When Hurricane Katrina devastated our part of the world–August/September 2005–I began devoting this blog to telling what was happening in our lives and in the city. The website became something of “Joe’s Journal,” as some referred to it. After a couple of years, we reverted more to the original conception of the blog as a ministry to pastors and other church leaders. There are over 1,000 articles on this blog, if you can believe it. Personally, I find that staggering.

It occurred to me recently that once in a while, it might be a good idea to post a page or two of my current journal. To tell what’s going on in my life, not for self-promotion–Lord, help us!–but for other reasons. Case in point is the following account.

On Wednesday, April 27, 2011, I drove from my mother’s farmhouse in Winston County, Alabama, to Sevierville, Tennessee, for the bi-ennial meeting of the National Association of Southern Baptist Secretaries where I was to be a conference presenter and the sketcher (artist) of as many of the attendees as possible in their four-day meeting.

I had checked the weather and was glad I’d opted not to fly. A weather system was blowing in, bringing more storms. I fly a great deal, but never in a storm if I can help it. I’ve done that a few times in my life, and don’t choose to ever again.

This part of Northern Alabama had had isolated storms the day before, but, I figured, the worst was over.

Little did I know.

And even less did I know that I would be caught in the middle of the worst onslaught of tornadoes in this country in nearly a century.

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The stories some of our friends sent our way have been on my mind the last few days. I’ve promised to share them with our readers. Here are some of them.

A fun love story or two.

An anthropologist asked a Hopi Indian why so many of his people’s songs dealt with rain. He answered, “Because we need it so badly and it’s so scarce.” Then, after a moment, the Hopi said, “Why are so many of your songs about love?”

The young girl brought her guy home to meet her parents. Her mother was terrified on seeing the tattooed, spiked-haired, bearded, earring-wearing, rough-looking young man. She said, “Honey, is he nice?”

The daughter was offended. “Certainly he’s nice,” she said. “If he wasn’t nice, why would he be doing 5,000 hours of community service!”

This woman loved her man.

Pastor E. V. Hill led a church in the Watts section of Los Angeles during some of the worst racial trouble of the sixties and seventies. At one time, the rioting was so bad, an African-American preacher was killed because he associated with the Whites. According to rumor, Dr. Hill was next on the list.

A phone call in the middle of the night woke up Pastor Hill. An anonymous called informed him that his car was a target for bombing. He tried to keep this from his wife, but she would have none of that. She insisted he tell her.

The next morning, Pastor Hill could not find his wife. Then he noticed his car was gone. After a few minutes, the car drove up to the house and she got out.

He asked, “Now, why did you do that?”

She said, “If your car was to be bombed, I wanted to die instead of you.”

Pastor Hill would tell that story and add, “Since that day I have never asked my wife, ‘Do you love me?’ I know.”

He would add, “And since that day two thousand years ago when the Son of God died on that cross, I have not needed to ask God, ‘Do you love me?’ I already know.”

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If you could do one thing that would cinch your reward in Heaven, boost your reputation on earth, honor God, please Jesus, liberate the Spirit, infuriate the devil, puzzle your enemies, edify your church, encourage hurting believers, silence the church’s critics, draw outsiders to Jesus, and dissolve any anger inside your heart, wouldn’t you do it?

Then, love your enemies. That will accomplish all this and more.

On Facebook last week, I asked for the greatest love story you know. The ones we received–maybe 15 in all–told almost entirely of romance. There were some good ones, and we ran several in the earlier segment on this theme. More will follow.

However, I’m of the strong conviction that the best, the strongest, the most potent love stories have little or nothing to do with romance.

There are at least four levels of strong, good love, which increase in effectiveness and winsomeness as they intensify.

First level: You love someone who loves you back. This is the way all love should operate, we think. Sweethearts fall in love and marry and all is well. Grandparents love the kid and the child thinks the world of them. Best friends are BFF.

Second level: You love someone who does not know you exist. The person ignores you completely. Half the songs on the country music hit parade are fueled by this kind of pain.

