If I heard it once while watching the Olympics, I must have heard it a dozen times. The champion runner from Jamaica, the one so admired and feared by our best runners, is actually a student at the University of South Carolina. The Puerto Rican basketballer who led his team to dominate the USA Dream Team in the first game–his name is Arroyo–actually plays for the Denver Nuggets. The giant who led in China’s athletes during the opening ceremonies plays for the Houston Rockets. Another nation’s champion will be a senior at LSU this year. And so on. Again and again.

The old categories just aren’t holding like they used to. Borders and nationalities mean less and less. And did you notice that you cannot tell who is American by their names? Our people–and our names–come from all over the planet.

I recall when purchasers of automobiles were urged to “buy American” to save jobs here at home. There is a reason we don’t hear that any more. First, the plants assembling “American” cars began using parts manufactured all over the world and brought together at a plant somewhere in the states. Then, foreign countries began relocating their automobile plants to the states. Nissan, Mercedes, Toyota and others have built billion dollar plants in states not far from where I live.

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To Jesus, everything revolved around obedience. In His relationship with the Father, obedience was all: “I do always do the things that please Him.” (John 8:29) As for us, it’s the same: “Why do you call me ‘Lord, Lord’ and do not do the things I tell you?” (Luke 6:46)

What started me thinking about that is something my friend Shane told us the other night. I was preaching for four days at a church in Booneville, Mississippi, and Shane–minister of youth at a church in the next town–came over to sing on Monday night. Just before the song, he told the congregation what happened to him the previous Friday.

“It was my day to do the hospitals,” he said, “which means I had to drive to Memphis. On the way home, I drove past the airport there, and something happened. The Lord called my mind to that sack of tracts (booklets that tell how to know Jesus as Savior) in my truck, and impressed on me that I should go into the airport and hand them out to travelers. So, I parked my truck and went inside.

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As I write this, I’m getting ready for a test at the hospital. Just routine, I think. Last week I went for an annual checkup and my doctor spotted a couple of areas for which she wanted more tests.

About the time I get through with these tests, a note will arrive from the dentist announcing my 6 month checkup. Right now, my car is overdue for its 3,000 mile oil change and it’s time for a tire rotation. The house needs painting and the air conditioning unit is getting some work.

Nothing about ‘maintenance’ sounds very glamorous. Friend of mine is in charge of maintenance at a chemical plant up the river, but don’t let it fool you. We’re not talking about sweeping the floors and mowing the grass. His area is keeping those massive machines and intricate processes working as they were intended.

That lovely old car you spotted on the highway still purring like a kitten after 200,000 miles functions well not because some rich guy bought it and spent a fortune overhauling it, but more than likely because its owner took good care of it from the first day. He had it serviced regularly and kept it in a garage and treated it as an investment.

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The (New Orleans) Times-Picayune for Friday, September 17, 2004, is filled with all the things you get following a giant storm. Large color photos of hurricane Ivan’s devastation along the Alabama and Florida coast occupy page after page, taking your breath away. Here is a picture of a five story condominium in ruins, while alongside it are one story homes still standing, seemingly untouched. Go figure.

Our governor’s office assures us that Mrs. Blanco does indeed plan to call a meeting of all the agencies and find a way to speed up the evacuation of the population of this city. We hear this every hurricane, but she’s new in office, so maybe she can pull it off. Stories abound of ten hour drives to Baton Rouge, only 70 miles up Interstate 10, and of citizens arriving in Memphis or Houston to find every hotel room filled.

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The other night my wife and I watched actor Sam Waterston portray Abraham Lincoln delivering what is called “the Cooper Union speech” on C-Span. Harold Holzer’s recent book claims this 1860 speech actually made Lincoln president.

In preparation for the re-enactment of the speech, I pulled down a biography on Lincoln and read up on the occasion. In the middle of the oration, Lincoln has a line that smacked me right between the eyes. It was so out of place, I could not believe it was coming from a historical figure from over 140 years back. He said, “That is cool.” He did. It’s in there, in black and white.

The context was this. South Carolina was threatening to withdraw from the Union if a Republican was elected president in the election later that year. So, if you elect a Republican, the state leaders said, and we secede, it will be your fault. Lincoln commented, “That is cool.”

