Someone might ask, "Why would God allow this? What did those poor people do?" Maybe we should ask if God should ignore our greed and our arrogance and our stupidity. Most disasters come from people who are trying to gain an advantage.

          When Marsha and I moved to Miami way back when, everyone in the church we attended told us of all the sights we needed to see. One lady told us that if we really wanted to see the beauty of Florida, we needed to drive north up the fabled A1A highway, which was just a wide, two lane road then. A1A used to be, before the interstate system went in, the only easy way to get to Miami. Even with the interstates, it was still busy. All the Spring Break photos from the 1940s all the way through now feature A1A. There are parts of that road that run right along the beach. At the time we took our drive, there were many, many places to pull off and just walk over to the water's edge. A lot of little stores and little communities with one story houses that had people of, usually, lower income who didn't want the rat race. They wanted to hear the surf and feel the breeze. It was a fun trip.

          But it wasn't long after that little trip that we heard that various developers were buying up the properties. Higher end communities were planned, money was going to be spent, Florida was to be transformed. Every once in a great while we would go and see what was going on. We wondered how they could build the big apartment buildings (I don't remember them calling them 'condos' back then) right along the beach, actually on the sea side of A1A. I knew a man from our church, Angus Scott, who was in the construction trade. Angus owned a very large company there at the time, but he would not work on that project. He said that there was no way those places could last. It was interesting to watch. Huge sheets of corrugated metal were pounded deep into the sand to stop erosion. The metal was all under the sand so that it couldn’t be seen. It actually increased the erosion, but man in their wisdom, dredged sand from the ocean floor and put it back on the beach. Once the metal ‘walls’ were in place the buildings went up. Angus told me that the wave action under the water would erode in and weaken the base, even going below the metal walls. The water would lead to humidity, which also would do damage. I told him that the builders were going down to bed rock, but Angus insisted that bed rock along a sandy coast was different from bed rock further inland. I didn’t know. To me it was just ugly. But people needed to live somewhere and a lot of people in Miami had a lot of money.

          And so the coastline all along the eastern side of Florida was built up. I had put all that out of my mind until the collapse last week of that building in Surfside, Florida. Surfside is just north of Miami, right on the coast. It was a truly beautiful place at one time. Some would look at it now and say it is beautiful with all the buildings and commercial interests. As the story unfolds we see several different groups trying to put the blame for that collapse onto someone else other than themselves. Regardless who will ultimately be charged as guilty, the fact will remain that scores of people have died because of man’s greed.

          Man is always trying to tame nature, almost as if he is trying to show God a thing or two. Homes and buildings where none should be, almost as though they are tempting God to do something about it. Many years ago I was asked to do a wedding at a home at the bottom of a hill. The home owner also owned the hill and he had put several little ponds on the side of the hill by creating terraces. These ponds were fed by a small stream that ran down the hill. I had been meeting with the couple, but a couple of weeks prior to the wedding I went to the home to pace it all out. The home owner was very proud of this feat and had me walk with him up the hill to see his brilliance. When we reached the highest of the ponds I looked down the hill and remarked that all the ponds more or less lined up on the house. Wasn’t that dangerous? He laughed at my foolishness. Obviously I knew nothing of engineering, which was true. That night it started to rain. It rained for days. And then the bride to be called and wanted to know if the wedding could be at the church. I could tell she was in tears, so I asked her what had happened. The highest pond had broken and flowed into the next pond, which couldn’t take it and it broke. Four ponds dumping a torrent of water onto the house.

          Now, you might think that it was pretty stupid to do what that home owner did. I would say you were right, although I know nothing about engineering. But building buildings on what was once a sandy beach and then ignoring the warnings of impending danger might also be considered stupid. But then, we don’t know much about engineering.

          The Bible says this---Matthew 7: “Everyone then who hears these words of mine and does them will be like a wise man who built his house on the rock. And the rain fell, and the floods came, and the winds blew and beat on that house, but it did not fall, because it had been founded on the rock. And everyone who hears these words of mine and does not do them will be like a foolish man who built his house on the sand. And the rain fell, and the floods came, and the winds blew and beat against that house, and it fell, and great was the fall of it.”