Third level: You love someone who is unable to return your love. This variety is far stronger and infinitely more admirable. A parent cares for a handicapped child, a husband nurses a comatose wife, an adult looks after a parent with Alzheimers. Day after day, year after year, the love flows one way only.

Fourth level: You love someone who throws it back in your face. This is what Jesus had in mind when He said, “Love your enemy” (Luke 6:27). This is the finest example of Godly love, Christlike love, to be found.

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A great love is one that overcomes all obstacles.

The greatest love story is not one in which a wonderful man finds a terrific woman, they fall in love, they get married, and they live a blissful life thereafter. It’s a good love story, but not the best.

The best story–the kind I’m calling the greatest love story–involves overcoming obstacles of time or rejection or distance or heartbreak. Such a story tells of devotion in the face of discouragement, determination in the face of opposition, and the triumph of hope over despair.

A couple of days ago, I invited Facebook friends to tell me their best love story. I expect three or four. I received a dozen and more are still coming in.

Now, what I’m actually doing is working on a sermon about “the greatest love” which I will preach in two churches, and a Valentine’s banquet program for a third church. The thought occurred to me that, even though I know some great love stories, there are plenty of others out there that need to be told.

Here are some of the ones that have come in. Most are abbreviated since some were four pages long. I’ll use first names only.

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Title: “What Does the Resurrection of Jesus Mean to You Personally?”

Since I’m not pastoring anywhere and the only preaching I do is either filling in for my pastor friends or doing revivals, I’m never called on for “special day” services. That is, a pastor wants to be in his own pulpit at Christmas and Easter seasons. Therefore, my outlet is to post a sermon here and trust that my “congregation,” mostly pastors and church leaders, will find it to be a blessing and perhaps even add it to their own files as a future resource.

I asked a fellow once: “What does the resurrection of Jesus mean to you personally?” He didn’t hesitate. “Knowing I can go to Heaven and the debt has been paid.”

Hard to top that.

My observation is that everyone will answer that question just a little differently. Mainly, that’s because we are different, our histories vary, our consciousness of our failing past and our blessed future will not be identical, and thus what Jesus means to one will be different from what He means to another.

Let’s bring out an array of New Testament characters and run that question by them. This, incidentally, is not all guesswork. We have a fairly solid record in Scripture of a number of people who encountered the risen Jesus and were transformed by the event.

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Today, Wednesday, the archdiocese of New Orleans will make an announcement guaranteed to frustrate and even anger a lot of Catholics: which churches (they call them parishes) will be boarded up and shut down. Everyone is on edge, worrying that their beloved parish might be among the doomed.

Yesterday, pickets were out in force parading in front of favorite and vulnerable church buildings. Some people came to pray. This morning at 9:30 am Archbishop Alfred Hughes has summoned 300 active and retired priests to a meeting at Notre Dame Seminary where they will learn the full details of his decision. A news conference will follow.

Few know what will happen. Everyone fears the worst. Some say they are determined to fight for their church. Letter-writing campaigns are already in the works.

Several culprits have brought this about, sources say: the high cost of rebuilding all the hurricane-damaged churches, the weakened population figures for St. Bernard and Orleans parishes, the decreased income from these areas, and the departure of a lot of priests for other cities. This last, the loss of clergy, is called “a slower-moving disaster.”

Interestingly, it’s not only the churches afflicted by smaller numbers of parishioners and weakened income that will be closed, we are told. Some of the affluent churches in the population centers will be combined with other strong churches. As I say, no one but the archbishop knows and everyone waits.

Tuesday, I received a note from a cousin in Virginia. She grew up Methodist and now belongs to an Episcopal church which she loves dearly. However, the pastor has announced that since their tiny congregation has failed to grow during his five years there and since the income from their mother church in the city is ending due to its own financial pressures, he’s thinking of leaving. Mary Beth worries about their little church. She said, “I know personally every person who comes to our church.”

“We’ve tried everything,” she said, mentioning visitation, calling, publicity. “Nothing seems to work.”

