Many of you have been asking me how I am doing. I appreciate the concern because I know it is genuine. I know you are praying for me and I know that your prayers contain the power that wakes me each morning and causes me to get ready for the day. I also know that when you ask me how I am doing I usually do not go into any great detail and I know you understand that and let me get away with it. Like all things in my life, this has been a learning experience. (When my son was in high school, he got frustrated with me one day. Something had happened and I was explaining some point to him. He rolled his eyes and said, “Dad, does everything have to be a teaching moment?” For me, I guess so.) I understand now what it is to lose your spouse, not to death, but to someone else. In 1999, Marsha’s doctor told her she had maybe five years to live. It didn’t happen that way, but I did become very aware I was going to lose her. Each day was a special blessing. Then this all happened. I dare say, death might have been easier. You can look at death and see the cause. This, though, well, I still don’t know why it all happened. I have my own thoughts, but Marsha has never told me why. It doesn’t matter. She has filed for divorce and I suppose it will cost me, but I really don’t care about that at this point. However, I am not one to speak from the heart when it comes to myself. When I do relate something from my past it is usually one of those teaching moments my son found so bothersome. I am so used to others coming to me with issues. It is hard to tell others my woe. But you have asked, and I know you care……

          I mentioned it is a learning experience. It has been. Always, it didn’t much matter what was going on, I still got to sleep at night. Now I am finding out just how little sleep I can get by on. My hands are sometimes very painful from arthritis. Used to be, on Sunday morning I would sometimes have trouble buttoning the top button on my shirt and I would have Marsha do that for me. I have learned now that when I get to church, someone is always willing to lend a hand if I have a need. I have also learned that, if I want to, I can make my supper and eat it in front of the computer! Not all lessons are bad.

          But I have also learned that Satan is more than willing to hack away at me, taking my sorrow and frustration and using it to attack my mind. In the last few weeks, I have moved from the parsonage to a small apartment. Kitchen/eating area, living room and bedroom. A far cry from the parsonage. But perfect for me. No one person needs ten rooms and two bathrooms. I am fine with it. But I have also been working to get the parsonage cleaned out so it can be sold. With the heat I am taking a few days off from it, but I am getting closer. JUST SO YOU KNOW, THE FIRST WEEKEND IN AUGUST I AM HAVING A MOVING SALE. SOME FURNITURE, APPLIANCES, WALL HANGINGS, PRICED TO SELL. Anything left will be pitched.

          In doing this, I have been going through things. I had always assumed that when we finally downsized, we would go through these things together. I always assumed that I would have to spend a lot of time explaining to Marsha why we didn’t need this or that anymore. I was wrong. I am the one going through what were once treasures and keepsakes. This is where Satan is attacking. It has kept coming to my mind, “It wasn’t supposed to be like this.”

          For the most part, it is easy throwing stuff out. I bring the garbage can in and fill it up. Kind of fun in a way. But I still have to go through everything. That starts memories and the memories are, right now, not pleasant. Even the good memories, and there are a lot of those, are painful and sour right now. The words from Satan keep coming to my mind, “It wasn’t supposed to be like this.”

          The other day, it was stuff from seminary. This is where Satan was really hitting me. I was cleaning out an old filing cabinet. The first thing I found were the adoption paperwork for our son. That brought a smile. But, then, sadness. This has been really hard on him. I would rather do almost anything other than break his heart. Still, I had this paperwork. It just so happened that he called me at that moment. I told him about the paperwork and asked him if he wanted it. “Why would I need it? If you throw it out are you still going to be my Father?” It was a joke. He is 38. We are really not worried about some legal event happening. I told him to ask his wife. She might want have them. After we had talked, I went back to the pile. I came across my transcripts. Hardly earth shattering. Then I came across two of my three degrees. I don’t know where the bachelor degree, but my Masters and doctorate degrees were there. I just stared at them for a while. I was proud of those accomplishments at one time. Even had three nice frames for them and had them very nicely displayed on my office wall. They had meant something, they had been important. “It wasn’t supposed to be like this.” OK, what should I do with these? “It wasn’t supposed to be like this.” Yes, I know Satan! Back off!

          But then, the next item nearly made me fall. I set the degrees aside pulled up the next file folder. I opened it and stared at something I hadn’t seen in almost 30 years. Every spare moment for two years had been spent on this and I wasn’t supposed to even have it. “Divine Speaking; A Study in the Planning, Preparation and Presentation of a Sermon.” My doctoral dissertation.

          I have never been pleased with my preaching. My calling is to be a pastor. A preacher is a different critter and a different Spiritual gift. Early on, I started to get books by some of histories very best preachers so see what they said on the subject. When I got my Masters degree in Ministry, I figured my educational odyssey was done. But a particular professor urged me to go for more. In the doctoral program there was a subject called homiletics, which is the cool sounding name for preaching. This professor had plans for me. Marsha urged me to go on, too. “You’ve already read all the books. How hard could it be?” Yeah, right. The professor, Dr. Leroy Benefield, wanted me to get a doctorate. He was working to set me on a path. First, be involved in a church start. Second, pastor at least five years. Then, go into a really bad church situation and turn it around. Go from there to one of the Southern Baptist state conventions and specialize in working with churches that were having problems and then, at around age 40 or so, wind up in a Southern Baptist seminary as a professor, teaching students how to deal with all the problems churches can face. Dr. Benefield was a highly regarded Southern Baptist professor. I do not know why he took an interest in me. I really do not know. I do know that he meant more to me than any other man in my life, before or since. When he died, his wife sent me an e-mail asking me if I could come to Oklahoma (where they had retired to) and take part in his funeral. Dr. B saw a need for a course of study in crisis in the church and he thought I could be the person to implement that course. He had the pull to get me started. I would, however, need the doctorate.