            It could be that God doesn’t know much about engineering, either. But it is far more likely that foolish men build their buildings right next to the sea. However, so long as blame can be passed, it doesn’t matter, does it?

           I guess my Aunt Evie got it all started. I loved my Aunt Evie. She was Uncle Burt’s wife, and he was my mother’s brother. All my mother’s people, and all of my father’s, too, were Hard Shell Baptist from Russell Springs, Kentucky. They all married people of the same belief system. (If you don’t know, Hard Shell were mostly Kentucky and West Virginia folks, all along a short stretch of border between the two states. Extremely strict. They might get happy during worship, but mostly were sour faced the rest of the time.) Burt, however, met this vivacious Pentecostal girl who just won his heart. He broke with the church and married her.

          By the time I came along Aunt Evie had ingrained herself deeply into the family. They lived way up in the most northern part of Ohio in the same town as us and she was the life of any gathering. They took turns going to a Baptist church (no Hard Shell near us) and a Pentecostal church. Evie didn’t care. It didn’t matter what church she was in, if the Spirit came on her, she would jump up and start prophesying. Everything would stop until she was done. Everyone would get happy. And, when she was in the Spirit, it seemed whatever she said would be, would happen. Outside of church she was a complete cut up. She didn’t believe in being gloomy. Life was a joy.

          And then, when I was twelve, she got cancer. Back then, the only real diagnostic tool they had was exploratory surgery. She never really recovered from that. She was treated with chemotherapy, but at that time it wasn’t very effective. Her condition worsened and it became clear she was going to die. My mother was spending most of her time taking care of her sister-in-law, and my oldest sister (six years older than me) would go and help. But Mom didn’t want my other sister (three years older than me) or me to be there and see the shape our aunt was in. However, Evie wanted to see us. So, the day came when our father took us over.

          Semi propped up on the sofa was someone who looked a little like our beloved aunt, but she was way more haggard and worn. She embraced my sister and told her to be good and pure, obey her mother and marry a good man. Next, I stepped up, fully expecting the same basic thing. Evie looked at me and her eyes rolled back into her head. Her face turned to the ceiling and she shouted, “GLORY!” She lay back on the pillows, panting from the effort. “Oh, glory!” Alarmed, my mother stepped in. “Ev, what is it girl?” My mother’s name was Lavona. The family all called her Vonie. “Vonie, that boy is going to be a preacher man!” We were all shocked, especially me. Mom wanted me to be a lawyer, Dad wanted me to be a farmer or work in one of the steel mills. Every adult I knew wanted me to be something else, but no one had ever said a thing about preaching. I wasn’t even saved! At twelve years old I had embraced the whole evolution thing. I didn’t know what I was going to be, but I sure wasn’t going to be a preacher!

          Obviously, Evie was right. It was another five years before I accepted Christ and then He began to work on me. I decided I was going to go to a Christian college in Tennessee. My father was pretty disgusted with me. It was well known in the part of Kentucky he was from that there were two kinds of preachers. Them that was called and them that was educated. I was going to be an educated preacher, therefore not worth much. He never cared for my life choice.

However, God was in control. I learned that God was calling me to be a pastor. As a pastor, I would have to preach, but I was a pastor. Just like that, I went from someone who had no use for the ministry to someone who was sold out to the ministry.

It changed the way my family and friends were with me. A first year student at the college I had chosen could not have a car. I guess they figured we would be out joy riding instead of hitting the books. Anyway, my parents were going to take me down to Chattanooga. My mother wanted to stop in Kentucky to see her brother Curtis, whose wife, Nina, had just died. Curtis had a meal ready when we got there. I had always figured that Curtis would have been happy with a can of beans and a biscuit, but this was quite a meal. We sat down at the table to eat and the old man looked across the table to me. “Larry, would you return thanks?” (For those who don’t know, returning thanks is asking the blessing for the meal, just a much prettier way to say it. If you are in someone else’s home and they ask you to return thanks, it is an honor,) I was pretty surprised and just stared at him. He looked at me and, in a gentle voice, said, “Nephew, you are the preacher, after all.”

