A number of years ago the funeral home for which I worked created a Facebook page. After that, all the employees were encouraged to create their own FB page if they hadn’t already done so. I resisted, but the owner applied some pressure and finally I started my page. There is very little about FB that I enjoy. To me it is a time waster. But I go onto our church’s page and I use it to keep up with some friends in Ohio. So, I give it some use.

          When I first went on it asked me for a profile picture. My immediate thought was, ‘Why would I torture people with a picture of me?’ No reason. So, I posted this picture;

          This is a picture Marsha took of a duck in the wild. She could tell you what kind of duck it is, how she managed to be still long enough for it to walk close and what the conditions were all around her. I just think it is a pretty duck. I like ducks. Especially roasted. They are a little greasy, but very tasty. But this fellow just catches my eye. I sometimes pull this picture up and look at it for a while. It is beautiful.

          So, the duck went on FB. A couple of weeks later I was bored so I checked my account for the first time. There were various friend requests, which I accepted (as instructed). A couple of more weeks went by before I checked the account again. To my surprise, there were postings I felt compelled to read. They were from my ‘friends,’ after all. I had no idea that anything you wanted to post, no matter how small, you could post. One of my friends was eating lunch at Burger King and he wasn’t happy with his Whopper. Another friend was in the Target parking lot, getting ready to go in. Another friend was posting political ramblings. I began to wonder why I had even involved myself in this silly thing. And then, someone asked the silliest of questions; What was I trying to say with the picture of the duck? ‘The duck?’, I thought. It took me a minute to figure out what they were saying. It had been a month since I had posted, so I had actually forgotten the profile picture. When it came to me what she was saying, I sent back, “ It is a pretty duck.”

          When I checked back again she had responded. “Yes, but what does it mean? What was in your mind when you choose the duck for your profile picture? It is a statement, but of what?” I responded, “It is a pretty duck. That’s all.” She came back with, “Come on, Larry. It is the only picture you have. That makes it important. What is the deeper meaning?”

          I tried to think of something deep and meaningful, but I just drew a blank. So, I sent back again with, “Really, it is just a pretty duck.” This was irritating for two reasons. 1.) She wasn’t believing me when there was nothing in our past to make her think I would be untruthful and, 2.) she only lived two miles away. If she had called or stopped by (which is what a real friend, as opposed to a FB friend, would have done) we could have cleared it up in a short minute.

          Later that day she replied. “There is no way you would have posted a duck as a profile picture unless there was a deeper meaning. You don’t even like ducks.” I don’t know how she knew I didn’t like ducks. I didn’t even know I didn’t like ducks. Evidently, FB gives you extra powers of discernment. Anyway, now I was frustrated, but I was also getting a little angry. So, I took it to the one who knows and loves Facebook. I asked Marsha what I should do.

          “Unfriend her.” I looked at her in awe. “What? You can do that? You can unfriend someone?” “Of, course you can unfriend someone.” With that, she flipped through a page or two and came to where you could choose a friend to unfriend. No explanation required. A simple push of a button and the conversation was ended. I felt…….liberated!

          I learned two things. First, people get way to serious about Facebook. They try and read too much into what is really simple. Second, Facebook friendship is not real friendship. You can’t just click the mouse and send a real friend into cyber space. The sad truth is, there are many, many people out there who think FB friendships are the real deal. That is pretty horrible.

          It was a pretty duck, though.

          VBS WEEK!!!!!!! Is there anything more fun than VBS WEEK??????

          Well, from my perspective, yes, actually, there are things more fun.

          Consider what is involved. I love to teach, but teaching theological truth to a four year old is a challenge that does me in every time. The attention span is almost zero seconds. As the children get older their attention span increases by one minute for each year of age. So hard! Then there are snacks. For me, when it is summer and it is time to eat, I want my burger grilled with a bit of a crust, some condiments and some potato salad. What do we get? A cookie or popcorn or maybe a hotdog that represents something, and a bottle of water. The kids around you are eating like mad and thoroughly enjoying the experience and there I am wondering if Kaitland will know if I snatch her cookie. You have to have activities, of course. I guess I am OK with that, so long as we aren’t keeping score. If we are keeping score, say playing kickball, then back off! I play to win! If I have to run over Jaden at first base, then Jaden is going down!

          Vacation Bible School is not my favorite thing. In fact, Sunday afternoon Marsha and I were at lunch and I looked around and thought, ‘This time next week it will all be over.’ Not a good attitude.

          The thing is, though, I also feel it is one of the most important things the church does all year. Sharing the Gospel with children is the best thing we can do. I just………struggle. I’ve been involved in so many! Oh, well. This year, at least, I am only supposed to be involved on the periphery. I hope.

          However, every single VBS has left me with memories.

          Marsha and I have done this so long we remember when VBS was two weeks long. I know many of you do, too, but are you still doing VBS? There is no age limit. COME ON! IT’S FUN! Anyway, back in 1975 I was home from college for the summer. Working in a factory on afternoons. The home church was quite large. VBS was in the morning, 9 to noon. I was assigned a class of about 15 sixth grade boys. Nothing to it, I thought. This will be fun. It was fun. For them. It was two weeks of torture for me. VBS in the morning, factory in the afternoon and then toss and turn all night. Marsha and I were engaged at the time. She was the music for the two weeks, playing the acoustic guitar for all the music for opening and closing and from class to class. We were on a date on Saturday evening and I was wired pretty tight. She showed me her fingers, which were actually bruised from playing so much. I had no sympathy for her. I didn’t even act like I had sympathy. She married me anyway, for some reason. But I had a kid named Philip. Little goof drove me nuts for two weeks. If I could have got my hands on him…well, he made it through the two weeks, and so did I. Flash forward to 1985. We were getting ready to go to seminary and had traveled north to see the family before we dove into that. Marsha and I had walked into a convenience store for something. At the back of the store a tall, good looking young man was busy mopping the floor. He looked up with a smile and then stopped, a different kind of look on his face.

