I remember waking up, about the age of five years old, during a thunderstorm and hearing my father screaming. I thought my father was afraid of the storm, and I thought that was really funny. It never occurred to me that the sound of the thunder intruding on his sleep brought on dreams of bombs exploding, bullets whistling close by, seeing his best friend, not 20 feet away, blown away by a Japanese mortar round. Or, maybe, the thunder triggered the memory of an artillery shell that left shrapnel in his body that is still there in his grave with him. He would often call out in his sleep as the memories he tried to suppress in his waking hours, rack his mind and body as he slept.

          My father was a drinker. Not the occasional beer after doing something outside on a hot day. No, he was the drinker who drank to forget. And he had a lot to forget. But, he never, ever talked about it. Not to his wife, not to his friends, not to other vets. I asked him once what he had done in the war. He just replied, “I drove a bulldozer.” I knew he had been in the Navy because my uncle had told me once, with great pride, that my father had been a fleet boxing champ in his weight class. I looked at my father that day and said, “A bulldozer? You were in the Navy. Why would they need bulldozers?” He just walked past me and got in his truck. When he got home, hours later, he was drunk and he was angry. My mother told me to never mention the war again. In my youthful ignorance, I suspected he was ashamed that all he had done was drive a bulldozer.

          Time rolled by, as it does. My father drank more and more. Into my teen years I worked hard to build my body up. I wanted to get to the point to where I could protect my mother when he came home drunk. I would try, but then I would be introduced to that fleet boxing champ. I get knocked down and my mother would pay the price. Over and over, until one day I didn’t get knocked down. My mother never had to pay the price again. I had thought that when the day would finally come, I would feel joy. But I didn’t. I felt nothing. By that time I honestly didn’t care what happened to him.

          But his attitude toward me changed. After that day I left him stretched out on the dining room floor with a broken elbow, he started talking to me. Oh, he still had to drinking, but he would talk about the war and his part in it. My father fought in the South Pacific. He was wounded three times. The day after the news of Pearl Harbor came in he joined the Navy. After basic he and his best friend joined the Construction Battalion, or the CBs. He didn't want to serve on a ship, he wanted the ship to get him to the fighting. During the island hopping phase of the war the Marines would land on some Japanese island or another and fight their way inshore. ( For those who don’t know, island hopping refers to the necessary strategy the Americans employed. In Europe, the Germans and Italians occupied towns and cities and had to be pushed out as the Allies moved toward Berlin. In the South Pacific, the Japanese occupied islands. The distances in the Pacific are so vast that no bombers could reach Japan, so the Americans had to get closer. Rather than take every island along the way, they took strategic islands and let the remainder sit without any support or relief from Japan. Some Japanese soldiers held out on those islands until long after the war. The last Japanese soldier finally surrendered in 1973.)  Landing with them would be the CBs, driving their bulldozers off the landing craft so they could make fortifications and shelters. During those times my father told me of the horrors of war. Of his buddy dying instantly, of a Marine captain ordering him to bury alive with his bulldozer five Japanese soldiers who had been captured, of what it felt like to look down the sights of his rifle and kill someone for the first time. Island after island. Land, fight, create landing strips and fortifications, then load up and go on to the next island. I began to understand the drinking and I began to understand why so many men came home screaming at the thunder.

          One story stuck in my mind. The next island in the line of islands was a small island called Eniwetok. It was important, but small. The Americans didn’t expect much resistance. It would have been bypassed, but they needed the airfield. So, the Marines attacked with their CB support. The Japanese, however, fully recognized the importance of Eniwetok and had fully garrisoned the small island. What the Americans encountered when they came ashore was some of the most vicious fighting of the war. Everyone was taken by surprise. My father told me that they had advanced up the beaches quite a way’s when there was a stunning counter attack. The Marines and CBs were forced back. But there was no ‘back.’ Only the sea, full of floating corpses. My father turned his dozer rear end to the sea and began to slowly give ground to the attacking Japanese. He set his blade to where it provided some protection for him and the handful of Marines who had taken cover around the dozer and they backed toward the sea. My father kept up a steady fire over top of the blade and the Marines kept up a steady fire around the blade, but still they had to keep backing up. As the back end of the dozer was entering the water the big guns on the distant ships opened up. It was a tense little while, but the counter attack was broken and they advanced once more. My father gave the Marines all the credit. He felt that if they hadn’t been clustered around his dozer he would have been overrun and killed. The story was moving and thought provoking. My attitude toward my father was softening.

          Many years later I was pastoring a church in Warren, Ohio. Warren was about 70 miles from where Marsha’s parents lived. When her Dad was diagnosed with cancer, he was set up with chemotherapy. This was 1988 through 1989. The chemo was set up for three times a week, requiring a three hour infusion. Since Marsha’s Mom didn’t drive and no one was available to take him to the hospital, I made arrangements with the church to take him for his treatments. Very understanding church. As it turned out, the therapy didn’t work and he passed, but for several months I would get to their place and get him to his therapy by 6 AM. I would pull into their driveway at 4:30, let myself in and put on a pot of coffee. We would sit and drink a cup and then we would go. As time went on, Marsha’s Dad got to talking about the war. Like my father, her Dad was a drinker. Not a mean drinker, but a drinker. And, like my father, he never talked about it. But, over those cups of coffee he began to open up.