I watched as Sam Waterston read the speech and uttered that line. Not a single comment was made in the followup discussion about those three words, but I lay awake that night wondering. Next day, I went through Professor Holzer’s book looking for some explanation, and found none. That’s when I decided to e-mail him.

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I wish I could find that truck driver and give him back that five dollars. Shucks, I’d give him twenty-five dollars just to be free of this memory of the time I did not do my job.

I was a sophomore in college, living that summer with my brother Ron and his wife Dorothy, and trying to scrounge up money any way I could. When I noticed the fellow across the street and how his truck’s lettering on the door was faded, I went into action. “I’ll repaint that on both doors for five dollars,” I told him. Bear in mind, at that time, five dollars was a day’s wages for me.

He agreed and paid me in advance. I brought out my paints and brushes and went to work. I do not recall what interrupted me that day. Probably he had to go to work or something, and I was going to finish it later. But I never did. I moved across town to the campus and put the man out of my mind. From time to time, Dorothy would remind me gently that the neighbor was waiting for me to come back and finish the job. He gave up on me and that was that. Almost.

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Before rendering his verdict, the arbitrator in a church conflict case turned to the men sitting at both tables and said, “I remind myself that these are not sterile decisions I will be rendering. In making judgments about others, we are handling the fine china of human lives.”

Should Paul Hamm return the gold medal for men’s gymnastics, awarded him in error due to miscalculations of some judges? Some Olympic officials seem to think so. When asked why they could not simply award a second gold medal to the rightfully deserving Koreans, one authority replied, “We can’t do that.” Why not? The rules do not allow it. The Americans respond that, if it’s rules you like, Hamm followed the rules and received the medal. Stripping him of the gold might be a simple act to an Olympic judge, but it takes on epic proportions to a young person who has devoted years of his life to arrive at this moment.

Someone should remind the judges in every athletic event, Olympics to little league, that they are handling the fine china of human lives.

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We had this wedding at our church last weekend. Three hundred friends and family members sat in the pews watching eight groomsmen and and equal number of bridesmaids fill the front of the sanctuary. As the organ shook the rafters, the bride entered on the arm of her father and took her place beside the groom in front of me. Then it happened.

“Harry,” I began. “Do you take Bess to be your lawfully wedded wife? Do you promise to be faithful to her in sickness and in health, in joy and in sorrow, so long as you both shall live?”

Harry took a deep breath, looked at Bess and then at me. “Preacher,” he said, “I sure do. Mostly. Bess is a wonderful woman. Any man would be lucky to have her. I will be proud to be her husband. And I tell you what I’m going to do. I’m going to be true to her. Much of the time. And lots of evenings, after work, I’m coming home to her and I’ll actually spend the night there. Of course, I’ll have my other girl friends, but that’s to be expected. I’m just human, you know. But Bess will be number one with me. Yes sir. And from time to time, I plan to give some money to pay her rent and help with the other expenses. Yes sir, preacher, I do. Sort of.”

We all stood there in shock. I had never heard such a mixed up response from a groom before. I turned to the bride to see how she was taking this. Bess was staring a hole through Harry, like he was the lowest thing on earth. Then she threw down the bouquet, hiked up her massive bridal gown, and strode out of the church, right up the aisle she had just walked down.

The bride’s parents rushed out the door behind her, and the congregation sat there stunned. Harry stood there silently for a long moment, then leaned over to the nearest bridesmaid and said, “Doing anything tonight, Honey?”

Okay, it didn’t happen. I made it up. But I see something like this going on all the time.

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A few days ago, I dropped in on 1943 and stayed two hours.

The venerable Saenger’s Theater in downtown New Orleans has been running vintage movies on Fridays and Saturdays–Gone With the Wind, Doctor Zhivago, Rear Window, and such. Recently, I attended the Saturday 3 pm showing of one of my favorites, “Casablanca.”

“Casablanca” was shot in 1941 and released in 1943. It presents Humphrey Bogart at his strongest and Ingrid Bergman at her loveliest, and deals with the plight of refugees fleeing before the Nazis. Its signature music, “As Time Goes By,” has been voted the number one movie song of all time.

That afternoon, I drove downtown, parked on Canal Street–after making certain that the meter maids had the afternoon off–paid six dollars for a ticket, and settled back into the lush red velvet seats to enjoy this movie the way people saw it over 60 years ago. For over two hours, I was transported back to 1943. Consider…

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