Imagine. Sunday morning church is progressing along. Only one or two people are asleep, but we haven’t got to the preaching yet. The music has been good, people are enjoying themselves. Fairly typical Sunday morning.

         Then, someone who had slipped in just before church started suddenly jumps up.

         “HEY,” he shouts. “I demand pornography! You’re connected to the internet! I demand porn!” To this, Max Chamberlain turns around and whacks the person with that mighty club he calls a cane.

         Well that is a stupid idea, you say. That would never happen and if it did, several of the men would toss him out. After Max was done with him. No one is going to come into a church demanding something like that.

         Probably not, at least not around here. We are a private, non-profit organization. We can put on the screen whatever we want. It is silly to think someone could come into the church and demand something outrageous.

         However, more and more I am seeing people up in arms about Facebook and Twitter and You Tube blocking certain religious writings or videos, calling them hate speech. Whenever I see someone upset over it, they wind up saying that Facebook and Twitter and You Tube are violating our constitutional rights of freedom of religion. Every time someone or some religious group starts that, I think to myself that their ignorance is on full display.

         Facebook and Twitter and You Tube are private companies. They are not taking away anyone’s freedom of religion. But just like we have guidelines as to what will go on our sanctuary screen, they have guidelines they follow. Preaching against various sins is, to them, hate speech. Holding a particular political viewpoint is, to them, hate speech. They have the right to regulate what they allow out there, just as we have the right to regulate what we put out. During the pandemic shutdown, Facebook was very good about letting churches post videos. However, Facebook is re-evaluating what they allow. They now have a new censor board to weed out what they don’t want. Getting a Facebook page is quick and easy. Up loading a video is a snap. Nothing to it and anyone can do it. A whole lot easier than creating your own webpage and posting videos on the webpage. Most churches that have gone the Facebook and You Tube path are going to find out pretty soon that their run is over. And most of those churches will then cry that their religious liberty, guaranteed by the Constitution, is being violated.

         I have been asked why we don’t post our service videos on Facebook or You Tube. We all have watched videos online and they seem to run smoothly, but ours sometimes glitches and jerks. What makes your church video glitch and jerk is the lack of something called bandwidth due to poor internet provision in the area. Facebook and You Tube do not have the same need for quality bandwidth, so their videos run better.

         But that doesn’t matter. What matters is that we are not going to be censored. (at least not until the government gets taken over by the inmates) We have our own webpage, administered by Mary Earle. Uploading our videos to the webpage is a semi complex ordeal. At least it seems complex to me. The content, though, is what we want to post. The entire webpage is full of interesting stuff and Mary works to keep it up and interesting. Just so you know, the address to our page is http://urbanayokeparish.com/  If you haven’t yet, please go and take a look around.

         What does matter is that we will not compromise in order to do things the easy way. We will put the content we want to put out without fear of censorship. Being God’s people and doing things God’s way has never been easy.

         It would make it so much easier if there was a book in the Bible that instructed us on social media presentation of the Gospel. Just think if Paul had the kind of access we have! He would have been ecstatic! Isaiah sang his sermons. Wouldn’t that be neat to hear? We could probably watch Samson bring down the house. For now, though, we have this;

Psalm 119:40-48 The Psalmist is talking to the Lord about His Word.

40.) How I long for Your precepts! In Your righteousness preserve my life. 

41.) May Your unfailing love come to me, LORD, Your salvation, according to Your promise; 

42.) then I can answer anyone who taunts me, for I trust in Your Word. 

43.) Never take Your Word of truth from my mouth, for I have put my hope in Your laws. 

44.) I will always obey Your law, for ever and ever. 

45.) I will walk about in freedom, for I have sought out Your precepts. 

46.) I will speak of Your statutes before kings and will not be put to shame, 

47.) for I delight in Your commands because I love them. 

48.) I reach out for Your commands, which I love, that I may meditate on Your decrees. 

         Verse 45 speaks of freedom only coming from the Word of God. All these people right now clamoring for freedom and justice tend to scoff at the Bible, but that is where the answer exists.

         God is good.

         You tend to remember the first time you do something. June, 1984. Ponce de Leon, Florida. I had been involved in funerals before, but this was the first time I had actually been the minister at a funeral. Sally Powell. She was 96 years old and had been a widow for over thirty years. The funeral was in the church and burial was in the cemetery behind the church. Each church has their own particular little tradition. This church had a history of decorating the graves with bit of sea shells or broken glass. They would stick shells or glass in the ground and outline the grave. One grave was outlined with old Elvis records broken in half. This was something the family did after the funeral meal. There was already a box sitting behind Miss Sally’s headstone filled with her china. The pieces had been broken carefully to keep from shattering the fine glass.