“Mr. Larry? Miss Marsha? It’s me, Phil.” It didn’t click to me, and Philip could tell. “Remember me? VBS, way back. You were the one who told me how to be saved! I’m going into my senior year at Cedarville (a Christian college in western Ohio) in a few weeks. Wow, I didn’t think I’d ever see you guys again. I have always wanted to say ‘thanks.’ That made me feel pretty small right then and it made Marsha giggle.

Many years later, I was a pastor but still doing VBS. The week was over and it had been a stressful week. Over 80 kids each day, and I had all of them since I was teaching the Bible story. Marsha had taught the crafts, so she feeling it, too. It was Saturday night. We just wanted to relax and there was a movie out we wanted to see, so Marsha and I went to the movie. We were in the lobby waiting in line for popcorn when a little girl’s voice shouted, “HEY” Naturally, you turn to a noise like that, just to see what is going on. Just as I turned a little girl was at the end of her run and was leaping towards me. I caught her out of instinct and she wrapped her arms around my neck and her legs around my chest. She almost knocked me over. A woman was running after her, a confused but angry look on her face.

“Mommy, it’s him, it’s him! I told you about him! He’s my friend! He told me about Jesus!” Mommy relaxed a little and smiled. I was trying to peel the little one off, but not having much luck. Mommy told her to let go, they had to go. She finally did. When she did, I got a good look at her. I guess I had her all week, but I didn’t recognize her. There had been so many kids. Of course, Marsha knew her and talked to her, calling her by name. Smarty pants.

Then there was Miami, Florida. One of the suburbs of Miami was the town of Hialeah. A very large Hispanic population in Hialeah, famous for the Hialeah Racetrack. I was an assistant at one of the few English speaking churches in town. We had a Spanish mission, which ran about 400 people on Sunday morning, quite a bit larger than the English speaking church. Because the high schoolers were second generation Hispanics, they knew English. My whole youth group was Hispanic. We got along great.

For that first VBS we were there, the VBS director of the Spanish church asked me if I would teach the Spanish teens. I told him I would, assuming that most of them would be my youth group. And they were, but there were quite a few I had never met, too. Many Hispanic males are filled with machismo. It really shows in teenage boys. Some of them swaggered in, took one look at me (flaming red hair and freckles) and deduced I was not Spanish. One whispered something to another, using the word ‘gringo’ and saying it with a sneer. I had no idea what he had said, but I knew it was directed at me and was not positive.

I said, “Oye, chico, ¿crees que no lo entiendo?” Which is, “hey kid, you think I don’t understand?” I didn’t understand what he said, but I had picked up a few phrases. There was a Spanish grocery store close by and if you didn’t speak Spanish, they ignored you. So, I knew a little. I said this to the boy very sharply and called him chico rather than muchacho, which you would use for a man. He dropped his head and muttered ‘sorry.’ I said, “Bueno, and for the rest of our time in this class we will speak English since it summer and you are home all the time speaking Spanish.” One of the girls in my youth group came up to me afterward and said, “¡ oye, no sabía que hablabas Español!” (Hey, I didn’t know you spoke Spanish.) I had no idea what she said. She thought that was really funny.

Lots of memories of VBS. Sharing the Gospel to kids you would never get the chance to otherwise. But sometimes, well, never mind. Just keep all of it in prayer.

Blessings. (Bendiciones.)

          There is a saying that points out that many Christians want to serve the Lord, but they want to serve in an advisory capacity. I will soon hit 42 years in this ministry thing (my parents said it wouldn’t last), and I have to say that the saying is true. Many Christians want to tell the Lord what needs to be done and then they want to tell others what to do and how to do it. There are many more Christians out there who feel they need to block the efforts being made, usually over money, forgetting that our God not only owns the cattle on a thousand hills, but He also owns the hills. Then there are also those who are just opposed to everything because it was so well done in their day that it should continue to be done that way now.

          When Christians really decide to serve the Lord, most of those feelings go away. They have to go away because those feelings are generated by Satan. Satan puts it into minds to want to run things. Satan puts it into minds to hold back on ministry because of money. Satan puts it into minds to drag up memories from the past and pretty them up so they look better now than they did then. When Christians begin to serve, God begins to control our minds and those thoughts go away.

          THAT’S NOT FAIR someone is saying right now. I SERVE THE LORD! Going to church on Sunday is not serving. When you stop to get gas for your car, you are not traveling. You are stopped and gassing up. Same thing when you go to church. You may be the liturgist or the lay leader or taking the offering or in some other way of assisting the church, and those are service related, but real service is done out there, out where the people are, out where it counts. I preach on Sunday, but what I am really doing is fueling you all up. Even for me, service is out there.

          So, if service is out there, why aren’t we all serving?

          Because it is hard. It is hard because we listen to Satan and because we listen to Satan we criticize, we obstruct and we hamper. But, real service is hard.