          He was a Marine fighting in the South Pacific. It got me interested. I wondered if maybe my father and father-in-law ever crossed paths. And then came the morning when my father-in-law told me of the fight in which he knew he was going to die. It was on a small island called Eniwetok. I almost dropped my coffee. He didn’t notice. A far away look had come into his eyes as he told his tale. Up the beach, the counter attack, the furious fighting. I was hardly breathing. And then, there was a CB bulldozer turning in the sand, facing his blade to the enemy. My father-in-law and several other Marines clustered around it as it backed up toward the sea. They fired around the blade while the operator fired over the blade. The enemy would close in, but they kept driving them off. If, however, they were driven back to the sea, it wouldn’t matter. As the dozer’s treads entered the water, the Navy’s big guns opened up. The counter attack broke up, they moved forward. “Scared to death, Larry, but that CB sailor saved our sorry hides.” He was still looking far off, so he didn’t see my mouth hanging open and he didn’t see the tears in my eyes. It was an amazing moment.

          I am sure that the same scenario was played out all along the beach on Eniwetok. The odds are almost to great that they were in the same place at the same time. But this Memorial Day, as at every Memorial Day, my thoughts are with two farm boys, one from Pennsylvania and one from Kentucky, fighting desperately on a sandy rock in the Pacific whose name they had trouble pronouncing until it was burned in their minds. Scared, knowing they were going to die, wanting nothing more than to be behind that old mule on a scorcher day plowing a field. But there they were, fighting a huge war. And maybe, just maybe, they were each saving the life of a man who would one day father their own child’s spouse. You never know.

          Thank you, veterans, for your service. God bless you all.

          I have a friend who always says, “God really answered that prayer!” I have said to him, many times, that God answers every prayer of a believer. But it goes right past him and he will say it again next time. Sometimes, God says ‘NO,’ which is still an answer, just not what we were looking for. And, sometimes His answer is right out of the blue, one of those answers you know was making Him chuckle as He arranged it.

          Homesickness is a terrible thing, I suppose. It never has really bothered me, though. Maybe it is because I always have three of four things going on at once. I never have had time for those lingering thoughts of home that cause homesickness.

          My wife, however, is another matter. When we left the frozen north and moved to Miami she went through withdrawal pains. It was not that she missed the cold and bitter weather that winter could bring along the shores of Lake Erie where she was born and raised, it was just that those cold shores was where her family was, it was where home remained. After living in Florida for a long time the ministry brought us back into the area we were from to begin with. Then she was homesick for Florida. Go figure.

          Anyway, we were coming up on our first Christmas in Miami. Marsha did okay for a while. People were stringing lights in the tops of palm trees and wearing short sleeved Santa suits and the sun baked the ground in December just like it did in June, so neither of us were getting to Christmassy. But then one Sunday in early December I was watching a football game that was being played in Buffalo, New York and it was snowing. Marsha saw the snow and all of a sudden she was overcome with all those homesick feelings. After that, everything on TV had to do with Christmas and snow and cozy feelings. Marsha was miserable.

          There wasn’t anything I could do to help her, of course, other than send her home. She didn’t want that, but she was still despondent over it all. I confess, I didn’t help all the time. Early one morning a week before Christmas we were both awakened by the throaty growl of a passing garbage truck.

          “What was that?” Marsha asked.

          “Snowplow.”

          “Oh.”

          Then, silence for a few seconds until she realized I was pulling her leg. Then the tears started. She thought I was the most unfeeling thing she had ever met, and she was mostly right.

          That evening I told her that if we really believed in answered prayer we could pray for a white Christmas and God would provide. No, she said, it was Miami. One brief little snowfall in the entire history of the town. It was highly doubtful that Miami would be blanketed by white on Christmas morning.

          But, I argued, we have not because we ask not. Maybe it could be in God’s will for just one little snowfall. We just needed to pray about it.  So we did. We began to pray daily for a white Christmas. By Christmas Eve, even though the weather forecast was calling for warm and muggy weather for Christmas, we were certain we would see white the next morning.

          Even before we had a child to wake us up, Marsha was an early riser on Christmas. She has always enjoyed the holiday immensely. So, even before daybreak she shook me awake. I awoke to hear the air conditioner running, so it didn’t sound very promising. We walked to the front of our apartment and, with sinking hearts, opened the door.

          What to our wondering eyes should appear!?!?!?!?!?!

          Miami, Florida, city of no snow, was absolutely blanketed by the white stuff. When we opened the door the oppressive heat just rolled into our apartment, but the city was still coated in white.

          Fog.

          The heaviest fog I had ever seen, or ever would see. So heavy we couldn’t see the railing outside our door or the lights in the palm tree. Fog that was so dense that when we went out to our car after breakfast and just after sunrise we nearly got lost in the parking lot. Miami was completely covered. And it didn’t even start to clear until that evening.

          So, we had our white Christmas after all. All we could do was laugh about it. We hadn’t specified snow and we didn’t get snow, but it was definitely white.

          You see, God does have a sense of humor. It is often said that you should be careful what you pray for, because the Lord will give it to you. 