         Another tradition at this church was the deceased in their casket was brought out of the church and placed into the hearse. The hearse was started and then followed the minister and the funeral director as they walked slowly down the lane to the cemetery and then to the actual gravesite. Everyone who had attended the funeral would follow the hearse. It was what they did.

         On this particular day the casket was placed in the hearse, which was a model from 1966, and the director and I took our place at the front of the car. All the people, and there were a LOT of people there that day, gathered behind the hearse. I was extremely nervous. This was different from other funerals I had been involved in and I so wanted to do a good job for Miss Sally’s family. The driver got into the car and tried to start it. The engine turned over with gusto, but would not catch. He kept the key turned over trying to start it and kept pumping the gas (everything had carburetors then) and suddenly in the country quiet that always surrounded that church, the car backfired. Scared the daylights out of me. And he kept trying to start it. Now it was backfiring every few seconds. Every time it did it belched black smoke from the tailpipe. People were staggering from behind the car, rubbing their eyes and coughing. I ran to the driver’s window and told him to stop trying tom start it. “Stop! Stop! It won’t start! Its jumped time!” He looked at me and said, “Can you fix it?” I just shook my head and walked away. I told the director that it wasn’t going to start. He said, “Well, now, how are we supposed to get her to the grave?” The grave was maybe twenty yards away and Miss Sally was maybe eighty pounds, so the weight was in the casket and it was light and we had six strong grandsons to carry it. I said, “Well, can’t we carry it?” He looked shocked. “No! We just don’t do it that way here!” I felt like Candid Camera had to be some where close by. “Only other thing, then, is to put her in a pickup.” That made the director go pale. He called for the pall bearers and they pulled the casket out of the car and walked it to the grave site. The people liked that so much that a new tradition was born on the spot. From then on, the casket was carried to the grave.

         Since that first funeral I have done many, many funerals. Until coming here in 2016 I had done between thirty and forty funerals a year for various funeral homes since the 1980s. It has just how it has worked out. Funeral homes need a minister on call for unchurched families. The details of that first funeral are sharp in my mind, but the rest, unless something happened to make it different, are mostly a blur.

         Of course, that sounds a little harsh. But the things I recall with clarity are the lives that were lived in the church that I was pastoring at the time of the funeral. This week we had the funeral for Esther Wagner. A funeral is for closure for family and friends. But what is closing? A life, of course, but what else? Is love closing? Are emotions closing? Are memories closing?

         All that would be awful. Imagine. Someone dies and you are supposed to quit loving that person. The grave is closed and the emotions cease. You drive away and all memories are stricken from your mind. I have always wondered about closure.

         Usually, love sharpens. All the little things about that person become more personal for you. Maybe you realize you have their laugh or their outlook. Maybe their smile. And every time you see those things in you, or in someone else, it makes you love a little more. The emotions go through a phase where they reach out and grab you at random moments. All you can do js endure. And memories. Anytime, day or night.

         The funeral doesn’t end any of that. If you loved someone, you continue to love them. The emotions that come are borne on wings of that love. And thank God for memories! Memories are the things that allow us to continue to feel that love.

         Esther’s funeral. In time, I won’t remember the song that was presented, although it is a favorite. But I will remember her sweet spirit. I will remember her being tickled as she told the story of how she and Duane met. I will remember how Duane and her children cared for her as she neared death.

         I often think of a funeral as the epilogue to a wonderful play. The playwright has a few final thoughts to bring before the curtain comes down. But no one remembers the epilogue. They remember the play. So it is with a life that was well lived.

         Remember my funeral? I hope not. I don’t even want a funeral. Remember the message I attempted to bring in my life? I hope so.

         Thank you, Esther, for the message and the example you gave in life.

         The camp we have sent our church kids to has shut down for the summer. I cannot say I am surprised. More surprised, really, when the decision was made to open. With everything that has happened, I actually feel pretty good about the camp not opening.

         But it made me smile, too, as it sparked memories. At the previous church, camp was three and a half hours away. The seasoned campers looked forward to it. Talked about it for months before. Connected with campers from other churches to make sure they would be there. Parents planned getaways while their little darlings were gone. It was a big deal. A few of the older campers looked forward to the event so that they could renew acquaintances with ‘summer romances.’ One of our campers had graduated high school just before he left for his last camp. He and a young lady, from a church on the other side of the state, had been hanging out since they were in sixth grade. This would be their last camp together. My camper had been seriously dating a young lady in our area. I asked him how he was going to deal with his long time summer romance. He gave me a cocky smile and told me he would have to let her down easy. I was always one of the van drivers when we went to pick up the kids. On that Saturday I pulled into the parking lot and saw this particular Youth. I called him over. He was really down.

