I’ve learned to be leary of anonymous letters. In fact, when I was pastoring, we devised a strategy to minimize the impact of such orphaned missiles. If the letter had no return address, I handed it to my secretary who opened it and looked for the closing signature. If there was none, the letter was torn up and discarded without either of us reading it.

So how this letter got through our lines of defense, I’ll never know. It’s dated March 17, 2003, which figures out to almost exactly one year before I resigned that pastorate to move across New Orleans into the Director of Missions office for the Baptist Association.

It’s actually a good letter. I had kept it and ran across it today while clearing out some old files. Here are some excerpts.

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My granddaughter says she would like to become a schoolteacher. Why? “I love to teach,” she says. With two younger sisters, she gets lots of practice.

That’s great, and it’s probably the fundamental reason anyone goes into teaching. However, I wrote back to Leah with a list of 10 additional considerations she should take into account before deciding on the teaching profession. You will think of additional matters and as always, we invite you to leave your comments and suggestions at the end of this article. Leah reads it each week (she’s almost 16 now) and will appreciate your input.

1. Do you love people? Here and there on this planet you will encounter people who love to teach science or math or history, but they do not love to teach people. Remember, it’s not lessons we are teaching. It’s people.

2. Do you enjoy learning? Good teachers devote themselves to a lifetime of learning. Without that, they fossilize. The old joke goes that a teacher claimed to have twenty years of teaching experience and someone replied, “No, you have one year of teaching, twenty times.” The only way to stay fresh in the ministry or in the classroom is to be continually growing and studying and learning.

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Warren Wiersbe, the pre-eminent Bible teacher, says when you first start studying Scripture, you’re looking into a window. You see how people lived in biblical times, what the prophets did and said, what Jesus said, and how the people behaved. Eventually, Dr. Wiersbe says, stay with the Scripture and in time you see that it’s more than a window; it’s a mirror, through which you see yourself and your world.

Joe Joslin and I were serving on staff together at the First Baptist Church of Charlotte a few years back, and had run into the Smokies to spend the night with a group from our church who were on a weeklong retreat. The next morning as we headed back south, we ran by the town of East Flat Rock to see Carl Sandburg’s home. Called Connemara, this lovely home is open to tourists year round and is well worth the visit. In front of the home lies a picturesque lake with a small bridge on which one can walk across. Joe and I were standing on that bridge gazing down into the water.

It was a gorgeous August day, with the sky a deep Carolina blue and the clouds so radiant they almost seemed radioactive. As we stood there drinking it in, the reflection of the sky on the water was so brilliant, I said to Joe, “Isn’t that amazing?” He said, “Yeah, and I’ll bet some of those babies would dress out at 3 pounds.”

I said, “What?” What in the world was he talking about? Then I saw what he saw–down in the water was a world of fish, large and impressive. Joslin is the fisherman, you might have guessed, and not me.

Joe was looking through the window of that lake, beholding all it contained. I saw the lake as a mirror, reflecting the world above. Two ways of looking at the same thing.

This is a plea for not rushing through Scripture, but staying with a passage and reflecting on it again and again until you see things you did not know were there. It’s how the Holy Spirit seems to prefer to teach, through marinating and not microwaving, as the old line goes.

Case in point.

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1. When you go to Las Vegas, Times Square, or New Orleans’ French Quarter, it’s to minister to people in the name of Jesus.

2. When you hear about a church fight, you say, “So, where’s the news?”

3. When you hear of a foreigner thrilled at getting his first Bible, you feel guilty. You own 33 of them.

4. When someone tells you that old joke about the sinking ship and the captain asking someone to do something religious and so the Baptist took up an offering, you say, “So, what’s the joke?”

5. You know at least a dozen funny things that happened during baptismal services.

6. You complain about the pastor’s long sermons, but you would feel cheated by one under 20 minutes.

7. You have at times envied the Episcopalians because their adults don’t have to go to Sunday School.

8. You have sometimes felt superior to the Episcopalians because you know more of your Bible than they do.

9. You think a church building ought to look like a church building.

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Six-year-old Matthew believed his mother totally, and that’s what caused the problem. He had swallowed whole all the stories of Santa and elves and the North Pole which she had fed him ever since he was a baby. Now, he’s a bright child and he listens to the other kids. That’s how he found out that not only Santa and the elves, but the whole gamut of childhood companions–the Easter Bunny, the tooth fairy, etc.–are all figments of someone’s imagination. Fictions. Fantasies.

“You lied to me,” he said to his mother. Caught red-handed, she hemmed and hawed and tried to put the best face on it. “Honey,” she said, “these are childhood legends, every parent tells them, my mother and dad told them to me. It’s part of growing up.”

“You lied to me,” said Matthew.

The lady who told me about this child, the son of one of her co-workers, also informed me that he has recently prayed to receive Christ as His Savior and has joined the church. Most of us are a little older when we take these steps. But, as she said, he’s not your average kid. Which explains what he did a few days later.

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When George Gravitte showed up on campus, everyone noticed. Now Berry College, near Rome, Georgia, in those days was geared to students from the rural and small-town South, but even among this bunch of unsophisticated youth, George stood out. He was six feet, five inches tall, weighed 165 pounds, and he wore a straw hat–the kind the rest of us used in the fields but only the securest guy on the planet would be brave enough to walk out onto the college quadrangle with it on his head. But there he was. He was who he was. And what was that? Think Gomer Pyle.

Now, if you know me at all, you know that’s not a putdown. The reason we all loved Gomer Pyle on the old Andy Griffith show was that, hailing from small town Alabama as he did, he came across as genuine and authentic and solid gold. There was a purity about him, a childlikeness. George always made me think of what our Lord said about Nathaniel, “An Israelite in whom there is no guile.” (John 1:47) That was my friend George Gravitte.