          One of the truly great ways to learn is through experience. It is too bad, really. Think how wonderful it would be if we could learn by listening or reading about the experiences of others. A lot of grief could be avoided. However, since we are human, experience is our great teacher.

          But some learning experiences take on a life of their own. Some things are learned in shocking fashion. We might call these life’s embarrassing moments, but really they are life’s funniest teachers.

          Experience gained by watching others is very nice, but it usually doesn’t stick in our minds as well. Unless it is extreme. Once when I was an associate pastor the senior pastor was ill. Rather than give me the pulpit for the day, he decided to tough it out. He told me just before he went into the pulpit that he was feeling worse. He said that if he had to suddenly leave I was to come up and lead the congregation in a hymn. If at the close of the hymn he still wasn’t back, I was to close in prayer. About halfway through his message he got ill. Away from the pulpit he ran to the restroom. I stepped into the pulpit ready to lead in a song, but then the church was treated to the benefits of a new technological device. Wireless lapel microphones had just come out and Pastor had to be one of the first to have one. They are great, except when you are vomiting while it is still turned on. His wife leaped to her feet and raced to the restroom. I was hoping the sound man would turn off the sound, but he was mesmerized. Over the speakers we heard the restroom door bang open and Pastor’s wife yelling, “Bob! The mic is one! Turn it off!”

          Wireless mics are a blessing, but they can also be a real problem. Many a preacher has gotten himself in trouble by saying something he shouldn’t be saying while the mic was on. Which is fine with me. The preacher should remember that God is always listening. If it is wrong for the folks in the church to hear it then it is almost always wrong for the Lord to hear it.

          Once in a while, though, the wireless mic produces a genuinely funny moment. A church I pastored for over a decade finally invested in one of these little marvels. I wore it for the first time for Maundy Thursday, just before Easter. Everything worked fine in our church, but the church down the street also had a wireless setup and their receiver picked up my transmission. The pastor told me later that he was sitting behind the pulpit waiting for the organist to play. He said that his organist was standing at the organ when music started playing over the speakers. The pastor thought it odd that the organist was playing standing up and it was odd that the opening was a different hymn than planned, but he let it go and didn’t pay attention. Then he stood into the pulpit and started to lead the congregation in prayer. However, before he could get a word out another voice began to pray over the speakers. Needless to say, he was startled, but then he recognized my voice. They let me finish praying and then they turned off their wireless system. Even our organ music had come over so clear that the folks in the congregation didn’t even realize it was not their organ. I can be something of a wise guy, so I told that pastor they should have just let me preach. That way they would have had a good sermon.

          Every preacher who has been at it for a while has a supremely embarrassing moment that goes beyond these mentioned. Usually they don’t like to mention them. Either because they are so embarrassing or because they fear for their dignity. I have two that are very embarrassing. Since they are both funny I don’t really worry about the embarrassment thing. And, as far as dignity is concerned, these two moments robbed me of all my dignity anyway.

          The first one was not completely unusual. By that I mean that it could happen to anyone, and probably has had happened to several preachers out there.

          I was visiting the church’s shut-ins one fine spring day. At that particular moment all of our shut-ins were elderly women. They were always quite happy to see their young pastor because he would sit and chat with them for a while and then give them communion. On this particular day they seemed to enjoy my visit more than usual. I went to the first home and was greeted in a friendly way. However, during the visit this sweet little old lady suddenly laughed. She was in on a joke that I knew nothing of, which was not unusual with her. After the laugh she seemed oddly animated. Eventually she sent me on my way, but asked me where I was going next. That was different, but I told her and thought nothing else of it.

          The next stop had my shut-in waiting for me at the door. She ushered me into her apartment, sat me down and then smiled at me in a silly way. She, too, had a joke she wasn’t sharing. When I got up to leave she walked me to the door and then asked me where my next stop was going to be. Again, very strange, but not out of line.

          Well, I made five stops that day. Every lady had a big smile plastered on her face. Every one of them broke into giggles at some point. It was an interesting day. I just couldn’t figure out why they all seemed so goofy. Until I got home and found that my pants were ripped from the bottom of my zipper all the way back to my belt loop in the back. 

          But there is an embarrassing moment for me that tops that and all others. In fact, I have never talked to another preacher who could top this one. It is unusual and it was avoidable, except I was in a real hurry.

          The church I was the pastor of at the time was in Ohio. Our church secretary was from Pennsylvania. All of her family was still there except for her husband and kids, so they made two or three trips back every year. Her grandfather, a sweet and gentle man, had helped raise her as she was growing up. In time he became ill. It was quite serious and our secretary and her family were making the trek to the old home town almost weekly.

          Eventually the grandfather died. As you might imagine, our secretary was devastated. The church published a weekly newsletter, and getting it out  was one of her jobs. She came in to put the newsletter out and then go to Pennsylvania. I told her that there was no way she was going to do that; I would put the newsletter out, she could go on. My thinking was, How hard can it be? I soon found out.       

          Our church had two annual get togethers that everyone enjoyed immensely. The first was the Mid-Winter Bar-B-Que. This was a gathering on the last Saturday in January that we had every year for the adults who were under the age of forty five. It was a nice party that broke up the monotony of an Ohio winter along Lake Erie.