And that has been the way it has been. An aunt in Indianapolis calling me instead of her own pastor, to pray for her. “Well, you are the preacher.” At the graveside for Uncle Curtis, the minister said, “Curt has a nephew who is a preacher. He will say a few words.” That was a nice gesture, except I didn’t know before hand. Marsha’s family used me for everything. Weddings, funerals, returning thanks. I was the preacher. Because I pastored near where I grew up, I would get old friends contacting me to see someone in the hospital or on their death bed. I was the minister. It is who I am and now in my life I am that person to almost everyone I know.

Mr. Marty was the father of my best friend Keith When he died suddenly, they called me. I was the minister. It didn’t matter that this man had been very much like a father to me and that I was grieving, too. I was to do the funeral. When Mrs. Marty died, it was the same thing. But by then I was working at the funeral home and they wanted me to be the only one to handle her in preparation as well as do the funeral. Very hard to do that. But you are the preacher or the minister or whatever. You can do it.

And it is all OK. I have watched Brian Chamberlain do three such funerals recently. His father, his uncle and his friend. These were hard funerals. You have your opportunity to grieve snatched away. You have to be there for family and friends. The burden and pain is great. But at the same time, for Brian it was the highest of honors. It was a chance to really do something for the most important people in his life. Those three funerals were packed and Brian was able to rise above his own grief to give them something extra special. And he can treasure that. After all, he is the preacher.

I have been there and I understand it completely.

But this time, it feels different. Next Thursday, July 1, I will do the funeral for my best friend. Keith was closer to me than a brother would have been, I believe. We were together as much as we could be. People have friends, but as you are growing up you have one best friend. My childhood was turbulent, sometimes violent. An alcoholic father often creates that home. But I could depend on Keith.

On the evening of Keith’s death, I was finally able to talk to Karen, his sister and a dear friend to me as well. As we talked, I asked some questions about dates and times of the funeral. She said, “You know, Larry, we couldn’t ask anyone else. You’re the minister.” Without thinking, I said, “Well, this is the last time. This is really, really hard.” And then I broke down. I don’t think she had ever thought about the personal price. No one ever does. But after forty six years it seems to have just built up like a dam that is holding back just a little too much water. And being alone, to boot.

I have done more funerals than anyone else I know. None have been easy. But this one is going to be very hard. Please keep Keith’s family in prayer. And his friend, whom he knew for sixty two years.

         

        Thanks.

 

          Back in 2010, the funeral home for which I worked created a Facebook page. Actually, they had Marsha put it together since she knew that stuff. After that, all the employees were encouraged to create their own FB page if they hadn’t already done so and link to the company FB page. 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 on every day now to keep up with folks here and folks in Ohio. When the Lady Norse were banging away through the tournament, I was on FB a lot. But I really do dislike FB. 

          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. Remember, this is 2010. 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 his political ramblings. I began to wonder why I had even involved myself in this silly thing. And then, someone asked me a direct question on my timeline; 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 she was 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 knew everything about FB. 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 is a pretty duck, though.

           Listening to the call on the radio was confusing. The announcer was watching the play and when it happened, he gargled out something that could not be understood. It took a few seconds to realize Northfield had gotten a hit, a run had scored and Northfield Lady Norse had won an eleven inning nail biter. An exciting ending.

          The next day I saw a cell phone video on Facebook. That was much more satisfying than hearing the announcer choke on his own words. The players exulting in the moment of victory was a sweet thing to watch. But in that particular video, a girl from the other team took a couple of steps away and bent double at the waist. I could feel the pain of the loss radiating off her. I felt a wave of despair. Personally, I had felt both emotions back in the playing days, so I could feel for both teams. I froze the picture and sat back. Incredible game, incredible girls on both teams. Sad someone had to lose.

          Then I looked at the Lady Norse. I thought of the times they had come so close, only to lose in the end and feel that wash of defeat. These are great girls, great teammates, who have suffered together and now are enjoying the sweet taste of victory. As of this writing, there is one more game. Maybe a state championship, maybe not. But whichever way that game goes, that eleven inning game may always stay in their minds as the game that defined them as the team that was the Lady Norse.