As soon as we could work it out, George and I became roommates. I still remember him slaving at the desk in front of the window, looking up and saying, “Joe, how do you spell ‘from’?” You can see one reason I adored him is he asked easy questions to which I readily had the answers. Years later, they discovered he had dyslexia. He also had leg cramps. Often in the middle of the night, he would come off that top bunk with a crash, jumping and hopping around the room until the muscle spasms quit. The first time he did it, we thought he had been shot.

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As a pastor, I used to get so tired of people jumping in and out of marriage just because they fell in love or fell out of it. I said to one, “You sure are doing a lot of falling!”

The best thing I’ve read on the subject of love in ages is a small booklet which Margaret and I have used for our newlywed (and nearlywed) Sunday School class. “Romantic Love” has as its subtitle: “Using Your Head in Matters of the Heart.” Since it’s by Psychologist James Dobson, you know it’s filled with straight talk and biblical common sense. And a great story, which I’m saving for last. (No fair scrolling to the end!)

The trouble starts, says Dr. Dobson, when boy meets girl and the entire sky lights up in romantic profusion. “Smoke and fire are followed by lightning and thunder, and alas, the starry-eyed couple find themselves knee-deep in true love.”

At least, that’s the modern perception.

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Monica Kalozdi is a New Orleans resident with a passion for climbing mountains. Ten years ago, after the birth of her third child, she came out of the experience with a yen to mountain-climb. Hey, I’m a husband who has gone through childbirth with my wife twice; it does strange things to people. I can guarantee you, this lady is not the first mother to take a look at her crowded household with three needy children and want to run as far away as she can get. In Monica Kalozdi’s case, she started climbing hills and then mountains, and pretty soon she got ambitious. She would climb the highest mountains on the seven continents of the world.

According to the New Orleans Times-Picayune (Wednesday, July 13, 2005), Monica Kalozdi scaled Kilimanjaro in 2000, Aconcagua in South America in 2001, McKinley in 2003, and this Spring/Summer she reached Everest. That’s where the story lies and why I thought you would be as fascinated as I am.

For 55 days, she and her team lived in the frozen regions of Everest, eating dried food out of bags, living inside tents that were sometimes shredded by hurricane-strength winds. The story lies in the final 1500 feet of this 29,035 ft mountain. They call this the death zone. Monica says, “You’re exhausted. You feel your body giving out. You can’t see where you are stepping, and you know one misstep can kill you. You’re terrified to take another step because you know you could die. But you also know you can’t stop, because if you do, you’ll die.” Pretty terrifying, but it gets worse. “We knew we had not drunk enough water and hadn’t eaten any food. Those were mistakes.” She says, “It was the scariest, most terrifying thing I have ever experienced. It is a death zone.”

Just 1500 feet? A breeze, right? Monica says the path is not particularly steep, except for three places…where it’s straight up for anywhere from 50 to 200 feet. Sheer rock wall. Through snow and ice, the climbers walk with steel claws called crampons attached to their boots for traction. But in rock? Well, good luck. This is where people die.

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Today (as I write) I spoke to a noon prayer/Bible study group that meets in a local cafeteria each Wednesday. At their invitation, I talked about “the challenge of ministering in New Orleans.” Since most of the 15 people admitted they too were not native to the area, they nodded in agreement at some of my observations on the neediness of this city and the strangeness of its customs.

A few years back, a family moved here from Baptistland (that large crescent above New Orleans that extends from Texas across Arkansas and into Tennessee, Mississippi, Alabama, and on toward Georgia and Florida, an area peopled primarily by Baptists) and after visiting a half dozen local Baptist churches, they showed up at the one I pastored. That week I sat in their living room to welcome them. The husband wasted no time getting to the point.

“Our biggest disappointment on moving to New Orleans,” he said, “has been the churches.” He paused and said, “Pastor, there are no normal Baptist churches down here!”

I knew what he was talking about. It happens all the time. People move in here from Birmingham or Memphis or Dallas and expect to find churches like the one they left back home, and it doesn’t happen.

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I was telling someone that the other day, that of all the places I’ve served, there is something completely unique about living and working in New Orleans.

Take these situations for example.

I did a funeral one day for a 64 year old man and his 34 year old grandson. One funeral for both men. Study the ages and you quickly see something doesn’t quite add up.

The grandfather had been dead for 10 years and the family had kept his ashes in an urn, and had never had a funeral. When the grandson was murdered, they decided to get two burials for the price of one.

The young man was killed by his wife’s lesbian lover who lived in the house with them. She was of another race, and from what I’ve heard, another species. She was so manly they called her Charlie. When she began ruling the roost, eventually he moved out, but she would not let him take his kids. He kept coming back, of course–his wife and kids are there–and one day in a heated argument with Charlie, she planted a meat cleaver in his skull, then packed him away in the freezer. He was found several days later when family members and friends went searching for him. Charlie and the wife are now serving time in the state penitentiary for women.

The first funeral I had in one of New Orleans’ unique above-ground-cemeteries was back in 1990, just after we moved here from North Carolina. The day before the service,the wife of the deceased’s son said to me, “Now, pastor, tomorrow when we bury Raymond’s mother….” “Yes?” I said. “My mother will be in the casket with her.” I said, “How’s that?”

She said, “We cremated her years ago and haven’t known what to do with the ashes. We found out it’s legal, so just before we seal the casket, we are going to slip the urn inside and then put both their names on the marble slab.”

She got a little gleam in her eyes and said, “Just think–my mother and my mother-in-law in the same casket.” As we laughed, I said, “Did they get along well together?” She had a great answer. “It really doesn’t matter, does it?”

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