          Because he wanted to serve the Lord, the Apostle Peter was crucified. He was crucified upside down so no one would confuse him with Jesus. Evidently, there were those already who were elevating Peter higher than he ever wanted. His brother Andrew, also a disciple, was also crucified because he wouldn’t quit serving the Lord. He chose to be crucified with his cross at an angle so he wouldn’t be confused for Jesus. James, the brother of John, was beheaded for his service. The disciple Philip was crucified for his faith and service. The Apostle Nathanael was skinned alive and then crucified because he would not cease to teach and preach of the Lord. Thomas, the one we foolishly came to call the doubting Thomas, was put into slavery and sent to India, where he was eventually killed on an altar of his own making because he never stopped serving. Matthew, writer of the Book of Matthew and missionary to Ethiopia, was also tied to the altar in the church he started. Instead of killing him outright, he was flayed alive. The other James, sometimes referred to as James the lessor, was a dynamic servant in Jerusalem. So, he was stoned for his faithful service. The other Judas, the one who didn’t betray Christ, was a missionary to Armenia, where he was beaten to death by a crowd. And then Simon, often called Zeolotes for his zeal in service, traveled to Babylon and there brought the gospel. He, too, was beaten to death by a crowd. John, the writer who wrote John, 1 John, 2 John and 3 John and the Book of the Revelation, was the only disciple who didn’t die violently. But, for his faith, the Romans arrested him and then put him in a boiling vat of oil as his form of execution. They were stunned, and afraid, when they brought him out, injured but still alive. He was sent to the Island of Patmos as exile. While there, he wrote his five books of the Bible. By the time he was allowed to go home, he was already in his 80s. He continued to serve the Lord for another ten years before he died a ‘peaceful’ death.

          These were the eleven disciples left after Judas Iscariot committed suicide. They all refused to stop serving and they all endured horrible pain and suffering because of their faith. But somehow, I just don’t think they would have changed a thing. They knew the risks. They knew they would suffer. They knew it was hard, but that didn’t matter.

          So, before you say it will cost too much, or it wasn’t done like that before, or it should be done the way you want it done, ask yourself; am I serving the Lord, or am I serving Satan. If you are serving the Lord you will be doing all you can do to share the Gospel of Jesus Christ with people. And that means asking them into the Kingdom, not just asking them to church. Once you start really sharing the Gospel, the rest won’t matter as much.

          Dad’s get a raw deal.

          Think about it. Mother’s Day rolls around and everyone gets all teary eyed. Kids of all ages scurry to get Mom something special. We honor them with flowers and breakfast in bed and gifts and meals and then in church we have programs for others to speak of the blessedness of motherhood. As a gift on Father’s Day, Dads are told they can watch whatever they want on TV. In days gone by when men wore ties, the father could expect a tie or a mug. In church, where a Biblical story of a valiant and noble mother was offered just a month previous, there is instead an admonition to fathers to be better fathers. It just doesn’t make sense to me.

          At our church in Ohio we kind of fixed this inequity. We split the difference between the holidays. On the first Sunday of June we had Family Day, usually at a park along Lake Erie. A church service in the pavilion followed by a picnic meal. We honored families. Moms and Dads and Grandpas and Grandmas and kids. You still recognized the special day at home, but it was Family Day at church. Very fun.

          But, yesterday was Father’s Day. Our son is adopted. We lived in Florida and the adoption was for a child in Oregon. Marsha flew out to bring our son home and I went to the airport on the Saturday before Father’s Day to pick them up. Father’s Day has some precious memories for me.

          Our son, Adam, was just getting to the age where he understood the basic concept of Father’s Day. For my big day, he wanted a special present. Back then I wore a tie every day of my life except Saturday, and often then, as well. It was part of the preacher uniform. I ran into a fellow preacher one day who wasn’t wearing a tie. I asked him if he was going to a rodeo later. He hung his head and admitted he had spilled coffee on his tie. I let him off the hook and loaned him an extra I always carried. So, my son wanted to give me a tie. But not just any old tie. On Saturday mornings we would sometimes watch cartoons together. He thought I just liked cartoons when what I really liked was spending the time with him. One of the cartoons was Star Trek; The Animated Series. In his child’s mind Adam decided what I needed was a Star Trek tie. When I opened my gift I found a surprisingly well made tie with Captain Kirk, Mr. Spock and Dr. McCoy on it. As it happens, I do like Star Trek. There have been six series on TV and I have seen every episode of every series. Just so you know, people like me are not called Trekkies. We are better than that. We are called Trekkers. (I once knew a pastor from the Rocky Mountains. He said he wasn’t a hillbilly. He was a Mountain William. Same principle between Trekkie and Trekker.) Anyway, I really liked the tie. Still have it. I will sometimes wear it under a sweater. Good quality. Just not really suitable for a suit.

          On Monday mornings, we would have a pastors’ breakfast at a local restaurant. It was a pretty big place built like an IHOP. They always kept a room for us toward the back of the restaurant. It was a good time to share and listen to concerns and victories. I was in a hurry to get away from the house and I rushed into the kitchen in a light jacket, which was a departure from the normal suit coat. Adam looked at me and said, “Father, (I have never known why, when he was growing up, I was ‘father.’ Maybe because he was ‘son.’) don’t you like the tie I gave you on Father’s Day? You never wear it.” What are you supposed to say to that? “You know what, Son. You are right.” I hurried back into the bedroom and switched ties. My wife followed me and asked what I was going to do at the restaurant. Take the tie off? And be out of uniform!!!!? No, I would just zip up the jacket past Captain Kirk’s head and let it go at that.