          2015. The funeral home was at the top of a hill and the parking lot was actually on the side of the hill. When it was snowing it could be a hard walk, but you lived with it in hill country. No snow on this day, though. Beautiful day in September. I was walking from the funeral home to building that housed our offices, when I heard someone getting out of a car on the lower end of the parking lot. No services that day, so I stood in the gentle sun and watched as the man began to walk up the hill. Was that….Ed? Ed Wolf? I called out to him, “Wolfy?” He looked up and grinned and called me something that is best not repeated here. We hadn’t seen each other since 1974. He got to the top of the hill and we embraced. We both had tears.

          We went inside and sat down. I got us both a coffee. Ed had gone into the Marines after high school. Through his sister I had heard of his event filled life. Forty years a Marine. Imagine that. Time spent in all the flareups around the globe. Embassy duty. Desert Storm. Anywhere, anytime a Marine was needed. He had found time to marry and have kids. His final posting had been in Hawaii. He had retired there and he and his wife chose to stay. Now retired, he was back in town for a couple of weeks to help his mother with a move from the old house to some place smaller. He had heard I was working at the funeral home and had stopped to visit.

          You can imagine the catching up! We had known each other since first grade. His career, my career, families, kids, adventures. Eventually we got around to talking about working the fields as kids, pranking teachers, different kids in school. He didn’t know Marvin and Greg had both died. A lot of stories and a lot of coffee. And then, after forty years, Ed asked the inevitable question.

          “You ever hear from the guys?”

          The guys? What guys was he talking about? A lot of the guys worked in the fields together. A lot of guys ran around together. A lot of guys made life miserable for the teachers. What guys?

          But I knew.

          “In this job? Sure. I see some every now and then.”

          And that began a different kind of conversation. The ‘guys’ he was talking about were the guys who overcame all kinds of odds to do something really great. They were, well, the guys.

          When our class were juniors, the class in front of us was chock full of really fine athletes. Ed and I and a couple of others of our class were the only ones who got to start on the varsity football team as juniors. We had talent at every position, but it wasn’t really a team. Back then we called them hot dogs. Every player wanted the glory. When that senior class came up everyone predicted state level play. Our Athletic Director scheduled bigger schools to play against that year so, when we beat them, we would move up in the rankings. But it didn’t happen. As I said, there were four of us who were juniors and we really wanted to be good. But the seniors wound up fighting and fussing and it was a mess. When they graduated, our great chance was gone.   

          Except now we had guys who had played together and worked together and hung out together and who, above all else, were a bunch of friends. At that time, if you scheduled a team to play against, you had to schedule them for the next year, too. It was called ‘home and home.’ So, they had scheduled these bigger schools for our super stars to beat, which hadn’t really happened, all the time knowing that the next year of the contract our team would get chewed up.

Only that didn’t happen, either. The first game of the season pitted us against a team whose quarterback would eventually play for the Miami Dolphins in a Super Bowl. We won. We had a couple of teams we blew out, but mostly, especially against the big schools, it was tight and hard fought. And victorious. We were playing teams we should not have been playing. We were playing way over our heads. And somehow, it was a really incredible season.

 Last game. When it was over, we trudged into the locker room. We had lost. A head at halftime, we had finally just run out of gas. Coach, as he wiped tears away, prayed (a great Christian man and the human witness who brought me to Christ) and then thanked us for an unbelievable season. And then it was quiet. No one talked. I looked across the room to Ed. Our eyes locked. He started to laugh. It spread. Everyone was laughing, slapping others on the back. Sure, we had lost, but it had been fun. No one else believed we could compete, much less win. Just a bunch of guys, a bunch of friends, a team. Some reporters came in and looked around in confusion. We ignored them. This was our moment…..

 Ed and I talked about the guys. We didn’t talk about that season or even about football. Just about the guys with whom we had grown up with and messed around with and who shaped some great memories with.

 Then it was time to part. I walked Ed to the door. We embraced and he headed down the hill. I watched until his car was out of sight. “Take care, buddy.”