         “Hey, you OK? How did it go with Josie?” He looked at me and tears started forming. “Pastor, she’s getting married! She broke my heart!” I tried not to smile and said, “Well, you’re getting pretty serious with someone else, too.” He looked at me and then took off running to his cabin. What was really hurting him was his macho ego.

         But the most fun I had was with the first time campers. That camp was structured different than the one we have used here. Your sixth, seventh and eighth graders went to one camp and the high schoolers went to a different camp. Actually, same camp ground, just different weeks. And the cabins were different. No cabin had more than eight campers and in each cabin you could only have two campers from the same church. For meals, camp staff did all the preparation for the meals (thus, no need for church folks to be there) and the campers did all the cleanup. When you went to camp that first time you were going to be practically alone and they were going to make you work! Why is Mom and Dad doing this to me???

         The kids had to be there and registered by 2 PM on Sunday. So, our kids left around 8 AM to have time to cover mishaps or whatever. Obviously, I couldn’t drive them down, but I did get to send them off. This is where I enjoyed the first timers.

         A car would pull up and, if the camper was a girl, you could hear the wails as the car entered the parking lot. The boys tried to be good little soldiers, but the girls all turned into drama queens. “Please Mommy! Please Daddy! Don’t make me go!! NOOOOooo! Please!” Then the car would stop and the parents would emerge. Mom always looked embarrassed. Dad always looked like he was at the end of his rope. Little Suzie, meanwhile, would start wailing. “This is abuse! NOOOooooooooooooooo!” She would be dragged out of the car and then she would see me. “PASTOR WADE! Don’t let them make me go! Keep me here!” Then the deal making began. “I’ll mow your yard! I’ll help Marsha! I’ll do whatever you want! Don’t let them take me!” Every year there was at least one who would give the whole performance. The others would always give some portion of the performance. Lots and lots of tears, though. Lives being ruined. Death just days away. Marsha went with me to one send off. As they pulled out she muttered, “So childish.” “Yes, dear, she is a twelve year old child. You expect childish.” I loved those first year campers.

         Pick up day was at noon the following Saturday. That’s the one I always went on. For both groups. Each van was issued a couple of boxes of tissues. Oh, yes, there would be tears for the return. Now the kids didn’t want to go home. They didn’t want to say good bye to their new best friends. My, my. It was terrible. Anguish and agony. I would tell them it was time to load up. “NO! Pastor Wade, you don’t know what it is like!”

         Finally, though, all loaded and off we would go. A dozen kids crammed into a van. Kids who hadn’t bathed with any intensity in a week. Kids who had clothes that had been full of sweat and were now packed into duffles. Every window was wide open. Birds fell to the ground as you drove by. Anyone who was in earshot for the first half hour would think the van was loaded with war wounded.

         Within thirty minutes we were to the interstate and we always stopped to let the kids hit the McDonalds. After all, it had been six whole days. Other vans with kids from the camp were also there and our kids and the other kids acted like it was a reunion of people who hadn’t seen each other in fifty years. It was funny to hear two boys talking about something that had happened on Thursday, but it sounded like they were recalling some story from their youth, only decades later. Then, leaving from McDonalds wasn’t anywhere near as gut wrenching as leaving the camp. No tears. Hugs and waves and laughter. Getting back in the van. Headed home.

         That was when I would find out about camp. What they had learned, what they had done. And the camp songs! That is when the misery would set in for me. After an hour of that, they would start to fall asleep. I would have to wake them up five minutes from the parking lot so that their parents wouldn’t think I had left them somewhere along the way.

         It was part of the building process for life. Later, they had some foundation as they faced other daunting times. Leaving home for the first time, facing the loss of a loved one, walking into the unknown of marriage. As they came of age they were a bit more ready to face life’s hard times.

         Thinking back to those camp kids, they did pretty well with life. John called me this week to tell me what was happening in his career. Ashley had a stroke about a year ago and she has recovered very well. Jason is teaching math and is the head football coach at a high school in Ohio. Jeff and his wife Diane lost a baby. Mary and Steve lost a baby. They are doing well now, moving forward with Christ in their lives. Tina is a lawyer. Jenny is a teacher. The Mosely sisters are both veterinarians. I remember them and all the rest and their struggles and triumphs. Camp played a big part of that growing up experience.

         I am not upset that camp shut down this year. But it does seem as though our kids have lost a lot, more maybe than the adults. Then again, we have really good kids. I am thinking that this will all just be some of the stronger blocks in their foundation for life.