          Adam was happy and I rushed to the restaurant. When I walked in the place erupted in cheers and cat calls. People were on their feet. “Hey Pastor,” one lady I regularly saw there but didn’t know her name called out. Take it off! Take that jacket all the way off!” Evidently a frustrated stripper. Marsha had called ahead. The other pastors were dying. So, I slowly unzipped the jacket and took it off, exposing my Star Trek tie. I flipped the jacket over my shoulder and strutted to the pastors’ tables in the back. It wasn’t a proud day for pastordom in Warren, Ohio, but it made us more human to those folks.

          Another favorite Father’s Day was the one on which I received four Father’s Day cards. One from the Adam, now in his 20s, one from a young lady in her mid 30s who had lived with us for a while years before, one from one of our youth in the church and one from a woman in her late 20s whom I had never met but was working with via phone and e-mails, counseling her through marital problems. Her father had died a year earlier and I spoke to her as a father would.

Father’s Day is special, not because of gifts or cards, but because of the high privilege of being a father. Raising a child is a high calling. We committed to God that we would have devotions with Adam every night. We would make sure he was in church every Sunday unless he was sick. Vacations, sports or other activities didn’t matter. And, I personally committed to God that my son would never hear me swear. You have to treat a high calling with great responsibility.

Blessings to all of you Fathers out there. Always remember, you are not raising kids. You are raising men and women.

          Sometimes you read something that is really fascinating but that also raises some questions. 
          Late last year a Texas doctor, Dr. Darrell Cass, inform his patient, Margaret Boemer, that her unborn child had a tumor that, left unchecked, would eventually block the blood flow to and from the baby's heart and the baby would die. There weren't many options. Let the baby die or do surgery. Doing surgery on an unborn child has been done many times, but this would have to be different. This surgery, because of the nature of it and location of the tumor, would have to be done outside of the womb. Then, the child would have to be put back into the womb so the mother could carry her to term and give the baby all the time needed to heal. Margaret and her husband agreed to have the surgery, despite the danger to Margaret. The baby was what mattered.
          At twenty three weeks the surgery was performed. It took five hours, but only about 20 minutes on the baby. The process of opening Margaret's womb, extracting the baby and then putting her back and sealing the womb back up was the painstaking part. What followed then was twelve weeks of bed rest for Margaret and then, baby LynLee was born. Almost five months have passed and all is well. In an interview later, Margaret said, "We love that LynLee's story of Life is being shared! Giving hope to others and giving testimony to God's hand on her life! LynLee is truly a miracle and blessing from the Lord!" Just an incredible story.
          But, it does pose an interesting question. Many, many people today, maybe even the majority of people in this country, believe that life begins at birth. Until the child is born it is just tissue mass. Not really alive except as part of the woman. LynLee was born twice. Now, obviously, these were parents willing to do anything to save the baby's life, including risk to the mother. They loved LynLee. But let's suppose something. Let's suppose Dad goes to Mom during that twelve weeks of bed rest and says, "You know, honey. I have just looked at the pictures while the fetus was out of you and that thing has your aunt Bessie's nose. I don't think it would be fair to the fetus to have to go through life with that nose." (I know that some people would say that terminating a pregnancy is only done in cases of of possible death to the mother or other extreme situations, but those people are wrong. Termination can be done at any time and for any reason.) "Oh," Mom replies. "You are so right. Let's abort and save the fetus the grief!" So, they go to their local, friendly abortion clinic and have the ugly lump of tissue removed. However, LynLee has already been born. She is just in a natural incubator. Is the one who performs the abortion guilty of murder in the eyes of the law? Is Mom and Dad complicit in the murder? How would the law handle this situation?
          The obvious defense would be that during the surgery that saved LynLee's life, the umbilical cord was not cut. (That is my assumption only. I could find no reference. My assumption is based on the fact that where the tumor was, attached to the tail bone, it would be unnecessary to cut the cord.) If uncut, the child would still be attached to the mother and would therefore still be a part of the mother. So, still just tissue. But, there have been cases where an expectant mother has been killed, either by accident on purpose, and the person responsible has been brought up on charges as being responsible for two deaths, mother and unborn child. How is that even legally possible? But staying with this case, if life begins at birth, then what is birth? LynLee was out of her mother! She likely squirmed and complained. Was she not born? Yet, we know that if her parents decided to abort, it would have been legal. LynLee can always be grateful to modern medicine for her life, but she should always be grateful for parents who loved her unconditionally without even seeing her.
          When I worked at the funeral home we took in the body of a baby that had been born, lived a few minutes and then died. I didn't know the child or the parents, but grief just overwhelmed me. Taking the child up in my arms, I sat down in an office chair in the office just off our prep room and I just rocked that little girl for twenty minutes, tears running down my face. You see, I believe that it is in each of us to hold life as sacred. I also believe that it is each of us to marvel at the creation of life while it is in the womb. To me, that little girl was still sacred, even in death. But, sadly, I also believe that humanity wants to have everything both ways. We want to have life, but we also want to end life when it is inconvenient. When it hampers our lifestyle or when it will put burdens on our lives. Life has become precious, but only in certain circumstances. I believe that when a child is conceived it is already in God's hands and is loved by the Father. When that child's life is terminated he/she has been snatched from God's hand. I don't see God being pleased.
          I would really like to shake the hands of the medical team that pulled off that surgery. I would really like to hold LynLee. But mostly, I would love to embrace that Mom and Dad and tell them how great and mighty they are.
          Blessings.