 Just picking a couple of girls; someday, say forty years from now, Kenzie will be the head of a small health clinic. One of the people she supervises will come to her and tell her there is someone to see her. She will make her weary way to her office and there will stand Abby. Surprise and joy, there will be a tight hug, wiping away tears and both talking at once. Perhaps decades will have passed, but it will just seem like yesterday since they had seen each other. Coffee or tea will be produced and the talk will begin. Deaths and births and ‘can you believe she married him?’ They will laugh as only old girl friends can. It will be wonderful! And then, Abby will say, “Do you ever hear from the others?” What others is she talking about? Maybe a hint? But Kenzie will know. “In this job, yeah, I see most of them now and again.” And the conversation will change. Abby and Kenzie and ‘the others’ once climbed a mountain together. Oh, life had happened to all of them since. Good and bad and great, but there was this time, decades ago, when no one had given them much hope at the start. Volleyball and basketball, yes, but not softball. However, Abby and Kenzie and ‘the others’ were inspired. They and their coaches and their families believed. And it was an awesome run.

And then it will be time to part. Kenzie will walk Abby to the door. They will embrace and cry a little and then Kenzie will watch her walk away. Separated, but bonded. Forever.

I really hope that none of the Lady Norse look back at these two or three weeks and remember it as the high point of their lives. It would be awful to peak in high school. But it will be a unique time and should be held as such. They have done, and are doing, something amazing. I have to admit, back when their dreams ended on the basketball court, I sat back and thought about what a great group of ladies this was and it was too bad it was over. I wasn’t thinking about softball. As the years slip by there will be many, many times that will cause their spirits to soar.

But there will also be that time, with that team. It will be different. It will be lasting. It will be a part of what shapes their lives.

What a great bunch of ladies.   

           I hope the picture is large enough for you to see. I would like to thank Janet Chamberlain for posting this picture on her Face Book page.

September 17, 1955. These were the dignitaries at the National Plowing Contest held that year at Lowell Smith’s farm in Lagro Township, Indiana. In attendance that day, among others, was the Vice President of the United States of America, Mr. Richard Nixon. The Vice President and his lovely wife, Pat, were flown into Wabash, where they answered questions from maybe a dozen reporters. After that, the Vice President and his wife boarded a farm wagon and were taken for a tour of the farming area on the way to the prestigious plowing contest. (The VP rode a farm wagon from Wabash to Lagro!) The picture is of Mr. Nixon and others on the wagon. Mr. Nixon seemed to have a great interest in the stock pond on Jimmy Pobst’s farm. Mr. Nixon, having grown up in a farming community in California, had a special interest in farming innovation. After reaching the place where they would eat lunch, Mr. Nixon made a point to thank the tractor driver, Howard Wolf. Mrs. Floyd Waters, of North Manchester and a member of the Servia Congregational Christian Church, had baked a 30 pound cake as a gift from the church. There was a lunch for the Nixons and they were served by the five daughters of Charles Graham, who was the head of the Plowing Board. Mrs. Van Wilson, representing the Daughters of the American Revolution, then pinned a Constitution Week tag on the Vice President. As you look at the picture, which was taken just as they rolled into the plowing site, we see, from left to right, W.K Delaplane, Charles Graham (head of the Plowing Board), Mrs. Nixon, Roene Kallam (Queen of the Furrow), Mr. Nixon, Miss Mary Ann Wasick, an unidentified girl and then Congressman John V. Beamer. All in all, a pretty big day for Lagro.

It was a different time. America was just two years out of the Korean War. Tuberculosis vaccines had just about gotten that dreaded disease under control while polio vaccines were just rolling out (yes, it is true, COVID-19 was not our first rodeo). We had the Republican Party and the Democrat Party, but they both wanted America to prosper and move forward. On September 17 the New York Yankees were in a tight pennant race in the American League with the Cleveland Indians and the Brooklyn Dodgers were going toe to toe with the Milwaukee Braves. Gas was 29 cents a gallon, a loaf of bread was 18 cents and your telephone was wired into your wall. And serving Vice Presidents still went to things like the National Plowing Contest in a small little Indiana town where the Vice President had to ride to the event on a hay wagon sitting next to the Queen of the Furrow. Although it wasn’t mentioned, I am pretty certain that there was a prayer said before the lunch and the Star Spangled Banner was probably sung before the contest began.