          (And you folks thought you knew all about me, didn’t you?)

          So, I started the course of study in homiletics. After all, as Marsha said, how hard could it be? There was a lot of study involved. Several papers to write. More study involved. Required reading beyond what I had already read. The deeper I got into the project, the more important it became to me. It is what I thought about when I had time to sit and think. My wife and son got to where they didn’t want to hear it. I used to love to fish, but even that fell by the wayside. This was really important.

          Meantime, we were following the path Dr. Benefield started. Marsha and I were commissioned as home missionaries through the Southern Baptist Convention, working a new church start on the outskirts of an old steel town on the Pennsylvania/Ohio border. Then I pastored an established church for almost ten years. Then the church that had one of the worse problems I have ever seen. Fixed the problem. Now, all that was left was working at the State convention for a while and then a posting at a Southern Baptist college or seminary. And getting that doctorate. I was a few years behind, but I had pastored the church longer than planned

          The seminary had a rule. You submit the dissertation and it immediately became the property of the school. They could then use it as research for new text books or whatever without having to worry about paying anyone. When I started, that was no problem. But as it went along, I became very proprietary about the work. It was my creation. I didn’t want to give it up. Of course, I had to give it up. That was the whole point…..

          The dissertation had to be at least 100,000 words long. It had to have in it some new ideas and concepts. It had to be fully referenced and notated. And, particularly hard in a day when computers were not being used in homes and word processors were very expensive, it could have only five grammatical/spelling mistakes. All written on a typewriter. I found out quickly that if I wrote five pages and then went back and reread those five pages and found that I made a mistake in the second line on the second page, I not only had to rewrite the whole page, but since the rewrite would likely change the dimensions of the page, I would have to rewrite all four pages. But it was important. And the rule said that when I presented it, there was to be just the presentation.  

          Last August I stumbled across the rough draft. All inked up with corrections, written on an old typewriter, no references or annotations. It made me laugh then. But this was different. I sat down and recalled what I had done. I had made a complete copy of the original. I told myself that it was just in case something happened to the original. But, when it was all over, I had slipped the copy away into this file folder. I leafed through it there the other day. With sweat pouring from every pore, I looked at this piece of work that was the most complete scholastic work I had ever done, and the words came to me, “It wasn’t supposed to be like this.”

          Instead of taking that state level convention job, I felt God leading to another church. I was warned that taking that church would end my career path. We went with the church and abandoned the plan man had made. Satan has pricked me with that decision many times since, but it has been easy to shrug it off. Sitting there, however, and burning up, my wife living with another man and having just filed for divorce, the words came, “It wasn’t supposed to be like this.” No, to hear Satan tell it, by now, if I had wanted to, I would have been a retired seminary professor, probably living somewhere around either big water where you can’t see the far shore or mountains. There would have been no reason for the wife to have left and we would be quite happy. I would be in contact with former students and would be giving words of advice and encouragement. And I would have a dog. Buford. I certainly would not have been sitting there in the heat with a broken heart.

          But, that was Satan’s story. “It wasn’t supposed to be like this.” My mind worked it out pretty quickly. There was a plan. A great plan. But it wasn’t really God’s plan. It could, at this very moment, be much worse. I remember back to the moment that I walked away from that plan to go to the church God had for me. I struggled with it at the time, but I went His way. And I have never wanted to go back. Sitting there in the sweltering heat, I took a big slug of water and thought about it all. There are things that I wish had happened differently, but those are things out of my control. The things that I have done, that I controlled, I actually have no regrets over. I have followed the Lord. I wish Marsha had never left, I wish I wasn’t a diabetic, I wish some of my friendships and relationships had turned out differently. But, leaving the plan behind, doing what God wanted me to do, it is all good.

          I am good. Not great, mind you. I miss my buddy. But I cannot answer for what other people do and I wish harm on no one.

          I get notes quite often from people I have known. I got one on Monday from a lady named Ingrid. Out of the blue, really. “Old friend, the day is coming when you will hear the words, “Well done, thou good and faithful servant.” Does Ingrid know something I don’t know? HAH! I doubt I will merit that high praise, but it will not be for lack of trying.

          “How you doing, Pastor Larry?” “Oh, I guess I’m doing OK.”

          Mark and I played ball together through junior high and high school. He went on to have a distinguished career serving his country. He retired about three years ago and he and his wife moved to Italy. I am not sure why they moved to Italy. Maybe his wife is from there? But Mark is of Italian descent and very proud of it, so I wasn’t really surprised.

          Ed and I also played ball together. (small school, all the boys were active in some sport) He also had a career in the military. When he retired, about a year before Mark retired, he was living in Hawaii with his wife. He had made good contacts there and when he took off his Marine uniform on a Friday he put on civilian clothes on Monday and went back to work making a lot more than he had as a gunnery sergeant. He was in Ohio a few years ago visiting his folks and we got together and had a nice hour or so visiting.

          Dave W was a nut all through school. He was the guy who was going to make waves. He even got kicked out of school for a year and had to attend a private school. Today he would be diagnosed with ADD and be put on medication, but I think he was just a nut. Certainly not stupid. His inventive ways of getting in trouble proved that. But he was weird. If it had been a bigger town he would have been a hippie. Even with that, he would have been a weird hippie. Always enjoyed hanging with Dave W just because there was always a show involved. Dave W settled down after school and put together a life to be proud of.