          The wife and I were in Fort Wayne last Thursday and Friday. The primary purpose for the two trips (although we did some other business) was to go to two minor league baseball games. I am sure that Marsha did this for me. Over the years she has come to understand the basic rules, but baseball does not sit high on her list of priorities. For me, though, it is the sport of sports.

          I have often been asked, usually by younger people, why I like the game so much. Basketball is faster with split second decisions and reactions. Football is full of hitting and speed and strategy. The other sports all have their crazy good points. Why, then, baseball?

          I don’t really know. I know I am not alone. Most major league baseball teams sell out their ball parks several times a year. With 81 home dates, the occasional sell out is to be expected. But, from June 12, 1995 through April 4, 2001 the Cleveland Indians sold out every home game, 455 in a row. Cleveland can be baseball crazy. One fellow I know made it to 10 games in 1997. I asked him how he managed that. He said that he and his wife did a three day trip to Chicago, two three day trips to Detroit and one game in Cleveland. They paid more for the one game in Cleveland, buying the ticket from a ticket broker (basically a scalper), than they paid for the three games in Detroit. It was just about the only way to see the Indians play live. We like our baseball in the Cleveland area.

          Around here, in Urbana, Indiana, kids play little league. Where I grew up, we also played little league. At that time, our little town was about the size Urbana is now. In Urbana, the kids play teams from other towns in order to fill their schedules. Where I grew up, Perry, Ohio, we had nine teams, all from Perry. Baseball was what we did. Still, each of us are individuals. So, why do I like the game so much?

          I thought about this driving home Thursday night while Marsha slept. I started playing organized ball during Lyndon Johnson’s first term as president, the term he inherited from John Kennedy. While I stepped up to the plate, scared to death, the war in Vietnam was heating up. The Civil Rights movement was taking place throughout the country. We were still having atom bomb drills in school (atom bombs, not nuclear weapons). The polio vaccine had only been being used for a few years. In that first time at bat I had two balls and three strikes and went back to the bench in relief.

          A few years later I was playing in the Pony League, which was what we called Senior League. A step up from Little League. For the first time ever the park we played ball at had erected home run fences. All the older kids were trying to be the first to hit one out. I had developed into a line drive hitter. I didn’t worry about power, just sharp contact. A couple of weeks into the season we were facing the hardest throwing pitcher in the league. He threw one down the middle to me and I swung, just looking to hit the ball hard and on a line. I did. It shot past the pitcher before he could react and gained altitude until it crossed the center field fence, for the first home run in the park. As I trotted around the bases the war in Vietnam was going full bore, riots were ripping our cities apart, politically we were a mess and we were just getting into the drug culture and ‘free love.’

          A few years later I was playing high school ball. By this time the deficiency in my eyes was making itself known. Curve balls in Little League and Pony League were rare. In high school, though, every pitcher threw one. My eyes could not pick up the spin of the curve so when a ball was coming at me while batting, I bailed out. If the ball then broke across the plate, I looked like an idiot. So, I decided that I was just going to assume that every pitch coming at my ribs or shoulder was going to be a curve and I would hang in the box. Well, high school pitchers can be wild. I stood in one every pitch. I got on base a ton, but it was from getting hit by pitches. My coach even sat me down and told me that while I was the gutsiest hitter he had ever seen, I needed to get out of the way sometimes. Not me. I took my lumps. While that was going on, the Vietnam war was winding down, the president was in trouble for bugging the Watergate Hotel, riots in the streets and on college campuses were calming down and we were fresh out of a decade that had seen three major assassinations and the first men on the moon.

          A few years later I started playing church slow pitch softball, something I kept up for the next thirty years. In slow pitch there are no worries as to the spin of the ball since there are no curves. Oh, that was fun! I always hit between .750 and .800, just making contact. I once hit eight doubles in one game. I hit for the cycle. I played third base, first base or the outfield, depending on what the coach wanted. I just loved it! Eventually, my eyes got bad enough that I had to quit. I also had to quit umpiring. But it was a great three decades. All the while there were armed conflict, the Berlin Wall fell, there was terror on 9/11/2001, AIDS became a plague. The world continued to revolve and writhe in its own agony.

          What does all of that have to do with loving the diamond sports? I have witnessed a lot of pain in the world. Even as a young boy I was a voracious reader of everything, including newspapers. I knew what was going on all around the world and in my neighborhood. Always this rush of information, this mounting confusion, this uncertainty in the world. But always, three strikes made an out, four balls were a walk, a diving catch in the outfield looked cool unless you missed. Then you just looked foolish. If a batter belted a long drive it was said to be ‘in his wheelhouse’ long after anyone knew what that meant. If fight breaks out it is called a rhubarb, for reasons unknown. In fact, the only real change in baseball was the designated hitter rule in 1973, which still disgusts me. Baseball is solid and dependable and always there. Always has been. In an uncertain world, baseball is peace.

          This is also what I love about the Gospel. It is always there, unchanging, perfect in its simplicity and strength. It never fails, it never wavers. We may fail the Gospel, but it will always be strong for us.