          The other get together was Geritol Night. This was a Saturday evening in the spring for the over forty five crowd. The joke is obvious in the name and we always had a lot of fun at this one, as well. Both events were eagerly awaited.

          Well, the year prior to the secretary’s grandfather’s death we had missed out on having Geritol Night. Several crisis situations had come up and the night of fun had been overlooked. With the new year, however, everyone wanted to make sure Geritol Night was on the schedule.

          Back to doing the newsletter. I had never imagined it was such a job getting that thing out. To save time I left out several announcements, but I did put in the Geritol Night announcement. I just wanted everyone to know it was going to happen.

          Have no fear! The annual Geritol Night is being planned! We will have more news on it next week, but rest assured that Geritol Night will be held this year. The theme is going to be ‘Precious Memories,’ so bring cameras to Geritol Night so we can record some of those ’Precious Memories.’

          Pretty harmless announcement. I put the Geritol Night in dark print to call attention to the announcement, something I learned working for a newspaper, and I let it go.

          When I was all done putting the newsletter together on the computer I went to print it. Spell check came up immediately and, being in a hurry, I just OKed everything spell checked tagged so I could finish up and get it in the mail. I ran off the master, made the hundreds of copies, did the folding and addressing and stapling and got them off. I vowed that I would never do it again. (That  newsletter went to every member of the church and to points all around the country. Some small newspapers had a smaller circulation.)  

          The fun began two nights later. I was in the family room watching a baseball game and my wife was in the kitchen reading the newsletter. Suddenly, she let out a whoop and came running with the newsletter in hand.

          “Here, read what you wrote about Geritol Night!”

          I read it and shrugged my shoulders.

          “What’s the problem?”

          “READ IT AGAIN!”

          I read it again and looked at her with concern.

          “Okay, sweetheart, I’ve read it twice now and I don’t see the problem.”

          “READ IT AGAIN AND PAY ATTENTION TO THE DARK PRINT!”

          Never having double checked the spell check, this is what came out in the newsletter, specially printed up by the spiritual and dignified Rev. Dr. Larry Wade.

          Have no fear! The annual Genital Night is being planned! We will have more news on it next week, but rest assured that Genital Night will be held this year. The theme is going to be ‘Precious Memories,’ so bring cameras to Genital Night so we can record some of those ’Precious Memories.’

          Yes indeed. I invited adults from all around the country to come and bring their cameras for a genital night. What precious memories that would make.

          Time stood still as I stared at my wife. Obviously, there was no way I could fix this. My hope was that nobody would catch it. After all, we tend to read what we expect to see. I had just done it myself two times. Maybe my wife’s alertness was a fluke. Maybe I could slip by on this one.

          Then the phone rang. It was one of our younger adults wanting to know why we didn’t have those kinds of activities at the Mid-Winter Bar-B-Que. He also wanted to know if he could come and bring a video camera. He hung up in hysterics. The phone rang again. More of the same. Over and over the phone rang. One of our older ladies told me she wouldn’t be coming, but she wanted to know if I would get her some pictures. She hung up in hysterics, also.

          Some people made the mistake of thinking the mistake was the secretary’s even though I had explained at the beginning of the newsletter that I was doing it for her. I considered letting her take the fall, but decided against it. I had proven I was a pervert, no sense adding lying to my sins.

          Going to church the next Sunday was hard. Everyone got a charge out of my embarrassment. The only good thing was when my wife and I traveled to Pennsylvania for the secretary’s grandfather’s calling hours. She was filled with grief and looked as though she could use some cheering up. I whispered in her ear what I had done and she actually snorted. Seeing her smile was almost worth it.

          Denise Scibona was our church secretary in Ohio for the last six years I was at Park Street Christian Church. We had a wonderful working relationship. I could have the bones of an idea and give it to her and she could add a little and I could add a little and pretty soon we had something that was pretty good. Her husband and I were friends, her kids went through our youth group (each one serving a period of time as youth president) and Denise, Marsha and I sang in a pretty good trio. At least it was good if I sang softly. We published a weekly, eight-page newsletter, of which Denise was the editor, and she kept all the events of the church in order. In fact, the only real problem I had with Denise was that she was a very good writer. The first time I went on vacation after Denise became the secretary, she wrote the pastor’s article in the newsletter. After I read it I decided that I was either going to have to write my article ahead to cover my vacation time or not go on vacation. I didn’t want the church to realize they didn’t need me.

          Apparently, the current pastor does not share my fear. I get the newsletter still and Denise does the column fairly often. I really enjoyed this last one and I would like to share it with you all. Keep in mind, I am sharing this without permission. If Denise sues me I might be asking all of you for legal aid. The only lawyer I personally know ism Denise’s daughter Tina, and I don’t think she would defend me against her mother.

          Anyway, from my dear friend, Denise Scibona.

From the Secretary’s desk:

(Last interruption from me, I promise, but I need to point out that I have called my newsletter articles “From the Pastor’s Desk” since 1987. Denise stole my title and her writings “From the Secretary’s Desk,” So now I don’t feel so bad for stealing this article.)