          Dave O was just the opposite of Dave W. Studious, serious minded, respectful of authority. Smartest guy in school. Totally dedicated, eyes on the prize kind of a young man. The guy who always wore shirts with button down collars, tucked into slacks. Somehow it made sense that Dave O and Dave W were best friends. They were both distance runners in track but did not do cross country, preferring football in the Fall. The three of us would walk into a Burger King and people would look. Dave W always look like he was going to explode into weirdness at any moment, Dave O looked like he was going to sit down and start writing equations on a table and I always looked like I had just got down off a tractor. Dave O was a college professor and eventually became the vice president of that college.

          There are others I could talk about, but that is enough for the moment. To look back at it now makes me smile. Our school was small, it was poor, it even shut down for a few months because it lacked the money to continue. (Ohio funds their schools differently than most states) And yet, graduates from that school always seemed to make a mark for good in the world. Maybe it had to do with good parenting or some such. Anyway, back to the point of this blog.

          These four guys were pretty much like four guys at any point of our country’s history. I could walk the halls of a high school now and find their equivalents. The same is true for almost anyone of my friends back then, except for one thing. They all had nicknames.

When did nicknames end? When I was in school, it seemed everyone had a nickname. It was part of the culture. (In case you are wondering, I had a nickname for a while as a little kid because the newspaper hacked my name in a story of a Little League game, but the nickname didn’t last. After we had been out of school for a few years Dave O came to visit us in Florida. One night we were catching up on people and we were naturally using nicknames. I asked Dave why I never had a nickname. He said I was like everyone’s Dad and you don’t give your Dad a nickname. What a rip.) Nicknames have been a part of culture for all time. But not now, so much. I have wondered why and I think I know. Nicknames are no longer politically correct. They will take a child’s individuality away.

Or something like that. To subconsciously get around that, parents often give names that are unusual to begin with. Where a nickname used to be an identifier, now it is often the strangeness of the name given by the parent. Frankly, I miss nicknames.

Do you know that in the old “Leave it to Beaver” TV show, Wally had a friend named Clarence Rutherford? His nickname was Lumpy. That would not fly on TV now. It would ruin the actor’s psyche. He would be damaged forever. But, the actor involved, Frank Bank, did what a lot of kids did when their childhood acting ended. He went on and lived a normal life away from acting. In his case, he became a well known financial advisor and made millions. The nickname didn’t seem to bother him, in spite of what the experts would say today.

A few years back while I was at the funeral home in Ohio, one of the ladies in the office called me and asked if I was on the premises. As it happened, I was on the premises. She said there was someone to see me. This happened a lot. Someone usually had hit a rough spot in dealing with their grief, so they would come to the funeral home. I went over to the offices and walked in. Rising from a table was none other than Ed from high school. I was stunned. I knew he was in Hawaii. I don’t think I had seen him in 40 years. “WOLFIE!” I yelped, and we hugged. “Wolfie” was a play on his last name and on the manner in which played football. If Mark walked into my office right now, I would call out without thinking “Hey Dago!” He is Italian, after all. Some of you are cringing, but it was his nickname and he wore it proudly. Dave O was “Nip” to everyone because he had vaguely Asian features. Dave W was “Monk” because, when he was younger, he somewhat resembled a monkey. He was always the first to introduce himself to a new kid and always introduced himself as Monk.

Oh no! Wolfie isn’t bad, but those others are just derogatory! Well, they weren’t meant that way. We all hung out and we all would have done anything for the other. They were nicknames. We also had Bear and Chopper and Pumper and Rhino. They either derived from their real names or something about them. The names just came. The kid that didn’t have a nickname was the different one, and there was usually a reason for it. Something like being the stable one who seemed like everyone’s Dad. Man, I would have loved to have had a cool nickname.

But no more. We are so afraid of offending. I think we lose something.

Oh, but they are derogatory! We are Christians and we should know better! Really?

‘Simon’ is a perfectly good name. Jesus changed Simon’s name to ‘Peter.’ The Greek word is ‘petros’ and means a small stone. To call a person Peter was like calling someone Rocky now. Usually a nickname more about strength than brains. It was to remind Peter of his head strong attitude. ‘Saul’ was a revered and proud name among the Jews. Jesus changed the New Testament Saul’s name to ‘Paul,’ which means little man. It was to remind Paul of his arrogant days. Jesus called John and James the ‘sons of Thunder.’ There has been a lot of speculation as to what that meant. Were they bold and load in their speaking? No, not really. Was their father known as Thunder? We don’t really know. My favorite idea is that the Thunder was their mother, who was very outspoken and was also, probably, Jesus’ aunt. Nicknames were used throughout the Bible. A child would be given a name at birth that was taken straight from the language, usually meaning something that the parents wanted their child to be. Often, when they were around 12, they could chose a name, again taken from the language and expressing what they wanted to be. And almost everyone had a nickname, once again taken from the language and expressing how others saw that person.

The night before my wedding, Keeker took me to a restaurant. There we met up with Cuts and Wolfie and Nip and Monk and Schleets and Kouz and Pumper and Rhino and Metzer and Marvino and a few others and we had a meal together. Dago would have been there, too, but he was involved in a summer project at the U.S. Naval Academy. Funny, most of those guys did college, some did military as well. A couple have died. Most of the others are retired. But none of them suffered because of their nicknames.

Political correctness strikes again. Where will all this silliness end?

