In an article about change in worship we noted that some people in our churches seem to want to return to the 1950s. One person responded to say she found absolutely nothing to like in the piece and said, “I’d love to live in the 1950s.”
Happy Days. Chevrolet convertibles with the huge fins. Malt shops and sock hops. Mayberry was America and America was Mayberry. Ike was in the White House. Elvis was in his ascendancy. And Andy Griffith was sheriff.
What’s not to like, right?
I smile at that.
No one loves the 1950s more than those who never lived them.
My wife said, “In the 1950s, every time a plane went overhead I thought it might be carrying an atomic bomb to drop on us.”
Such was the attitude of fear pervading this land.
In the early 1950s, I recall walking home from church with my grandmother after one of those meetings in which the preacher scared the living whatever out of us, and hearing the planes overhead–hey, Birmingham had lots of planes!–and I was thinking the same thing as my wife: “We’re goners.”
You want to return to that?
“Lie not one to another, seeing that you have put off the old man with his deeds, and have put on the new man, which is renewed in knowledge after the image of Him that created Him….” (Colossians 3:9-10).
I hate to admit this, but it needs to be done.
Preachers sometimes misrepresent themselves.
Some claim to have degrees that sound authentic but were bought on the sly somewhere for the simple reason that they have learned laypeople in our churches are unsophisticated about that sort of thing but are impressed by high-sounding degrees. Some ministers claim to have been places they merely flew over, to know people they shook hands with, and to be more than they are. Some give the appearance that they know the original languages when they are merely quoting something they picked up in a book.
There is no substitute for integrity in those called to preach the Word and lead the Lord’s flock.
A surgeon must have cleanliness in all he does; a teacher must have a love for the students at the heart of all she does; a carpenter must have the blueprint at the heart of all he does; and a pastor must have integrity at the heart of all he does.
Integrity. Truth. Honesty. No deception. No embellishment. No twisting of the fact. No irresponsible reporting. No claiming what is not so, no declaring what we do not know, and no using what belongs to another.
The temptation is ever with us to do otherwise.
“Keep back thy servant from presumptuous sins” (Psalm 19:13).
In the months leading up to the U.S. involvement in the Second World War, our country broke the Japanese secret code. This means that Army and Navy personnel were reading Japan’s messages. We actually knew where their forces were most of the time and what they were planning.
All signs indicated they were going to attack the U.S. at Pearl Harbor.
And yet, when they did just that–December 7, 1941, that day of infamy–we were completely unprepared. Our battleships were parked side by side close up and made a great target for the Japanese torpedo bombers. Our planes were parked in rows, as though for the sharpshooters at the county fair.
The Japanese had a field day. A turkey shoot.
How had this happened? How had they managed to catch us so completely off guard when we were reading their coded messages and knew what they were up to?
We did not believe what we were reading. This could not possibly happen.
My mother once asked if when couples come to see me with marriage plans, do I try to talk them out of it. She was teasing, but that’s not entirely a joke. If the preacher can, he perhaps ought to.
The problem is by the time they get to the pastor’s office, their minds are made up and no one can talk them into changing their plans. Unfortunately, in many cases, neither can you talk them into changing their mindsets.
But, we keep trying.
We preachers deliver sermonettes to them in the office, counsel them on what they’ve learned about themselves and each other, and hand them books to read, all in an attempt to get some new ideas into their minds and some growth into their relationship.
We give them Gary Chapman’s book, Five Love Languages, and say, “Don’t come back until you’ve read it. We’ll be talking about its insights at the next session.” Once, when the groom-to-be said he had not had the time to read it, I lowered the boom on him. “Remember I told you I’m not charging you anything for my services? Well, if I’m going to sacrifice a little, you ought to, also!” I looked at him and said sternly, “Read the book!”
And when your children shall say, ‘What does this rite mean to you?’ you shall say…. (Exodus 12:26)
Parents, you’d better be prepared. That day will come.
More than likely, the way children will ask this question will not be with upraised hand and respectful tone. They will sound more like: “Why do we have to do this? It’s so boring! I don’t get anything out of it!” The word griping comes to mind.
Anyone heard that from your little ones?
But count on it. They will ask that question, however they phrase it. You’d better be ready with an answer, parents.