 In less than two weeks, we will be celebrating Memorial Day.  We all know the reason for Memorial Day; to remember those who gave their lives for the freedoms we have today.  We remember those fallen with parades, flags and flowers.  I am saddened at times when I watch a parade and folks don’t honor the American flag as it passes by, or give tribute to those who serve or have served as they march by.  We live in a society where some care more about new phones and the newest gadgets than honoring those who gave their lives fighting for our nation.  What would happen if we didn’t have those folks who fought?  Where would we be right now?

  We set aside one day to remember those fallen soldiers.  We show the colors of red, white and blue, we fly our flags.  We sadly watch on the news as they bring home the body of a soldier who perished in battle.  We are saddened by his or her loss.  The news tells of countless men and women serving the country and don’t get me wrong, I am so thankful there are men and women who serve and have served to keep America safe.  I am thankful that my dad was one of those men who served as were all of my uncles!  I take pride in flying my American flag and am thankful for the freedom to do so.

As we remember those fallen warriors, we also must remember another One who gave His life; not for our freedom per say, but for our salvation; which we could call our freedom.  Jesus suffered such a beating for our “freedom” from sin. His willing sacrifice is something we need to remember every day! That salvation from our Savior is free to us; we don’t have to pay anything for it; Jesus already paid the price.  We just have to accept Jesus and begin to follow His leading.  Sounds so easy, doesn’t it?

When you read the Bible, do you really take in what you read?  We might read the same scripture multiple times but the one time we read it, something stands out.  This happened this past Monday at our ladies Bible study.  The author was highlighting 1Peter 2: 22-24, “22) He never sinned, nor ever deceived anyone. 23) He did not retaliate when he was insulted, nor threaten revenge when he suffered.  He left his case in the hand of God, who always judges fairly. 24) He personally carried our sin in his body on the cross so that we can be dead to sin and live for what is right.  By his wounds you are healed.”  

Each crack of the whip that Jesus endured  represented one of our sins.  Each nail that was pounded in His hands and feet represented those sins.  Our healing and salvation is a direct result of Jesus’ willingness to hang on that cross.  By Jesus’ wounds we are healed!  Not going to be healed, we are healed!   

When we see the American flag, we remember those who gave their lives for our freedoms.  When we look at a cross or our brothers and sisters in Christ we need to remember the One who gave His life for our “freedom” of salvation.  Do you want to know more about your salvation?  Come join us this Sunday!

In His service,

Denise Scibona ~ secretary

Blessings to you all.

          Summers in Miami, Florida are hot and muggy and filled with bugs and mostly miserable. Marsha and I lived there for a good number of years and I, because I was in the heat a lot, really didn’t like it. Marsha, who went from the air conditioned house to the air conditioned car to the air conditioned office back to the air conditioned house, loved it. Occasionally she also went to the air conditioned store or mall and every once in a while we went to the breezy beach. It was all fine to her, but it beat me down.

          One hot and sticky Saturday in the summer of 1979 I spent the whole morning under my father’s truck putting on new shocks. You could do something like that so long as you wrapped it up by noon. By one o’clock I was sitting in a lawn chair in his back yard sucking down big glasses of iced tea. My father was sitting next to me sipping at his tea. I had been the one under the truck busting my knuckles, not him. I had been pondering something and I choose that moment to talk to the old guy about it.

          “Dad, I been thinking.” He rolled his eyes and said, “They teach you to do that in college, boy?” My father’s family was not big on college. In fact, my two sisters and I were the very first in the family to go to college. The fact that we all graduated and we paid our own way made that a pretty nice thing. My father had no use for such nonsense.

          “Well, yeah, they did teach me to think, but this has nothing to do with that. I was thinking that with your garage and the equipment you have, we could put out a sign offering to change the oil in folks’ vehicles for $19.95 and we could make a pretty good penny. Every Ford product takes the same filter, there are only two different filters for Chrysler products and GM only has four different filters. Inventory would be easy” This was before the quickie oil changes that we have today. If you took your car into a dealer for service they might change your oil or you could take it to the local garage for service and they might change your oil, but other than that, almost everyone bought their oil for fifty cents a quart and their oil filter for two dollars and changed their own oil. When you were done you had less than five dollars in the change, unless you splurged on a three dollar air filter. To me, the $19.95 seemed reasonable.

          “If that’s the kind of thinking college taught you to do, boy, you wasted your money. Who, in their right mind, would pay twenty bucks for an oil change?” My father died suddenly in February, 2005, in North Carolina. The last conversation we had face to face, we were sitting in my sister’s back yard in two lawn chairs, and he was still calling me ‘boy.’ He rarely called me anything else, except maybe ‘college boy.’ Once in a while he called me by my actual name, but rarely.

          “I’m thinking there are a lot of people who are sick of getting grit in their eyes. I might even pay twenty bucks myself to come away from a change without being filthy!”

          “Well, you college kids do hate to get dirty.” Mind you, I was soaked through with sweat, covered in rust and grit from his shocks and, over the grit, layered in the fine sand that was everywhere in Miami. He was sitting in a clean shirt and pants, sipping on an ice tea. I just sighed and let it go.

          Within five years the quickie oil change places began to pop up everywhere. For $19.95 you could get your oil changed in a guaranteed ten minutes. I kept refusing to go to one of those places until one day in 2000 when I got a pretty good dose of grit in my eyes. That was it for my oil changing days. After that, I was letting someone else do it.