          I know that in sports there are more glamourous games than baseball. I know that in life there are more attractive things than the Lord and His Word and His message. And, even for all its strength, baseball still fails us. But the Lord? We fail Him and then we blame Him for our misfortune. But that is just us being weak and childish. Hebrews 13:5-6 says “Keep your life free from love of money, and be content with what you have, for he has said, "I will never leave you nor forsake you." So we can confidently say, "The Lord is my helper; I will not fear; what can man do to me?" He will stay with me, and you, if you don’t walk away, forever. So, sure, other things may attract, but the Lord is better than all.

          Just trying to keep up with the news can be depressing. Not because of the disasters and wars and tragedies that happen. Those are bad and often heartbreaking. But the real distressing thing is the people in the news.

          Last week we were treated to an image of a comedian (rather, sort of a comedian) holding a stage prop resembling the severed head of the President of the United States. The Secret Service investigated to determine if this was a death threat to the president. The most liberal of news agencies, CNN, had the decency to terminate a contract they had with this sort of comedian. Others whom she thought would applaud her wit and wisdom were shocked and distanced themselves from her. Of course, the conservative media ripped her to shreds. The president tweeted a short message (this tweet was pretty mild, but oh my, I wish he would quite tweeting) that condemned the action, saying it affected his children. The comedian held a press conference and said it was over the top, but now the president was trying to ruining her. She ran a bloody picture of her holding the severed head of the president and they she says he is trying to ruin her. Some of her friends are finally coming forward to support her, now that the president is trying to ruin her career. Of course, he isn’t. He actually has other things to do that he considers more important than dealing a woman who has an inflated notion of her own importance. She crossed a line that even others like her don’t cross and her few friends who are standing up for her are just basically saying “go girl” and then darting back into the shadows.

           There are dozens and dozens of stories out there that illustrate this disturbing trend in Americans. There was the woman who needed to run into the store for a few minutes. Rather than take her kids in with her or leave them in the car where some do gooder would likely report her, she put her children in the car’s trunk. When the last election was over people rioted over the results, destroying property, looting and injuring people to express their dissatisfaction over their compassionate candidate losing. And, of course, when the compassionate candidate could have simply asked for calm and calm would have ensued, she instead encouraged the acts of violence. People climb into cars and run people down, Since the U.S. involvement in Afghanistan began in 2002, 1,834 U.S. service personnel have been killed there by hostile action. We all agree that it is too many. During the same time frame, 7,693 people have been murdered in Chicago alone, and that is without the totals for 2017 being in, yet. Unless you live in Chicago, no one gives that a second thought.

          There are lots of reasons given for our declining society. Politicians are at fault. Hollywood is at fault. Universities are at fault. Foreign influence is at fault. Anything you don’t personally like is at fault. But all this craziness can be laid at one doorstep.

          Christianity is at fault.

          I remember prayer in school. I remember when abortion was not only illegal, it was shameful. I remember being taught in public school to respect the police and military and the flag under which they all served. I remember when people might criticize the president, but you left his family out of it. I remember when men removed their caps at a ballgame when the national anthem was played and EVERYONE stood up. I remember hearing Martin Luther King’s “I Had a Dream” speech and thinking in my white boy’s mind, “Yeah, that’s right!” What does all of that mean? Two things; one, I am moving along in years and, two, it was a long time ago that the country had a moral compass. We have slid down a long and slippery slope and it is because Christians have dropped the ball.

          Oh, we will march against abortion, which does no good. We will rally for politicians, which only gets us sorry leaders. We will join in to try and legislate morality, which is always a failure waiting to happen. Our churches are dying, so we try to liven up the services. People say the preaching and teaching is boring, so we tweak the style of delivery. People say they don’t like dressing up for church, so we say “come as you are.” People say church is too long and we meet to often, so we cut back. Is the country becoming more moral? Are the churches filling up? Is it, then, God’s fault?

          In the early part of this country’s existence it was commonly said, “as the church goes, so goes the country.” Of course, we wouldn’t say that now. In the past, society was a reflection of the church. Now, the church has become a reflection of society, with all its dirt and filthiness.

            2 Chronicles 7:14-15---If my people who are called by my name humble themselves, and pray and seek my face and turn from their wicked ways, then I will hear from heaven and will forgive their sin and heal their land.

Now my eyes will be open and my ears attentive to the prayer that is made in this place.

          I know. You’ve read it before. But, it doesn’t say if the leaders or the actors or the foreign nationals or the schools humble themselves and pray and seek His face and turn from their wicked ways…….No, it says if MY PEOPLE, who are called by MY NAME. It is all on us, the believers, the Christians. We need to change our ways, we need to make God the priority, we need to KNOW and UNDERSTAND that we have an obligation.

          It will save both our nation and our churches.

          I often write about humor and humorous things. We all enjoy remembering humorous moments. When we sit with family and/or friends in a relaxed atmosphere the conversation tends to roll around to good memories, which often are humorous. But when we are left to our own thoughts, we often revert back to memories that are painful. Learning experiences that leave a mark. This is one such memory. I was young and very inexperienced. I could hardly be held accountable since the situation was over my head. But, still, I failed someone and it stays with me until this day.

"Yes, I would like to lift up in prayer the inhabitants of the planet Randar, which is the fourth planet from the star in the Volonie system. There has been a great famine there and many of the inhabitants, particularly the very young and the very old, are suffering terribly. Also, pray that I can complete my star ship in time to conduct a relief expedition to Randar. I have most of the pieces together, but I am still in need of engine components and an appropriate fuel source."

