Seventeen of us sat in the seminary classroom that evening, complaining. It was September of 1972 and our beloved New Orleans Saints were playing in town that Monday night, with the game broadcast on television. As pastors, this would be one of the few games we might be able to attend. Unfortunately, our doctoral colloquium ran to nine o’clock and attendance was mandatory if we expected to graduate on time. With the game blacked out locally, we couldn’t even watch it on television. Through this cacophony of grumbling, the professor entered the classroom.

V. L. Stanfield was a legend on the campus of New Orleans Baptist Theological Seminary. Over six feet tall, he added to the effect by wearing western boots, an oddity in our city. He laughed easily and welcomed laughter in his classroom. Stories about him abounded, including the time he told why he moved to a French Quarter apartment above a bar: “I’ve always wanted to live above sin.”

Striding toward the front of the room, Stanfield called out, “Well, who has been a good boy today?” He was obviously in a playful mood.

“I have two tickets to tonight’s football game,” he announced, “which I am going to give to two of you.”

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Since our family reunion has become a tradition with more than a decade of regular get-togethers, we are building some new customs of our own. First, we hold our meetings at the old home place, built a hundred years ago by our grandfather, and secondly, we sit around a Saturday night bonfire in the front yard until midnight telling and retelling the family stories. This last part is what I want to tell you about, specifically the account of the 1951 murder of one of our neighbors.

The first time we sat in the fire-splashed dark telling our stories–that would be May of 1994–I decided to bring up the story of Mrs. B’s murder. It was the most exciting thing to happen in our county for years and the young folks had more than likely never even heard about it.

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That year Junior Roman’s cotton was the best ever seen in that part of North Alabama. His twenty acres looked like a December snowfall in Wyoming. Had the bolls suddenly turned loose and dropped the cotton to the ground, it would have been knee deep. When a half bale to the acre was the rule for most farms, people drove for miles to gawk at Junior’s crop.

I had been looking for just such an opportunity. My pride as a farm boy was at stake, and here was the chance to redeem it.

It all stemmed from our high school classes in vocational agriculture. When we were not discussing the sex life of Herefords and Durocs and vicariously of sixteen-year-old males, we turned the class into a primitive macho testing ground where every one sought a territory over which he was the champion.

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I still remember the day Marta walked into my office, plopped herself down, and asked me to pray that she and Ward would be able to have children. I promised to pray, and did, regularly. In time, they had three of the brightest, sweetest children you’ve ever seen. They are young adults now and barely know me, but I take special joy in having prayed them into the world.

Not long ago, I began to pray that God would send Mack a wife. I said, “Lord, Mack is a truly fine person. He has kept himself faithful to you all these years. You must have a godly woman out there somewhere who would be right for him.” He did. I performed Mack and Kathleen’s wedding last winter.

My son Neil was on an outing with his three children. The day before, he had suggested they pray for good weather. On their way to the park, he asked 10-year-old Grant if he had prayed for this beautiful day. “No,” he said. “I forgot.” He asked 7-year-old Abby. “I forgot, too,” she said. “Oh, good,” said her twin Erin from the back seat. “Then it was my miracle.”

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I’m still hoping to see a loon. If in fact they really exist.

A generation ago, the Henry Fonda/Katharine Hepburn move “On Golden Pond” hooked America on the loon. The old couple sits on their porch in late evenings enjoying the sounds of the loons on the lake while the setting sun does fascinating things on the water, and a hundred thousand people–me included–were ready to move to New Hampshire. Until that movie, I had no idea how fascinating or desirable these birds were. And since loons are yankees (i.e., based in northern climes) and I’m a southerner (Alabama originally, New Orleans at present), I did not expect to actually see one.

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Nearly twenty years ago, some of my siblings started worrying about our larger family. “The old folks are leaving,” they said, “and pretty soon, there will be no one left except our generation-the ‘cousins.'” Our mother came from a family of nine brothers and sisters, while our dad had eleven, so we were blessed with plenty of fun cousins and doting uncles and aunts. It was a great situation-all of us kids growing up together, visiting one another in the summers, and getting into trouble together. Now, with our parent’s generation aging, we all decided we needed to see each other on a regular basis.