          I thought about all this last Saturday as I sat in a hard chair waiting for my wife’s car to be done. It’s getting more expensive every time. I was feeling a little guilty, sitting there drinking my cup of ‘free’ coffee. I could be doing that. True, a quart of oil costs a lot more now, and the oil filters are more expensive and harder to get at, too. And you have to replace the air filter every other time, and they are really pricy. But, it would still be cheaper. Just then, the young man under the car in the next bay let out a yell and started to wipe at his eyes. I just sat back and started to enjoy my coffee a little more.

          I have often wondered what would have happened to my father and me if we had started that oil change business. We might not have gotten rich, but I think it would have been a nice income. Would it have derailed the ministry, though? It certainly would have changed my pursuit of the ministry. Things would have been different. So, I am happy my father lacked the vision to take that chance. It worked out for the best.

          2002. A warm Fall day in Lexington, North Carolina. My father and I were sitting in lawn chairs in his back yard. We were going to leave in the morning. The old guy said, “Miss Betty (we all called his second wife Miss Betty) took her car down to the Jiffy Lube and got her oil changed. I won’t do that, you know.”

          “Yeah, I remember, Dad.” Now, maybe he was going to tell me, after all those years, that the quickie oil change idea might have actually worked out.

          “So, before you leave, I want you to change the oil on my truck.”

          I just looked at him and smiled. “Sure, Pops, I better get at it.”

          Last one I ever did.

          Blessings.

          Thursday was May 4^th. Did you feel it? The electricity in the air? The anticipation? The sense of hope? Victory was in the air! Wasn’t it great? Didn’t it make you skin tingle? You have no idea what I am talking about, do you?

          May 4^th is the unofficial ‘Star Wars’ day. One of the common lines in all the movies, used as a greeting or a farewell, is “May the Force be with you.” Which is why May 4^th has been co-opted as Star Wars day. “May the 4^th be with you.” A little play on words. Kind of clever, really, when you think about it. 

          Star Wars brought in a whole new kind of movie experience. Many preachers jumped on the bandwagon and preached about the “Force” being the Spirit of God. For proof, they pointed out that some of the characters had Biblical names. Luke and Leah surely pointed to the fact that the producers were creating a link to the Word of God. Even the long passionate kiss the two shared was indicative of true, Godly love. Of course, the second movie shot that down when it was discovered by Luke and Leah that they were actually brother and sister, separated as babies. That just made it creepy and it kind of ended the idea that it was a Christian movie in disguise. But the movies, as intended by the makers, were triumphs so story telling.

          Back in 1977 Marsha was going to go with her friend Peggy and her husband Lee to a movie. Some new science fiction movie. Did I want to go? I just rolled my eyes. Marsha was my wife, but sometimes she could be a little silly. Why would I want to go to some foolish science fiction movie? I had no interest. Go with Lee and Peggy. Have fun. Remember, popcorn gives you a headache. I had other things to do.

          They had gone to a matinee. Marsha got home and was totally beside herself. She wanted me to go back with her that night. “LARRY, YOU HAVE TO GO!!!” When you are a husband and you are faced with that, you really do have to go. “WE HAVE TO GET THERE EARLY BECAUSE THE MOVIE WILL BE SOLD OUT!!!!” Oh, great, it was just getting better and better. We went early.

          She was right about needing to be there early. We got there early and still almost didn’t get a seat. As we squeezed into the theater I thought to myself, ‘What a bunch of weirdos.’ Some were even wearing some kind of costumes. This was too much. “The Deep” was also playing. Surely that would be a better movie.

          And then the movie started. I was like everyone else, totally sucked in. It was huge, it was action packed, it told a great story. It was an amazing movie. Before the movie ended its run at that theater, Marsha saw it fourteen times (because she went once with Lee and Peggy) and I saw it thirteen times. At Christmas, my sister bought us both Star Wars sweat shirts and we were like kids, eventually wearing them out. We were totally sold on the movie. When the next one came out we went on opening night. It was all incredible.

          At the time, when I was asked what made the movies so great, I said that it was a great story and the acting was excellent. Looking back on it now, I have to admit that the acting was just so-so and the story was pretty much a typical Hollywood production. Any old John Wayne movie would have the good winning out over evil. Basically, the same message as in generations past. The real draw to the Star Wars movies were the special effects. We had never seen anything like it before. During the first trilogy of movies, the theaters were packed, showing after showing. By the time of the second trilogy, when all movies seemed to have incredible special effects, the movies sold out opening weekend and then tailed off. The ones coming out now are much the same way. We old timers, who were there at the beginning, go now more out of sentimentality. We want to see what happens to the characters. That’s all, really.

          This is human nature. We continue to do things because it is familiar and comfortable. We want to go along the common thread. Excitement is fine, but when it comes to most things, we want the comfortable chair.