The 4th of July in 1976 fell on a Sunday. For the nation's 200th birthday, the whole weekend had all manner of patriotic events planned in communities all around the country. And it was a good thing, too. The United States needed a party. 
The country had been rocked to its core over the previous ten years. Riots in the streets stemming from civil rights issues and the war in Vietnam, drug use and abuse was sweeping the nation and a US president had been forced to resign from office just two years previous because of his involvement in the Watergate crime and cover-up. Soldiers home from the war were met with hatred and disgust. They were called 'baby killers' and worse. Police were disrespected, authority was ignored and the moral fiber of the country was coming unraveled. The economy was not doing very well and, as the country was getting ready to elect the man who would arguable be the worst president in our history, the economy was about to get much, much worse. Against this back drop, the nation came up on its bicentennial. 
For a week before the 4th, there was a little stunt played out around the country. At various times and at various locations, places that played music in the back ground (malls and grocery stores and department stores and the like) would slip in the National Anthem as a song in the line-up. The reaction of the people was then noted and it would be a small notation in the newspaper or radio. In big places, like Grand Central Station in New York City or in selected airports around the country, it would be on TV. I don't know if it was an organized stunt or if these places all just came up with the idea on their own or maybe it was a case of copycat, but the Anthem was unannounced and the people's reaction was genuine. It was one of those things that came and went and left no real lasting impact other than as a novelty.
At the time, Marsha and I lived in Cleveland, Tennessee. Not Cleveland, Ohio. In 1976 we lived in Cleveland, Tennessee. Their motto, at least at that time, was 'The Second Biggest Cleveland in the World!' In Cleveland there was a small mall and one of the anchor stores in that mall was a grocery store. I think it was a Winn-Dixie, but I really don't remember that little detail. Anyway, we were in that crowded store on Saturday afternoon when the National Anthem began to play over the sound system. No lyrics, just that familiar drum roll followed by music. All over the store, people stopped. It was a total surprise and their was that quick moment of confusion as people asked themselves, 'is that what I think it is?' But then, men began to remove their caps and cross their hands in front of themselves (some placed their hands over their hearts, but according to flag etiquette that is only required when the colors, or flag, has been presented). Everyone stopped what they were doing. The cash registers stopped. Except for the music, there was no noise. Even the children were silent. The Anthem only lasts for a short while and when it was over it was almost as though no one knew quite what to do. Somewhere in the store, someone started clapping and in seconds everyone was clapping. Some were cheering. Folks were shaking hands with people they hadn't come in with. All around the store you could "God bless America, man!" The whole mood of the place changed. Smiles on every face. Children who had been shushed into silence while the Anthem played were asking questions and their parents, or even strangers, were explaining the significance of what they had just seen and heard. It is something that I will never forget.
This past Sunday I was headed home from church. Since moving the week before I had not really had time to pick a few things up, primarily fruits and vegetables. I stopped at The New Market grocery store (formally Lance's, for you old timers out there) in North Manchester to spend a little money. I was in the produce section when, of all things, the National Anthem started to play. The drum roll and then that familiar tune. So out of place in a grocery store on a Sunday afternoon. Why, I thought? That evening, sharing the story with the Bible study group, it occurred to me that it might have started playing right at the moment the US Women's Soccer team won the World Cup. (With the controversy surrounding them and our flag and Anthem last week, that would be very ironic) Whatever the reason, the National Anthem began to play. Memories from 43 years came back to me.
But it didn't play out the same way as it did 43 years ago. Millions of people were offended that a washed up former quarterback was able to convince a second rate shoe company to remove a shoe from the shelves that had a flag on it. Millions of people were offended that a player on the US women's soccer team got away with disrespecting the flag and the country while on foreign soil. Millions of people get all wrapped up in politics and want their own way for the good of the country. But when the National Anthem played in a small grocery store in a small town in Indiana, no one stopped what they were doing.
People kept on shopping. Somewhere a couple of kids were shouting. The cash registers kept on ringing customers up. The workers kept on stocking the produce or bagging the groceries. No notice was given to the Anthem at all. 
As I stood there with my hands to my sides, I started to make excuses in my mind. These days, stores get their music from services. If it had music from Lance's, there might have been an announcement preceding the Anthem. Music is just background, maybe no one picked up on the Anthem. It could be that proper etiquette concerning the Anthem is just no longer taught. Even on a Sunday afternoon, people are busy and can't stop. Of course, I probably dislike music more than anyone there, but I picked up on the Anthem. But the worst thing about it all was that while I stood there, still, hands to my sides, still wearing my suit, a man in his early 30s followed by a little girl, came walking by. He looked at me oddly. Quietly I said, "They are playing the National Anthem." He kind of gave me a half nod, and went on his way, the little girl following. What a failed teaching moment! He could have instilled in her a little pride and a little respect. But, no, they had a loaf of bread or something to get.
The Anthem ended and I left the store as quickly as I could with my few items. As I write this I am still making excuses in my mind for the folks, workers and customers, in Lance's that day. But the whole thing has left me distressed. How have we gotten so distracted and so oblivious in just the span of a lifetime? What does that say for our future? 
I still remember lifting my right hand and repeating the words of enlistment back in the day. I swore to defend the Constitution against all enemies, foreign and domestic. I swore to obey the orders issued by the President and by the officers appointed over me. I swore my allegiance to my country. That was a long time ago, but it meant something to me then and it means something to me now. Even if I am just picking up some tomatoes in a grocery store.
If you had been in Lance's, would you have recognized the nation's song? Would you have stopped out of respect instead of busily going on your way? 
I can understand, to a degree, the reaction of the people that day in Lance's. I just cannot believe in my heart that so many would simply disrespect the Anthem, not in this area in which we live. I have to believe that it somehow just wasn't noticed. But the man with the little girl.....to me that was as much disrespect as that washed up football player going to his knee during the playing of the Anthem. And, or course, I am over reacting. Just another old American.........

          As they say, always read the fine print. Of course, page eight in the MAN HANDBOOK (all males receive the MAN HANDBOOK at age 18) says in the third paragraph, “Never ask for directions and never, never, never read the fine print. You are a man. Act like it!” Advice that has served me well these last many years. I put this in so that you female types can understand the following story.