         Really, it took me by surprise on Sunday morning. I have shared this before, but, after my prayer time, I read the comics. Not comic books. The newspaper comics. I read them online now, but I have read comics almost every day of my life since I learned how to read. Before that I would beg my sisters to read them to me. If you could peer into my apartment first thing in the morning, you would see me in prayer. Then you would see me move to my computer and you would think I was probing the depths of theological writings until you saw the screen. There you would see ‘Pickles’ or ‘Andy Capp’ or some such entertainment. You might think that comics are a waste of time, and I suppose they are, a little. But I get up between 4:00 and 4:30 so I can have a little time to waste

         This past Sunday morning was no different. I began to read. It took me a while to begin to see it, but eventually I began to see a common thread. In a lot of the comics there were small items that had no business being there. I didn’t catch it at first. Just an oddity. But once I began to notice it more and more in different comics, I had to find out what was going on. They weren’t just random items. They were recurring. A surgical mask, a steering wheel, an apple, a shopping cart, a fork and a microscope. All that had to mean something. As it turned out, this was the comic writers’ way of paying tribute to all those people who have maintained society during COVID-19.  

         The surgical mask represents those in the medical profession who have gone to work every day with the knowledge that they themselves will likely become ill. The doctors and nurses and med techs who have braved the day. Those first responders who have gone to homes to pick up people who are sick with the virus. Those police officers and firefighters who have had to try and maintain order despite the threat of catching the virus and the threat of violence. The drug store workers who are there to give out vital medicines.

         The steering wheel represents those who have kept goods rolling on the highways of America. Those carrying food or medical equipment or the things needed to set up field hospitals to see to the needs of people. On the news we see foolish mayors allowing protesters to block roads and stop those driving heroes from bringing in the relief that is so desperately needed.

         The apple represents the growers and those who supply the growers. While others were in their homes busy with being bored, there were those out in their barns giving their tractors and equipment a good greasing. Making sure everything would be ready for when the weather broke and the fields could be conquered. While others were hopeful they would soon be able to emerge back into a society that would surely be changed, the farmer was emerging from his barn and the dust began to roll in the time honored tradition as the soil was once again called upon to provide.

         The shopping cart represents those who have gone into work every day to stock shelves and work the cash registers and help people find things in the grocery stores. There is a small grocery store right by me. One evening I stopped in on my way home and as I walked in, I saw a banner that said “Heroes Work Here.” That was the first time I had really thought about it. They are going to run into all types in a grocery store. But theirs is a vital enterprise. We all, sick or not, must eat.

         The fork represents those restaurants that have striven to stay open in some form to feed people who need a break. Most would say that they are just chasing the almighty dollar, but I see it different. Some sit-down restaurants have offered curbside pickups and the Burger Kings and McDonalds of the world have kept their drive throughs open. Not so they can make a killing. I don’t think they are making a killing. But they are providing a valuable service for those who need it.

         The microscope represents those who have been solely intent on finding a cure or a vaccine for this virus. Nothing else matters to the researcher. People think that when it becomes available, the cure or vaccine will be high priced because people will be willing to pay. That may be true. But the true researcher, that man or woman who is working with live virus every day, is just worried about finding the cure so their aging parents can be safe, so that children will have a future, so that people can come out again.

         The heroes. If you know one of these, thank them. Tell them you appreciate what they have done for you.

         But the essential workers do not end there. Because of my experience, there are at least two others who come to mind.

         The first of those would be funeral home workers. I know. We don’t want to think of that. But everyone dies of something, and many of those things are contagious for a period of time even after the person dies. We do not think of that man or woman who is slipping gloves on and a gown and a mask to work on someone who has died. Sometimes it is someone they knew. They are exposing themselves to a variety of dangerous elements in order to make a person ready for burial. It hardly seems essential until we have someone who has left us, and then it is the most important thing in the world. You know what would be great. If you folks called Grandstaff or McDonald or McKee or any other such place you have used, and thank them for their service.

         And then, I see those who have sought to keep the hope of the Lord getting out to all who will hear as essential. I hesitate to speak of this. I have never been one who has felt comfortable in ‘building’ myself up, but I am not speaking of myself. I know of many, many pastors who have been working to be real ‘pastors,’ that is a shepherd, to his or her flock during this time. I have watched numerous videos of pastors bringing messages of hope. Sometimes I have laughed, not at them, but rather, with them. We were not trained to make videos and we can mess up in pretty inventive ways. But I also know that while they are uncomfortable in front of the camera, they are at home when praying for their people, when talking on the phone to someone who is distressed, when someone enters their office who feels as though the world is overwhelming them. And not just those people in the clergy. All those others who have given their time and effort to keep their churches able to fulfill their primary function; being a beacon in the dark. This blog is not read just in Urbana. I encourage all of you, in whatever state or country you are in, to reach out and say thanks.