          It was a Wednesday night prayer meeting and Bible study in the summer of 1982 at a church in Miami where I was the assistant. It was pretty much like any other Wednesday night. Not many in attendance, but still a nice mix of ages. Occasional visitors. The folks there were the people who really wanted to study the Word of God. The young man who had just finished speaking was named Graham. He had been coming to Sunday services for over a month and I had been pleased with the way one of our young adults, Manual, had taken him under his wing. Manual had gotten Graham to come to the Wednesday night service a couple of weeks earlier and Graham was starting to open up to people. He had even shown my wife and another young woman in our church, Maria, some of his sketches of a design for a possible spacecraft. He claimed to have been employed at one time by NASA, but we just kind of dismissed that idea as the imaginings of an over active mind. Interesting character, but just that; a character. Now, however, we had just crossed a line. He was an extremely serious young man who had no sense of humor, but still I felt like he was joking. Then, though, I somehow knew he wasn't joking at all. I didn't know what to say, so I nodded.

          When it came time to pray, I brought up Graham's request and said that the Lord knew exactly what the need was and I asked the Lord to deal with it in His way. Maybe that was a cop out, but I had never had anyone ask me to pray for a race of beings on another planet. Nor had I ever been asked to pray for someone to find engine components and fuel for a space craft they were building in their parent’s garage. This was new territory for me, so I prayed the only thing I could think of to pray; for the Lord to handle it as He thought best. He did, but not before there was a good deal of pain for some of us.

          A few weeks later Graham wheeled a shopping cart from a local grocery store into the sanctuary on a Sunday morning just before church. I caught him before he could get halfway down the aisle and asked him what he was doing. He explained that he had just made the last payment on the cart from a couple of kids who had told him that they owned the store and that he was going to use it as part of his landing gear on his spacecraft. Well, I asked, why do you have it here? Because I am being watched and I need this to be kept in a safe place. Again, not knowing what else to do and seeing that he was agitated and fearful, we put it in with the lawn mowers.

          During all this time, he was showing a growing attraction toward one of our young ladies, whom we call Maria. A few weeks after the shopping cart incident, he confided in me on a Sunday night that he was going to kidnap Maria and take her with him to Randar. In the absence of other humans, she would have to marry him. He would take her by force if he had to, but it would be for her own good. Another line had been crossed. Despite the fact that he was obviously a deeply troubled young man, I had to make him realize that he could in no way, shape or form lay a hand on Maria or anyone else. I had kept backing away from the problem rather than meeting it head on and now the problem was starting to get away from me. This was deeper than an eccentric young man with a crush on a girl.

          Graham left me that night in a fit of rage. The next day Marsha and I went to the home of his parents, where he lived, and I told his mother the story. She cried and told us about Graham. He really had been a “rocket scientist.” He had been one of those kids who had graduated from high school before other kids his age had gotten out of junior high. He graduated from college in less than two years. He shot through graduate school with about as much effort as a high school senior would burn going through first grade. He married, he started a wonderful career with NASA and he had a nervous breakdown. He started hearing voices. His wife left him, sadly, for Graham’s twin brother, and Graham descended deeper into the pit of confusion. For a brief while after he started coming to our church he seemed better, but them it all fell apart. With this last event, his family had no choice but to have him committed to an institution.

          Sitting there with his mother I got my first real glimpse into what true grief was. I left deeply grieved for that crushed mom. She made the calls, Graham was picked up and we never saw him again.

          Looking back now it sits in my mind as an extremely sad episode. Throughout the ministry there are many such sad times. Sometimes, like in the case of Graham, it is sad because of the mistakes made that might have changed things. But in most cases, it is sad because, even though you did your best, you had to stand by and watch someone self-destruct.

          We may not be having mental breakdowns, but we are having spiritual breakdowns. We are accepting the ways of the world into our churches. We allow television to bring language and behavior and actions into our homes that we would never have allowed otherwise. We have allowed the truths of the Bible to be blurred by the deceptions of a society gone mad.

          For a while I lived with Graham's strangeness when I should have been trying to help him. I am afraid we live with our spiritual breakdowns, thinking it will be all right, hoping it will pass. The longer we live with our breakdown the more normal it seems, until we can no longer tell what is right and what is wrong. Then we have truly lost our way.

          I don’t like being confused. When something does come along that confuses me my mind kicks into overdrive and starts figuring it out. Confusion only lasts for a moment. Until recently, that is. On April 6^th I had triple bypass surgery. Coming out of surgery, I had no confusion. But then the pain meds started and I felt confusion for about three days until I began to request the pain meds to be taken away. At home, they had prescribed pain meds and for a day and a half they drove me crazy, until I quit them. I was OK. But then I passed out at home. When they brought me around they were preparing to load me into an ambulance to take me to the hospital. That was totally confusing, completely different from the pain pill thing. My blood sugar had dropped below the level that a glucometer can read, causing me to pass out. But, readings that low also scramble your brain. It is like a jigsaw puzzle where a bunch of the pieces are cut in the same pattern and you have to tell where the piece goes by the image on the piece. You can get the puzzle together, but the whole picture can be fouled up.

          That had never been a problem for me before, even though I have had diabetes for a long time. I had gotten low before, but I could tell the symptoms. This was new, though. No idea that it was coming, just ‘BOOM,’ passed out. What caused it was the highly trained endocrinologists at Lutheran Hospital in Ft. Wayne. When I went in for the bypass they determined that I should have more than just oral meds. I should have insulin. I had never had a problem with the oral meds. My diabetes was under control. But, they are the smart ones. I went on insulin and passed out three days after getting home from the hospital.