          ‘Routine’ is also in the MAN HANDBOOK. In fact, in the revised edition (1988) it has its own chapter. Routine is something men follow religiously. It is part of who we are. Life is easier when we are in a routine. My morning routine includes, among other things, shaving my face and brushing my teeth. These are not ‘fun’ things. They are not things I do to make myself look better. They are routine. To do away with one or the other would be to break routine and breaking routine affects your whole day.

          Three months ago, it was time to buy a new tooth brush. I take my suits to the dry cleaners in Marion. (Believe it or not, neither Wabash nor North Manchester seems to have a dry cleaner. Noordman’s bakery has a service. You can drop your dry cleaning off and a truck from a cleaner in Ft. Wayne comes on Tuesday and picks up all the dry cleaning and then returns it all the following Tuesday. I hate to wait a week. I might need a suit before that. So, I go to Marion.) While in Marion, I stopped at their Wal-Mart to pick up a few things, including a tooth brush. That was probably my first mistake. Should have followed routine and bought the tooth brush in Wabash.

          All my routine requires in a tooth brush is…..a tooth brush. I don’t want one with the Avengers on it, I don’t want one that brushes my teeth for me, I don’t want one that has the fresh scent of lavender. I want one with stiff bristles and a slightly stiff handle. That’s it. So, as I walked down that aisle, I barely slowed down as I made my selection.

          (Also, in the MAN HANDBOOK, there is a section for shopping. Unless you are looking for tools or fishing equipment, you do not shop. You simply buy what you need. There is an option offered, though. You may shop if it is something for your girlfriend or wife.)

          For these past three months, the tooth brush has served me fairly well. Actually, it’s time is almost up. Another trip to Wal-Mart will soon be in order. Maybe sooner that I think.

          Last week I was brushing my teeth and thinking over the day to come when suddenly it happened. The first hint that my routine was changing was that my hand started to buzz. No other way to explain it. My right hand is somewhat plagued with arthritis, but it never caused my hand to buzz. Then, the sound began to pierce my preoccupied brain. A buzzing sound. Not high pitched, more like a big bee. Then the buzzing sensation began to be felt in my teeth. WHAT??? I staggered back against the wall.

           I pulled the tooth brush out of my mouth and stared at my wrist. Back in 1982 I broke that wrist for the second time and had surgery (which didn’t work well) to repair it. My first thought was that they left something in that wrist that just now activated. Seriously, I kid you not. I thought they left something in my wrist 37 years ago and now, while I was brushing my teeth, it turned on. Now I could feel the vibration. I thought, ‘have I ever heard of anyone’s arthritis suddenly coming on and vibrating?’ Pretty easy answer. No! Then I noticed that the head of the tooth brush was blurry. Again, I kid you not, my brain made a left turn. I have had serious problems with my eyes. The thought slammed into my mind, ‘MY BRAIN IS BUZZING AND IT IS MAKING MY EYES CRAZY!’

          I looked up and saw my reflection in the mirror. My eyes were huge. I was foaming at the mouth (I was, after all, brushing my teeth). I looked startled and, actually, a little demented. But the person I was looking at was clear. It wasn’t my eyes. I blinked several times. Then it occurred to me that it was the tooth brush that was buzzing. I put it down. My hand ceased to buzz, but the tooth brush was moving on the sink. MY TOOTH BRUSH IS POSSESSED!!!

          No, that probably wasn’t it. The bristles were blurred. The head of the tooth brush was vibrating. I picked it back up. It was a regular tooth brush in appearance. Why was it vibrating?

          For the first time in three months I noticed two raised places on the handle. I may have noticed before but would have assumed they were decoration. I pushed the top one and nothing happened. I pushed the bottom one and the vibration stopped. I pushed the top one and it started again. Not the up and down motion of an electric brush. Just the buzzing.

          Of course, by this time I had thrown the packaging away. I assumed that it had said something about massaging the gums while brushing or something, but why? Relaxed gums? All I want out of my gums is no pain.

          I am going in the next week or two to get a new brush. I will go to the Wabash Wal-Mart. I don’t need some kind of weird thing they sell in Marion. And I will read the fine print this time. That is one very disturbing tooth brush.

          Now, of course, you are wondering how I am going to work this into a wonderful, theological message. Well, not this week. This week is just to be careful what you buy. Use your head. And remember; SOMETIMES IT IS OK TO NOT FOLLOW THE HANDBOOK.

          As a side note, there is going to be a change next week (probably). Urbana Yoke Parish is launching a new, easy to use web page. Up to this point, for the people in the church, I have been posting on the prayer chain that the blogs are out and supplying the links to the two blogs. Those of you from outside the church who read the blogs just have them filed in your FAVORITES file. Nothing will change for you. But for those of you who depend on the links I send, starting next week (once the page has been launched) I will give you the link to the new church web page. There you will see the connection to the blogs. While you are there, you will be able to see all the other things the web page has to offer. Mary Earle has spent a good deal of time and effort constructing this page, so you know it will be interesting. And it will be extremely easy to use. As you explore your way through it, you might even come across a picture of yourself. Mary is also the principle photographer and she loves to be sneaky. I will also post the link to the web page at the end of my blog each week for those of you who get to the blogs through your FAVORITES file. Mary’s blog and my blog will both be there and there will be a new blog. This one will be more along the lines of a devotional. We will start it once a week and see what happens.

You all have a good weekend and a great week.

          It makes me cringe when I hear someone say some one or some act is racist. Are we really so far removed in our thinking that we have forgotten what racism really is? Or is anyone who thinks differently than we do simply a racist?

