it was a failure to properly brief the speakers. I don’t know.

“I can assure you that moderator will never be asked to emcee another panel here,” someone behind me said.

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(I found this in a pile of papers. It’s something I wrote a while ago. You might have a use for it.)

This morning I awakened early, got dressed, and went for a walk in the neighborhood. This is an excellent time to pray and think about Sunday’s sermon. When I returned home, I began feeling weak, so I awakened my wife and said, “Honey, I’m hungry. What should I do?”

She answered, “Take a bath.”

I did. But no sooner had I stepped out of the shower than the hunger pains returned. So I said, “I’m still hungry.”

“Try getting some clothes on,” she suggested. I said, “That’s a good idea.” But it did not help. There I stood, fully dressed, and very hungry.

This time Margaret said, “Well, put on a sweater. Maybe you don’t have on enough clothes.” I did, but it didn’t help. I was hungry enough to eat a bear.

“Try reading something,” she said. So I found my Bible and read three chapters. Then I read this morning’s newspaper. Still, I was famished.

“What else can you suggest?” I said. We seemed to be running out of ideas.

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