Six-year-old Matthew believed his mother totally, and that’s what caused the problem. He had heard and loved all her stories of Santa and elves and the North Pole . Now, he’s a bright child and he listens to the other kids. That’s how he heard that not only Santa and the elves, but also the Easter bunny and Rudolph and the entire galaxy of holiday characters were all figments of someone’s imagination. Fictions. Fantasies.
Remember, he’s six years old. He was devastated.
“…serving the Lord with all humility, with many tears and trials…” (Acts 20:19)
Let a pastor go through one huge church fight that leaves God’s people bleeding and bitter and scattering and he will do everything in his power to avoid another one.
Let a pastor go through a termination in which he is forced out from the church where the Lord had sent Him, and the pain of that rejection will accompany him the rest of the way home.
Some pain never leaves.
The wound heals but the scar remains and the memory never fades.
Thoughts of that event will color his counsel to other pastors. The pain of that event will pop up at the strangest of times. The lessons of that event will demand to be shared with others going through their own bit of hades-on-earth.
As a result of all this, the wounded pastor will mention that event from time to time.
It’s not a choice he makes.
“I have nourished and brought up children and they have rebelled against me….” (Isaiah 1:2)
Abandonment. Desertion. Rejection.
The pastor loves that family and longs for them to do well. Their children are so fine and exhibit incredible potential. He knows their names. He prays for them, encourages them, and goes out of his way to support them. And they seem to respond. They flourish spiritually and seem to love the Lord, love their church, and love him. And then…
One day, they disappear.
When he inquires, someone tells the pastor, “Oh, they’ve joined that new startup church down the highway. The one where the pastor is so critical of us and our denomination.”
He never hears a word. They just disappear from his radar and he never sees them again.
It’s not that they stabbed him in the back. They did not pull a Judas and betray him. They just walked away without a word.
“So, you were the one praying for me!
Tara Edelschick was brought up the daughter of a secular Jew and a lapsed Lutheran. She learned to be fairly self-sufficient, went to a great college and married a super guy. “Weaker souls might need a god,” she thought at the time, “but I needed no such crutch.”
That belief was obliterated when my husband of five years, Scott, died from complications during a routine surgery. Ten days later, I delivered our first child, Sarah, stillborn.
Oh, my. Talk about a double whammy. Life suddenly took a tragic turn, blindsiding the unsuspecting young woman.
Many would never have recovered from such a blow.
Last evening and today, I’ve been texting with a friend of 60+ years as we set up the reunion for the church in Birmingham that ministered to me so thoroughly when I was a student at nearby Birmingham-Southern Baptist Church. Everything that follows below is relevant to that.
I’m 81 years old. Not decrepit or senile, thank you very much. And, not ancient or feeble by any means, you understand. But the calendar is what it is and the white hair belies my protestations. Honestly, l feel like I’m 15. Okay, sort of.
The time is here when it’s perfectly acceptable to look back and remember and give thanks to God for what He has done.
Thinking of all the blessings of people and incidents, of words and books and jobs and churches, I constantly thank God that He did “this” and not “that” or something else entirely.
You are looking at one blest man. (Okay, to the extent you are actually “looking” at me, that is.)
We graduated in May of 1958 from the Winston County High School in Double Springs, Alabama. We were all so glad for that long-anticipated event to arrive, once it was over we quickly scattered in our own directions without a thought to the fact that we were seeing some of our classmates for the last time. We had no way of knowing that in a few short years our school would burn down or that by the 50th anniversary of our graduation, over one third of our members would no longer be living.
There is a reason only older people attend class reunions. They know.
The recent graduates are still in college somewhere or serving Uncle Sam or trying to get established in low-paying jobs and can’t afford the trip back home. But mostly they don’t come to reunions because they haven’t figured it out yet.
They think they have forever. They think of the rest of us as oldsters, like ancient relics of a previous civilization that has no bearing on the world they live in today. They have no idea that the time between now and their fiftieth will seem like weeks. They will still be looking upon themselves as the younger generation when suddenly their twentieth reunion will be announced in the newspapers.
If they’re like me, the twentieth will be the first reunion they attend. And if they’re really like me, they will open the door and look in that room, taking in all the bald heads and unfamiliar faces, and decide this can’t be my class and walk on down the hall looking for the real class. They will soon realize there is no one else in the building and that this is their class.
That’s the moment when they start to grow up.