          I went to college in the mid 1970s in Chattanooga, Tennessee. Beautiful city. Really, to me, the jewel of the South. Chattanooga has changed a lot since I went to school there. If it had not, I would never go back.

          In January 1975, when I arrived, the city was one of the most racist places in the country. I went to a Christian college, but two of my professors were members of the KKK. When I got there, we had three black men in the student body and one black woman. Two of the black men played on te basketball team. When the season ended, those two were expelled because they had been seen talking to a white female student. She was also expelled. The black woman was expelled a week later for some reason or another. I don’t think I ever knew why, but I am fairly sure that whatever it was, a white woman would not have been kicked out. The other black man was from Nairobi and was the result of a missionary sent from our school. He made it to the end of the semester and never came back. Nothing was ever said or done about this even though one of the basketball players filed a lawsuit. The lawsuit had to be worked out in Chattanooga, and it was Chattanooga in 1975. No black man was going to win a lawsuit against a white school.

          However, I am pleased to say that Chattanooga has changed greatly, as all things do. In 1975 the city was a part of ‘the solid South.’ The South was completely racist and completely Democrat. Now, except for the really big cities, the South is not so racist and mostly Republican. Different place.

          But I learned a lesson in Chattanooga in 1975. I lived in a dorm a half mile from the campus. As an unmarried, first year student I was not allowed to have a car. So I, and my roommates, walked to school. It was only a half mile. But, a block from our dorm, and along the most direct path to the campus, was a large church specifically for African Americans. There was no law that it was a ‘black’ church, at least I don’t think there was, anyway, but it was understood. If you were a student, you were forbidden to walk past the church. We were told that it could be dangerous for us white men. To me, this was stupid. It was the quickest route. To keep from walking past it meant going a block out of my way. They were on a demerit system at the school and you could get 15 demerits for walking past the church. 100 demerits and you were out of school. In my ignorance of all the rules at the school, I had collected 90 demerits on the first day of classes, and none of them had anything to do with that church. So, while I thought the rule of not being allowed to walk past the church was idiotic, I obeyed simply to stay in school.

          One Sunday morning I was late for church. We had to attend the campus church and students had to sign in. Missing church got you 10 demerits. I was late because I had spent most of the night before in the library. (90 demerits on the first day would indicate I was not real bright, but I was trying. Hence, the late night at the library.) I was exhausted and had slept late. I worked 30 hours a week and was always studying, so I was always tired. I was rushing around trying to get ready and I decided I could save some precious time by going past the African American church. I probably would not get caught going by the church on Sunday morning, so I chanced it.

          When I got to the church, though, I stopped on the sidewalk outside the church. The windows were open to let in some sort of breeze and I could hear the singing inside. It wasn’t so much that it was beautiful singing. With my tin ear, I wouldn’t know the difference anyway. But it was ‘shake the walls down’ singing! I would swear that the walls were moving like the building was breathing. It didn’t sound like anyone was holding back. Everyone was singing at the top of their lungs, all accompanied by an out of tune piano that was being beaten like a drum. I stood outside and felt my spirit soar. I listened to about four songs and then the man in the pulpit leading the music saw me through the window, grinned and motioned me in. I took a couple of steps, then stopped. I had to get to the campus church. I just grinned and waved back and broke into a run. At the campus church I found someone with a sign-in clipboard (they were putting them away and I was to late). I pleaded my case and he relented, only giving me 7 demerits. It was a close thing. But it gave me an interest in the old negro Spirituals.

          One thing I found out is that white folks cannot sing a negro Spiritual. Oh, we can sing them, I guess, but we cannot understand them. We are several generations past slavery, but Christian African American are like the Jewish people. They teach their young the old stories. There is a passion we just cannot have. When you understand the symbolism in their words, many that come from the slavery days, you can understand the meaning. But the feeling is just not there for us. For instance, the story of Moses and leading the Hebrews out of Egypt has special meaning for blacks. These songs, created during slavery days, tell them to keep hope. They would one day come out of slavery to the Promised Land (Heaven). They see their hope in these songs. Of course, the songs we sing in church also have our hope in them, but we have a hard time feeling it. Standing outside that church, I saw people weeping inside. Rarely do we weep at a song. And that is a shame.

          A song you have probably heard, but read the words now and relate it to the life of a slave.

Go Down Moses

1.    When Israel was in Egypt's land, let my people go;
oppressed so hard they could not stand, let my people go.
Refrain:
Go down, (go down) Moses, (Moses), way down in Egypt's land;
tell old Pharaoh to let my people go!

2. "Thus saith the Lord," bold Moses said, let my people go;
"if not, I'll smite your first-born dead," let my people go.
(Refrain)

3. No more shall they in bondage toil, let my people go;
let them come out with Egypt's spoil, let my people go.
(Refrain)

4. We need not always weep and mourn, let my people go;
and wear those slavery chains forlorn, let my people go.
(Refrain)

5. Come, Moses, you will not get lost, let my people go;
stretch out your rod and come across, let my people go.
(Refrain)

6. As Israel stood by the water's side, let my people go;
at God's command it did divide, let my people go.
(Refrain)

7. When they had reached the other shore, let my people go;
they sang a song of triumph o'er, let my people go.
(Refrain)

8. O Moses, the cloud shall cleave the way, let my people go;
a fire by night, a shade by day, let my people go.
(Refrain)

9. Your foes shall not before you stand, let my people go;
and you'll possess fair Canaan's land, let my people go.
(Refrain)

10. This world's a wilderness of woe, let my people go;
O let us on to Canaan go, let my people go.
(Refrain)

11. O let us all from bondage flee, let my people go;
and let us all in Christ be free, let my people go.

Carries a different meaning when you are thinking differently.