As though answering the question in my mind, she said, “I don’t want to leave. I love this little church.”

I responded something like this.

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Mardi Gras comes early this year, Tuesday February 5. That’s the earliest I remember it and locals are complaining about the shortness of the season and the poor weather for the parades. Today, Monday, turned off beautifully though and several parades that were cancelled Friday are being made up tonight.

No, I’ll not be going. This is not my thing. If it’s yours, fine. Have fun and stay safe.

Driving down Metairie’s Veteran’s Highway today, all the signs of Mardi Gras surrounded me. The viewing stands have been in place for weeks. Temporary hurricane fences have been erected by some businesses that do not want parade-goers trampling down their grass or littering their parking lot. If you would like some beads without having to attend a parade, walk down the median–what locals call “neutral ground”–and pick them up; they’re lying everywhere.

A recent article in the Times-Picayune told of the Chinese factories that turn out boxcarsful of beads for us to throw and catch. An executive from that country urged our people not to tell his factory workers that we throw them at each other and that a large percentage will end up on the ground. They take a lot of pride in their work, he said, and this would be insulting to them.

In case you’re wondering, riders on the various floats purchase their own “throws,” as the beads and paraphernalia are called. Each one will spend from $700 to $1,000 on the large bags filled with items to be tossed into the crowds. Parade-watchers will compete to catch them and deposit them in their own bags. They’ll take them home, then try to figure out what to do with them now.

At the shipyards where my son Neil works, a colleague was sporting a bruise across her nose. She explained that a float rider had thrown not a strand of beads but an entire pack of beads in her direction. She was not watching and as she turned, the pack caught her in the face, causing the bruise. Unfortunately, that happens a lot. The riders are supposed to open a pack and toss the string of beads one at a time, but sometimes they grab a handful.

The Zulu Krewe always has interesting throws. This year again they are tossing some 7,000 painted and decorated coconuts into the stands. Neil says they don’t actually toss them however, that they are required to “hand” them. I hope so; these could be deadly weapons.

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Two nights this week, I sketched people at functions at a couple of our Baptist churches. Bogue Chitto Baptist Church, perhaps 70 miles north of North Orleans, packed their fellowship hall with children of all ages Wednesday night. I drew them for an hour before church and nearly that long afterwards. In between, I preached a revival sermon, then sketched and colored pictures for the four adults who had brought the most people to the services.

Friday night, Metairie Baptist Church held a block party in their parking lot and asked me to join the fun. Surrounded by balloon artists and food stalls and inflated playthings and crowds of people, I drew for nearly three hours. To my left, people at a table were handing out free Bibles. To my right, at the balloon table, a man could be heard going over the plan of salvation at various times.

In between, I was drawing. Trying to give people a little treasure from their visit to this church.

Occasionally I’m asked, “How many people have you drawn over the years?” With no way of knowing, I just pick a number. “Maybe a hundred thousand.” No doubt the real number is a lot less, but again, there’s no way of telling. A lot, that’s for sure. Especially when you consider that this all got started when Mom was exasperated with her preschoolers getting in the way of her housework and gave three-year-old Carolyn and five-year-old Joe pencil and paper and sat us down at the kitchen table. Soon I was off and running. I had found my calling. Sort of.

Sitting there tonight in the parking lot, looking really silly wearing a balloon hat the guy at the next table had fashioned for me and with a line of children and parents stretching out in front, I was struck again by several lessons about people that are reinforced everytime I do this.

1. Everyone is different. Way different. No two are alike. Not even twins.

2. Everyone is alike in many ways. Two eyes, one nose. The things they say.

3. Everyone is beautiful. In some ways, to some extent.

4. Everyone looks better smiling. But try to convince some people of that.

4. Everyone is curious as to how others see them.

5. Everyone is a little insecure about the way they look. If we could, we would all change something about our appearance.

I sound like a broken record (remember those?) after a while, with the comments I make to the person across the table, whom I occasionally refer to as “my victim.”

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