          Unfortunately, we have become that way with our faith. We want to do things the way we have always done them, then we are upset because the church doesn’t grow. Just as Star Wars took the movie industry and gave it a good shake, so ought we to take the way we deliver the message of Christ and shake it up a little. One pastor I know very well said the message never changes, but the way we give the message must change. We certainly don’t do church the way it was done in the New Testament. It would never work that way now. But, we expect 1950s type church to be perfectly fine. We live in an ever-changing society. While we shouldn’t allow our faith be corrupted by our society, we still have to be realistic and understand that society will not come into our Mayberry themed churches. First, we have to take the message of salvation to the people and then we have to make church interesting so they will come back after they have visited. And we need to always be open to changes in the way we bring the message. Never changing the actual message, but changing the way we deliver it. Star Wars was unbelievable 40 years ago. Now it is kind of ho-hum.

          The one thing pastors hate to hear is “we have never done it that way.” Maybe we need to start doing it a different way, a way that will wake more people up to their need for Jesus.

          I came to Christ in June of 1973 at a Fellowship of Christian Athletes camp at Dennison University in Granville, Ohio. At that camp, I was in Rex Kern’s group all week. This was a big deal for an Ohio boy. Kern had been an All-American quarterback for the Ohio State Buckeyes as a sophomore in 1968. The Buckeyes beat USC (OJ Simpson’s team) on New Year’s Day, 1969 in the Rose Bowl to win the National Championship. Boys growing up in Ohio at the time might not know that Richard Nixon was president, but they knew Rex Kern was our quarterback. As it turned out, he was also an amazing Christian man.

After graduating from Ohio State he was drafted by the Baltimore Colts. A shoulder injury finished him as a quarterback, so he buckled down and became an All-Pro defensive back. He had a real desire to see young people come to Christ, and so it was that in June of 1973 our paths crossed in such am way as to ever change my life.

During that week, Kern took a particular liking to me and another young fellow (Chris) who lived in the next town over from me. That football season the Baltimore Colts and the Cleveland Browns were scheduled to play each other in Cleveland. Kern arranged it that Chris and I would meet he and his wife at the Ramada Inn in Cleveland the night before the game and have dinner with them and the whole Colts team. The next day, Chris and I would sit with Kern’s wife and parents for the game itself. As much as I was looking forward to the game, it was the team dinner the night before that I remember the most.

 Kern was waiting for us at the door, genuinely glad to see us. He led us to the table where his wife was and we all sat down. As I recall, we could have whatever was on the menu, the Colts were paying the tab. I have no recollection of what I ate, or if I ate. I just remember staring at the players. HUGE players. Guys I had read about and had watched on TV. Linemen, running backs, linebackers, quarterbacks. All coming over to speak with Kern and be introduced to his guests. I don’t know what I really expected, maybe a room full of dumb giants, but these men were friendly, well-spoken and funny. It seemed a lot of them were Christians and they all seemed to regard Kern as their ‘leader’ of sorts. It was just an amazing time.

 I noticed a man working his way over to us who was maybe a little taller than me, but who appeared to be one giant muscle. One of those guys with no visible neck. It looked like he tried to buy a shirt that would be baggy on him, but his body wasn’t built that way. He was a walking muscle. No other way to describe him.

 Mrs. Kern said, “Oh no, Rex! Don is headed this way.”

 “Oh, wow. OK guys, here’s the thing. That is Don Nottingham coming over here right now. I am going to introduce you, but please, PLEASE don’t laugh!”

 Laugh? I wasn’t going to laugh at Don Nottingham! He was a personal favorite to me. A great story. Went to Ravenna High School in Ravenna, Ohio, not too far from where I lived. Went on to play at Kent State, another Ohio school. He was the second to last player selected in the 1971 NFL draft, but rather than just fade away as most players do drafted that low, he worked and worked and worked and became something special. A running back, he was called the Human Bowling Ball because when he hit the line people went flying. He was traded to the Miami Dolphins a few weeks later, but right then he was a Colt and, as I said, a personal favorite.

He came over and Chris and I stood up. Kern said, “Don, these are the guys I told you about, Ohio boys just like you and me. Chris and Larry.”

Nottingham stuck out an arm to shake hands and I really believe his muscles had muscles. He took my hand first. “Hi, Larry! I’m Don Nottingham!” It was his voice. Sounded just like Mickey Mouse. I was stunned, then I thought he was joking. He said the same to Chris in the same voice. Chris’ face was blank, but I was having a hard time not laughing. He sat down and gabbed for a while, all the time in that Mickey Mouse voice. Then he slapped us on the back and walked away. Chris and I looked at each other and broke up. Kern said, “You guys did good. After a while you get used to it and it doesn’t bother you, but it is hard at first. You both did good.”

Every once in a while, I think of Rex Kern. Many athletes will ride the glory years forever, but Kern was different. He devoted his life to education, eventually earning his doctorate. He gave much of his free time to the Fellowship of Christian Athletes, where he mentored high school kids and directed them toward Christ. And, in the summer of 1973, he pointed this kid toward Christ and then inspired this same kid to a life in His service. He is still around, still active and still changing lives at the age of 68.

         Thanks, Rex.

          1988. To me, that doesn’t seem all that long ago. Reality, though, is that it was 29 years back. I guess that means I am getting older by the minute. But back in 1988, I was pastoring McKinley Community Church in Warren, Ohio. At the time, Warren was a town of 50,000 people. Lots of churches, almost all mainline denominations. Our church was a rarity as a nondenominational church. It was a very interesting time in our lives, a young pastor and his family making their way.