          I know. Most African Americans today have lost that intense feeling. Society says that it is foolish for anyone to believe that ‘myth.’ Religion has become politized and everything has to be politically correct. The old songs are foolishness.

But back in mid-May of 1975, on a hot morning in the South. A large band of black people gathered in a church with no air conditioning to sing and praise and pray and preach. They knew that the school on whose property their church bordered despised them. And on that hot day a young white man, in a three piece suit and very short hair (and who obviously belonged to that school that despised them) stood outside listening to them raise the rafters. And when that white man’s presence was discovered, he was invited in to worship with them.

It is to bad politics has intervened. Politics is where racism resides in America today. But in Christianity is joy and freedom.

It was great music. After that great music I am sure it was great preaching.

This world's a wilderness of woe, let my people go;
O let us on to Canaan go, let my people go.

          Marsha was the musician in our little team. In college and seminary, I was taught Scripture. Languages. Constructing a sermon. Organizing a Bible study. Ministering to people at the point of their need. Theology and ministry stuff. In college and seminary, Marsha was taught worship. Music is central to worship. In college and seminary, we always thought music people were a little weird. But that was because our emphasis was different. Usually in a church setting, the person who puts the worship (music) together and the person who preaches and teaches kind of work at cross purposes. They just don’t really understand where the other is going. I had a little music theory class for a semester where they taught us how to read music, which I already knew how to do, but they taught me nothing about how to incorporate worship into the service.

It is different, though, when worship and preaching are actually married. I learned that Marsha had an understanding that I did not have. I would be perfectly content to not have any music. Let’s get right to the good stuff! The Word!! But normal people (and I have never claimed to be normal) have a different view of worship. In the Old Testament, the Book of Psalms was the Jewish hymn book, and the Jews broke into song at the slightest provocation. On their special days of worship, the people would stand outside the Temple and listen as a priest would read from the Scripture, and they would do this as long as the light held. But those times were interspersed with singing, too. Music is intertwined with the Word so tightly that it is a totally normal thing to have music and Scripture together. (Again, I am not normal. But you are.)

It never was, however, just random music. It always coincided with the Scripture and the message. In the back of the hymnal there are several different indexes. There is the index of hymn tunes. Probably the majority of music sung in church, whether contemporary or traditional, started out as either poetry or Scripture. The tunes came later and often tunes would be used that already existed. The person putting the music together can use the tune to enhance the service. There are the indexes of meter and key, which is for the musicians. Then the index of authors and composers and others who have a part in putting together the hymns. If you want to put together a service featuring Fanny Crosby poetry or Philip Bliss’ music or Charles Wesley’s thoughts, this is where you would go. Then, the topical index. If the person selecting the music knows the basic topic of the sermon, say ‘stewardship,’ they can find stewardship in this index and find the songs that pertain to that subject. And then there is the alphabetical index to titles and first lines of a song. This is the index most commonly used by the folks in the pew. As I said at the start of this paragraph, the music is not random. There is a plan and a purpose.

Marsha was great at this stuff. She knew music. I would give her the topics and Scripture for my messages for a period of time and she would spend hours and hours putting it all together. There are those who would say, “That is stupid! Sing what you like to sing!” Which translate into, “That is stupid! Sing what I like!” But that is another blog subject. The point is, though, that if the music and the message and Scripture all point in one direction, the people are more likely to get the idea. At our church in Ohio, I gave my topics and Scripture to our choir leader and praise team leader as well, so every aspect of our music, Scripture and message would mesh. It really is never random.

Of course, now I am doing all this myself. I don’t really care about meter and tune. I just don’t have the time for that and I don’t really understand it, anyway. As I have said before, I am a word guy. The topic of a piece of music is vital to me. All the congregational music pertains to the Scripture and message.

Then there is the Youth song. We currently have 24 Youth songs to choose from. The Youth came up with this list and they are almost all straight praise music. It is the first song we sing and, since they are praise music, it really shouldn’t matter which song we sing. The idea is to put the congregation into a praise mode. But before I put a song into the line-up, I read the words. Some strike me as incredibly powerful. I feel bad for those who do not like the praise music because it doesn’t seem like church music. Always read the words of any song. We have songs in our hymn books that are unScriptual. We don’t sing those songs now, but you probably have in the past and you might enjoy them. If I am picking them out, though, they have to have a message. And the praise music is full of message.

The one from this past Sunday particularly hit me, both during the selecting stage and the singing stage.

Make it count, leave a mark, build a name for yourself
Dream your dreams, chase your heart, above all else
Make a name the world remembers
But all an empty world can sell is empty dreams
I got lost in the light but it was up to me
To make a name the world remembers
But Jesus is the only name to remember

To me, these words at the start are part of the mantra of the world. Do all you can do, be as great as you can be, make a name for yourself, a name that others will remember. But then, there is a change. All of that is an empty goal and an empty void. The only name to remember and that makes a difference is Jesus.

          The chorus is;

And I, I don't want to leave a legacy
I don't care if they remember me
Only Jesus
And I, I've only got one life to live
I'll let every second point to Him
Only Jesus

What is it we teach our kids and grand kids? What is it we try to do for ourselves? We want people to remember us! We want to make a difference! Well, OK. But what is the greater goal?

          Here is something for you to think about. Everyone dies, of course, and the majority of people, whether cremated or not, are buried. Some are buried at sea, some are scattered and some are put in an urn and put on a shelf or a closet. But most are buried. Of those who are buried, 89% will be visited for 5 years. After that it really falls off. Within a generation it falls to almost 0%. In fact, in Japan in many places, they allow you to bury someone for a period of 5 years and after that they are disinterred and cremated. The point is, once you are dead you are gradually forgotten. It doesn’t matter the ‘name’ you made for yourself. But the name of Jesus does matter.