As soon as I saw this picture I began to go back to the 1950s in my mind. But I also thought about our world today. Vice President Pence would have gone to the National Plowing Contest in Lagro and, being a Hoosier, he would have loved it. But the Secret Service would not have allowed him on the hay wagon without proper restraints and he almost certainly would not have been allowed to sit next to the Queen of the Furrow. (Royalty can be dangerous these days.) But would Kamala Harris go to Indiana for the Contest? I imagined the conversation.

The Vice President enters the Oval Office and walks up to the President’s desk.

“You wanted to see me, Sir?”

The president, startled, looks up from the pencil he is trying to figure out. “Oh, yes, yes of course. Kamala. Yes. I need you to make a trip.”

“Mr. President, I will go anywhere, but I will not go to the southern border where the illegals and sneaking in. I will not do it! Do you understand what I am saying?”

“I don’t want you to go to the southern border. Or maybe I do….but not this time. I need you to go to Indiana.”  

“Indiana? Sounds familiar. That’s in Canada, right? Named after the Native Americans? You want me to urge the Canadians to change the name? I can take CNN and…”

“No, Kamala, Indiana is in the USofA. Pretty sure, anyway. Its where Mayor Pete is from. I need you to go to the National Plowing Contest.”

“What is ‘plowing?’ Is it dangerous? Is someone crossing a border?”

“No, it is all safe. You’ll even get to sit next to royalty. And, I understand there is a 30 pound cake for you.”

“Royalty? Cake? Is it chocolate?”  

          OK, OK. The conversation wouldn’t sound like that. The conversation would never happen because no serving Vice President would be sent to the National Plowing Contest. We have become too refined for that kind of thing. The media would say that such a trip would ‘diminish the office.’ The Vice President would be put at unacceptable risk. Since it is not campaign season, such an appearance would be pointless. And, since the prayer before the meal would be to the Judeo-Christian God, it could not be allowed.

          But, why not? What is wrong with a little light hearted fun? Why is everything so serious? Are we a better people? Are we stronger? Back in the 1970s, President Carter used to have softball games on the White House lawn. In the 1960s, President Kennedy used to play with his children on the lawn. That just wouldn’t happen now.

          September 17, 1955 was a Saturday. Everyone was about their day. No one was really realizing that this was a bright and shining time for the country. It was just another Saturday in September. The war and riots and assassinations that marked the 1960s were simply unimaginable. The protests and political upheavals that were the 1970s could have never been foreseen. In 1955 the collapse of the family, the degrading of society and the loss of national pride was not on anyone’s radar. Those people gathered in Lagro on September 17, 1955 listening to an earnest and joking Vice President Nixon would not have believed that in nineteen years this same man would be resigning the office of President in disgrace.  

Most people now would think of it as a simpler time, but not so. The adults had all lived through at least some of the Great Depression and all of them had felt the fear and depression of World War II. Millions had fought in that war and, for that matter, those who had fought in World War I were only in their 50s or early 60s. The people of 1955 had known war and depression and disease and, in 1955, they were faced with the knowledge that if the Soviet Union and the United States got into it, all humanity could be destroyed. There was nothing simple or magical about 1955. But it was very different.

In 1955, on any given weekend, just over half of all Americans were in worship. This not saying that half of all Americans identified as believers in some higher power. That number would have been much higher. But half of the population were entering churches or synagogues or whatever their worship center was called. In 2021 it is less than twenty percent of all Americans attending worship on any given weekend. Some would shrug their shoulders, say it doesn’t matter, 1955 was just a simpler time, 2021 is hard. Faith doesn’t play into it.

But I say different. Our faith is everything. Isaiah 5:20-21 pronounces a couple of woes. ‘Woes’ in the Bible are Baaaaad things. Worse than curses. Woe to those who call evil good and good evil, who put darkness for light and light for darkness, who put bitter for sweet and sweet for bitter! Woe to those who are wise in their own eyes, and shrewd in their own sight!

We are in a time where the difference between good and evil is blurred. We are in a time where if we say something is wrong we are condemned and if we say something is good, we are mocked. We are weighted down with our own foolishness.

I would like to think that there is redemption for our society. And there is. But it is not through political change or censorship. Redemption is only through Jesus Christ.