         There are a lot of people who have answered the call to be there for others during a dark time. Make it your business to thank a few of them as you go about your day. 

         We are faced with a series of events that has put our time in a dark, dark place. COVID-19. 100,000 dead in the US. Riots and upheaval. Surely it cannot get any worse. Folks are saying that this has to be the sign of the end times. It has never been this bad!

         Indeed, 2020 has so far been a harsh year, and it isn’t quite halfway over. It could get worse. It could also get better. Just back away from everything for a bit. This is not the worse year in US history and it is not a sign that the End is upon us. Keep this all in perspective.

Between 1861 and 1865 the American Civil War tore the country apart. 655,000 total deaths, military and civilian. Along with the war came disease, infection and, in some places, starvation. We talk of rioting. Then it was American verses American in all-out war. As large a number of deaths as it was, remember that as the country was plunged into war the population was only 31,443,321. Imagine the turmoil. The country recovered.

In 1918 the Great War, now known as World War I, finally came to a close. America didn’t get into the war until 1917. By that time the fighting in Europe had been going on for years. US troops started dying in earnest near the end of 1917. When the war ended, there were over 53,000 US combat deaths in only a matter of months. In September of 1918 a flu pandemic hit the world, including the United States. In just the month of October of 1918 there were over 195,000 deaths in just this country alone from the flu. More in just one month than we have suffered to date from COVID-19, and now we have a population in this country of over 300,000,000 people while then it was 103.000.000. It is estimated that  between 550,000 and 675,000 Americans died in 1918 and into 1919 from the flu. It seems so much worse now because worldwide communication in 1918 was nothing like what we have today. For that matter, communication within the country was still mostly telegraph. The full impact of the battlefield deaths from the war and the deaths from the pandemic was not realized until several years later. The flu could cut through an isolated community and kill half the people before anyone could identify it. Because East Rivertown was isolated from West Rivertown, no one knew the other had endured the same thing. Think of that; 195,000 people died in this country in one month and most of the people in the country only knew about their small part of their world. There was grief, but not panic. The country recovered.

In 1932, 43,000 former WWI soldiers and some of their families marched on Washington DC to collect on bonus money the government had promised to them to get them to enlist back during the war, but had yet to pay. It was the Great Depression and these people needed the money. It was such a huge disruption that the US Army was called out to break it up. It happened again in 1933. Desperate people doing desperate things. The country recovered.

In the mid to late 1960s the civil rights demonstrations and riots took place. During the same time the Vietnam War raged. The riots were bloody, the war was devastating. Massive unrest gripped the nation. John Kennedy was assassinated. Robert Kennedy was assassinated. Martin Luther King was assassinated. The country recovered.

Anytime these things happen, they leave hideous scars. Things are never the same. But the country recovers. What about now?

This time is different because there is a large part of the country that doesn’t want the country to recover. They want the country to collapse so that they can rebuild it into what they want. If that is to happen it will require the deaths of many people. Everyone will pay a price.

But the biggest reason this time is different is because people, regardless of which ‘side’ they are on, are standing without the God who has been in evidence before in previous struggles. With the sounds of the Civil War still echoing in her ears, Fanny Crosby wrote the words to the hymn “Rescue the Perishing.” Over and over again, in times past, during the darkest hours of our country, our leaders have knelt before the One greater than they themselves. Churches have filled as people called out to the mighty God or the great Physician. As our warriors have gone to defend this country, commanders have led them in prayer. Now, when a leader invokes the Almighty, that leader is mocked.

So, let’s take a few moments. If we are no longer a Christian nation, whose fault is that? The rioter? The looter? The career politician who advocates wholesale abortion and then who makes the pandemic into a political event?

We are a nation that has left the King of kings, the One above all others. And the fault lies at the door of the church. How many good church goers faithfully share the Gospel of Christ? How many good church goers watch the rioting and grieve for the rioters because they are lost in their sin?

Ask yourself; when was the last time you shared the amazing love of Jesus to a lost person? When was the last time you prayer for that person throwing a brick or that person attacking our values? Whose fault is it that we are no longer a Christian nation? A nation where fewer than 50% of the people go to church.

For those who think it is so bad that this must be the end of time, we aren’t that fortunate. This is not the end of times, but it is the time stand up for Jesus.

And we start standing up by getting down on our knees.