          We had gone on vacation. When we walked into the house upon our return, the phone was ringing. It was one of the local funeral homes and they had a problem. The next day they were going to have a funeral for a homosexual man who had died of AIDS. They had been trying to find a minister to do the service for three days, but no one in town would do it. Would I be willing?

          Marsha and I had lived in the Miami, Florida area until 1982. During the late 1970s homosexual men had begun to die at an alarming rate from some disease that wasted away at the body. Sometime in the very early 1980s they managed to isolate the virus and give it a name; Acquired Immune Deficiency Syndrome, or more commonly referred to as AIDS. But, even though we had been there at the beginning, I had never had to deal with the disease or with any of the families. At first, it was said that they would be able to contain the outbreak to the Miami area, but the disease takes 8 to 10 years to begin to manifest itself and it can be spread through blood transfusions as well as homosexual contact. There was no way to keep it contained.

          When we moved to northeast Ohio the disease was hardly a problem. I remember reading an article in our local paper around 1987 that a local man had been diagnosed with AIDS. Everyone was shocked. That just didn’t happen around our town! Local pastors were outraged. No one asked my opinion. I was young and of little importance.

          Now, however, we had an issue. No one really understood the disease. They didn’t really believe it could only be spread via body fluids. If you did this funeral you would have other homosexual men in attendance and almost certainly some of them would carry the virus. So, the pastors of the mainline denominations stood as one and refused to do the funeral.

          The funeral director was almost desperate. Before I could even mull it over in my mind my pastor’s heart spoke. Of course, I would do the funeral. After I had hung up my mind began to work. How else would I be able to get a foothold into the homosexual community to bring a witness of Christ and what better witness to bring when the other ‘witnesses’ were doing exactly what Christ would not? I found out later that many in our church were not happy, but that didn’t matter.

          I didn’t know how to approach the matter. None of my colleagues would share their wisdom. On the way to the funeral home to meet with family and friends that evening prior to the funeral the next day I decided to treat it as I normally would. The partner was there, who I treated as I would a grieving spouse. Of course, he was also dying of AIDS. There were a few others, including the deceased’s brother. I came away from the conference nervous and unsure of myself, but determined.

          At the funeral, I walked into a room full of men. The only woman in the room was the wife of the brother. I opened in prayer and then asked if anyone would like to say anything. The brother got to his feet and came to the podium. I was a little nervous about this. He had been completely quiet the night before. Now would he rip into these men and accuse them of being responsible for his brother’s death? After all, I had already received a few scathing calls from local clergy condemning me for just doing the funeral. Surely, this brother had some pent-up venom to release.

          He started out by saying that he was a born again Christian. He loved his brother. He didn’t agree with the homosexual lifestyle, but, in Christ, he loved each and every man in that room. And then, in a simple and humble manner, he explained the love of Christ and how only through Christ was salvation available to anyone, regardless of their lifestyle. He closed by saying that he hoped that he would see each one there in glory. I was totally pumped. I took the podium and built on what he had said. I gave them the opportunity to accept Christ where they were, just they and Christ. Afterward, several came up to me and told me that they were now believers. Their joy was all over their faces. Others went away completely under conviction, deeply affected. It was awesome.

          I took some things away with me that day. First, I had a new friend in that brother. His pastor had refused to do the funeral and he was heartbroken over it. We had several conversations about forgiveness. Second, I became known as the ‘gay pastor’ and other less flattering names. That didn’t last long, but the other pastors in town refused to deal with me much after that day. On the other hand, I did do a number of funerals within the homosexual community after that, including the grieving partner. Third, I had a relationship with that funeral home. Most every funeral home has one or two pastors they call on when they need someone to do a funeral for someone who has no church home. It is really hard to break into that set-up. In this case, though, their regulars had refused them. The funeral home was rather perturbed with those gentlemen and they began to call on me more and more. For the next 27 years I averaged between 30 and 40 funerals a year, having opportunity after opportunity to share the gospel with people who were otherwise content to ignore Christ.

          I didn’t condone the sin of homosexuality that day; I choose instead to promote the love of Christ. What has become interesting to me is that the very churches who condemned even the funeral then fully and completely embrace the lifestyle today. The United Methodist Church is struggling right now with the issue of homosexuality. I cannot understand that at all. The Scripture is very clear. It is a sin. Yet, one denomination after another has decided to ignore the Word of God and accept something that is just wrong. One pastor and I had a conversation one day in a hospital waiting room. She told me that it was all about tolerance. God has always shown tolerance. I told her she was mistaking God’s love for tolerance. If God was tolerant, why did He send His only Son to die on the cross? That went nowhere with her. It is, she said, the way the church stays relevant. It was like talking to a rock.

          My question, though, is how relevant is the church supposed to be? There was a time, not so long ago, that the church affected society. Now, society affects the church. Are we better off? In being relevant, are more people coming to Christ? For that matter, is being relevant causing those denominations which have embraced the sins of the world, to grow? Absolutely not. In striving to be relevant they are becoming irrelevant and are slowly dying. If you won’t stand for something, don’t expect people to stand with you.

          To be Christ-like is to be loving toward the sinner without being accepting of the sin.

          Blessings.