Family reunion. The very term conjures up all kinds of crazy images-weird uncles, rambunctious kids, silly cousins. We sent out letters to everyone and for a couple of years tried holding reunions at various city parks and lake homes. Nothing really ‘took’, however, until we got smart and decided to hold the get-together at the only logical site-the old family homeplace.

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What is there about the David and Goliath story that fascinates children? Maybe it’s the giant. Start a story with “Once upon a time, there was a giant” and you have their total attention. Kids are well-acquainted with giants, living as they do in a world populated by them. Everyone around them is a veritable Shaquille O’Neal.

Goliath stood over 9 feet tall, his body armor as heavy as a man. The day he appeared in the valley of Elah and dared the Israelis to send their best warrior for a winner-take-all showdown, Goliath struck terror in the hearts of the Jews. No one was anxious to commit suicide, try as he may to goad them into action.

Twice a day for weeks the armies of the Philistines and Israelis lined up across their respective hillsides with the great valley stretching before them. Then, Goliath would stride down the incline toward the battle line, every step bumping the seismograph. A frantic shield-bearer ran in front of him, like a high school kid toting a door to protect Goliath. Like someone is going to harm this giant.

Maybe the children are fascinated by the adults in the story. The soldiers do some truly weird things. Even though they have no intention of fighting anyone, they dutifully line up for battle every morning and every evening. Then the big giant appears, bellowing threats and belching curses, and the soldiers panic all over again and scurry under the nearest shrubbery. You would think that sooner or later, they would figure this thing out.

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Johnny Depp stares at you from the cover of May’s “Esquire” magazine, framed on one side by “How to be a better man (17 new ways to live longer and stronger)” and on the other by “Dude, Where’s My Jesus?” I read the latter standing at the news-stand in the drug store. I’m always curious and rarely hopeful about what secular magazines do with Jesus. I ended up buying the magazine. It was impressive.

“Who is Jesus?” Writer Tom Junod answers, “Jesus is a man who called himself the Son of God and a god who called himself the Son of Man.” Pretty good. “Where is Jesus?” Junod writes, “Jesus is everywhere.” That’s how the article opens. This clearly is not another put-down of my Lord and a smirk at those of us who worship Him.

“The president is one of the millions of Americans who call themselves evangelical Christians. What does that mean, exactly?” Junod answers, “It means that he has accepted Jesus Christ as his lord and savior. It means that he has a personal relationship with Jesus.” Well, okay, but what does that mean? Junod responds, “It means he acknowledges that he, like all the rest of us, falls short of the glory of God. He acknowledges what Gary Bauer…acknowledges: ‘As a sinner, I have no right to stand in front of God.’ Our sins are indeed repellent in the eyes of God, but he loves us so much that he sent his only begotten son to suffer the torment that is rightfully ours…We either accept the gift of his sacrifice and join him in heaven, no questions asked, or we refuse it and suffer the torment he suffered, but eternally. ‘He’s either your savior or your judge’ is how Anne Graham Lotz…puts it.”

Now, I know these things and we say them around the church all the time, but I can’t ever remember a magazine like Esquire proclaiming the gospel of Jesus to the world. Not that most of us will agree with everything in the article, although my own complaints are minor. The writer also drops in some profanity occasionally (hey, it’s Esquire and the writers have to appear cool to keep their audience). But considering the source, this is incredible.

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My dream started in the middle of a story. It was like opening a book in the middle or walking in on a movie half over. I was striding down the corridor of a high school headed for the principal’s office to introduce myself as a new teacher. I remember thinking that it’s important to walk with confidence around all these young people and not look like a lost puppy. Inside the school office, clusters of people milled around, working, talking, waiting. I finally located the principal’s office and wound up interrupting the man himself who was talking with another man. “How can I help you?” he said, all business. I said, “I wanted to introduce myself. I’m a new teacher.” “Well,” he said, “we don’t mind this preaching silliness….” I was stunned. His remark caught me off guard. Apparently, in my dream I was a teacher during the week and pastored churches after hours and on weekend. That, incidentally, was precisely my plan back in 1961 when, as a college senior majoring in history, God called me into the ministry.

Obviously, the principal in my dream had no use for preachers and spiritual matters. I said to him, “Well, sir, right now, I’m doing this education silliness. You know, this silliness called teaching.” Even in my dreams, I have a smart mouth.

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