          A little tweaking here and there, and I was OK, they said. I take my blood sugar three times a day. Sometimes it is really low. I eat a piece of fruit or drink some juice and it runs it back up a little and I back off on the insulin. It is a balancing act. The problem with the insulin, other than the needle, is when it is getting low, I can’t tell like I used to be able to tell. The highly trained endocrinologists at Lutheran tell me that I can tell when it is dropping, but I really cannot tell. But, what do I know?

           On Wednesday of this week my blood sugar in the morning was 170, which is high. I did the insulin, got in the car and headed for McDonalds in North Manchester. (Coffee, for me, has been one of the joys in life. Since my surgery it just hasn’t tasted  good and has left me queasy. McDonalds has always been my favorite, so I am reintroducing myself to it. It is working.) Running to McDonalds is something I do a couple of times a week.

          This where it gets confusing.

          I pulled out of McDonalds onto Rt. 114 and immediately turned left, back toward Urbana, on Rt. 13. My mind was busily going over the things I had to do that day. Everything normal. The next thing I was aware of was lying in the grass with my hands handcuffed behind me and a young man trying to rouse me. There was at least a half dozen police cars around the scene, all with lights flashing. The confusion was total. Had someone run into me? Why did my shoulder hurt so bad? What was going on?

          The story is bizarre and was explained to me at the hospital. Evidently, just after I turned onto Rt. 13, my mind passed out. I say my mind because the body continued to function. I began to drive erratically, but I was keeping the car in the road. Most of you know, Rt. 13 can be quite busy. Some motorist called 911 with the information about me. A sheriff’s deputy caught up with me five miles down the road. He tried to get me to pull over, but I kept driving. I ran five people off the road, but didn’t hit anyone. At one point the officer pulled up next to me and said that I was white knuckle on the steering wheel and staring straight ahead. No acknowledgement that he was next to me or anything. He knew then there was something wrong with me, but, being a cop, he was thinking drugs, even though it was not yet 8 AM. They show, in movies and on TV, the officer using his car to force the other driver off the road, but that is much easier said than done. This officer, a veteran of the force, got back behind me. He told me later that I never exceeded 45 mph, so at least I was under the speed limit. He continued to follow me, praying all the way that I wouldn’t hit someone. I passed through Urbana, which meant that by that time I had driven in a basically unconscious state, for seven miles. On down the road to the curve in front of the drive in, which I negotiated. It was now eleven miles. I drove through the intersection at Rt. 24 and Rt. 13 on the red light. This is, arguably, the busiest intersection in Wabash county. I wasn’t touched. I went another half mile, went off the road, rolled my car multiple times and came up on my wheels. But it doesn’t end there. By this time there is a lot of back up. I am now in the city of Wabash, 12 miles from where I lost consciousness, and I have destroyed my car. The officer, still thinking I have been on drugs, opens the driver’s side door and I, the Rev. Larry Wade, local pastor, hit the officer. He hits me back. I become combative. He draws his taser, still thinking this is a drug thing, and uses it as a stun gun and zaps me in the leg. I become more combative, so he zaps me in the shoulder, which puts me on the ground. There I am handcuffed. As proof that I was out of my mind, I should note that officer Hicks is 6’7”. I am not stupid, normally anyway. I don’t know how much time passed until them EMTs started to bring me around, but I remember them saying that they had been able to finally bring my sugar blood count up to 23. A regular glucometer cannot read below 20. That is getting to the level that the heart stops.

          So, what do we learn from this? That I was extremely lucky? No. What I learned was that the Lord never leaves the believer nor forsakes them. Let’s review. I pass out on a State Highway, one that typically has more semi-trucks than cars, and never hit one head on. I drive 12 miles all over the road and never hit anyone, although I drive 5 cars off the road (one of whom was one of our ladies in the church), but no one is hurt. I make it through a dangerous curve and then cross an intersection that usually features speeding semi-trucks, and I do that by running through a red light. Then, I roll my car multiple times and all that happens to me is two small bruises on my left hand and a fairly nasty bruise just under my right shoulder. There is more to that part of the story. Honda reinforces the window frames on their doors more than other companies. In 2012 a driver went left of center and hit my good, solid American car, totaling it out. I got my insurance settlement and went to get a used car. They had the Honda there. It got 40 mpg, which is needed in the ministry, and I bought it. If I had been driving any other kind of car, I would have been killed Wednesday morning. The roof was caved in except at the window frames. Back to Wednesday, the officer who subdued me was a veteran officer. If he had been a young, nervous and angry officer, who knows what might have happened. Personally, I am grateful that the only thing he did was stun me. Another blessing was that the ambulance crew that responded was the same crew that came to the house when I passed out there. They recognized me and checked my blood sugar. Another crew would have assumed I was out of it because I had been subdued and I probably would have died before I reached the hospital. Seven short weeks ago my chest was cut in half and my ribs broken so they could do the bypass, and nothing that happened damaged the surgical area. And, lastly, the hospitalist at Wabash hospital explained to me how to take the insulin to avoid such an event far better than it was explained to me by the highly trained endocrinologists at Lutheran.

All of that can be called a coincidence. If you believe it to be so, then you are really, really gullible. I am His, and He will take care of me.