          I guess I never really thought about it until I read the words of this song, but for me it has always been about Jesus. We had gone to visit a church I had pastored in the city of Warren, Ohio some fifteen years previous. They were so excited we were there. The Board chair excitedly took me to Fellowship Hall and proudly showed me the new display. There were four pictures on the wall. Pastor Davis, Pastor Grope, Pastor Wade and Music Leader Stahl. Sort of their version of the Hall of Fame, I guess. The men who had made a difference. I was immediately saddened. First, I was the only one still living and second, I didn’t want to be on that wall. Jesus made the difference! I know enough about human nature to know that when I leave here it will only be a short while and people will struggle to remember my name. I am fine with that. But I want you all to always remember the Jesus I love.

          Have an awesome week!

          There are sociologists who try an tell us different, but the facts are the facts. Males and females differ in ways other than just the physical. This may enrage some folks, but males see the world one way and females see it in another way. I could devote a series of blogs to my own personal observations over the last four decades, but then I would have everyone angry at me. However, when sociologists try to dim the line of difference between male and female, they are merely denying truth. Give a little boy a stick and he has an imaginary sword or an imaginary gun, give a little girl almost anything she can hold in her arms and she has an imaginary baby. You can say that it is a result of violence in our society or the preconceived notions within families, but is really just the way we are wired.

          Which brings us to a hot summer night in a neighborhood of Indianapolis in 1966. Our whole family was in Indianapolis to visit with some of my mother’s family. She had two sisters who lived there, Nina and Edith, and their husbands, Omar and Lonnie. My mother’s mother lived on Omar and Nina’s property in a mobile home, which she shared with her sister, Kitt. Also, my grandmother had raised three of her granddaughters, one of which, Carol, still lived with at home with Granny and our great aunt Kitt. Nina had three boys, Omar, Jr, Philip and Ronnie. Omar and Phil were grown and Ronnie, though just a teenager, was off serving Uncle Sam. Edith had two sons, Rick and Steve and then there were my two sisters, Cathy and Debbie, and me. Carol was a year or so older than Cathy, so they hung out, Debbie and Rick were just a few months apart, so they hung out, and Steve and I were also just a few months apart, so we hung out. For the first five days or so of our visits, it was always fun. Lots of different things to do, none of which involved a tractor, and places to go. It was different. But after five days it always started to get old. I always started to get anxious to get home.

          It was our last night there. That night we had gone and watched the fireworks, it being the Fourth of July. It was actually the first fireworks I had ever seen. I was ten and we certainly had displays in Ohio, but we never went. My mother always explained that they bothered my father because of the war. That didn’t make sense to me. He had been Navy. In my mind that meant he floated around on a boat the whole war, probably fishing over the side. He would watch war movies on TV, but never Navy movies. My only knowledge of World War II at that time was the war on the ground and in the air. He had told me once he had been in the CBs, but had not explained what that meant. That was all I ever got.

          As a point of information, CB stands for Construction Battalion. The way they spelled it was Sea Bees, which kind of made it cutesy. But there was nothing cute about it during WWII. When the Marines landed on some beach on some jungle island thousands and thousands of miles from home, they were usually met with fanatical defenders who would rather die than give up a foot of ground. The next wave after the Marines usually included the CBs to make fortifications and then airfields and the like. They would drive their equipment off the landing craft under fire and they would often be firing their weapons in return. I now know a lot about the CBs and I understand a lot about my father’s psychological problems he had later in life. Fresh off the farm, fearful of being killed and having to kill other men. Sometimes he would wake up during the night screaming. Until I was around 8 or so my mother would sometimes pull little pieces of metal out of his leg. I never understood.

          Anyway, back to that muggy July 4^th of 1966. I was tired of my cousins. Nothing against them, just wanted to be home. Of course, I was tired of my sisters, but that was pretty standard. All the kids were in the basement of Omar and Nina’s home, so I wandered up to the main part of the house. My mother and her sisters and my grandmother and her sister, Kitt, were at the table talking women things. One aunt said, “Where are the men?” My mother replied, “Oh, they’re out back sitting around and smoking and probably talking about how terrible it is to be married to us.” They all laughed but I stopped dead still there on the steps. Oh, now, that would be fun! Get the dirt on my mother and aunts! I wanted to hear that! So, I went the rest of the ways up the steps and slipped out the side door. Sure enough, in the darkness I could see the ends of three glowing cigarettes and I could hear the low murmur of men’s voices. It was getting close to midnight and I knew that if I walked up my father would send me back in and tell me to go to bed, so I took a circular route. When I got well behind them, I dropped onto the ground and bellied crawled to where I could hear my father and uncles.

          I had been next to my father during the fireworks. He had jumped at the explosions, sometimes moaning deep in his throat. I hadn’t understood that, but I also noticed that Omar and Lonnie were not enjoying their selves, either. In fact, all three men had looked like they wanted to bolt. It just didn’t make sense to me at that moment. But once I started to listen, I realized they were not talking about their wives. I was listening to three warriors talking about the darkest time in their lives.

          These were three Kentucky boys who grew up in the same area. Farm boys. Maybe a couple of fist fights growing up, but certainly not killers. War changed that. My father was a Sea Bee. He lost his best friend to a mortar round. It was that round that blew metal into his leg that took years to work out. It also blew bone and other fragments of his friend into his leg. Omar had landed on the Normandy beaches two days after D-Day. Bloated bodies were still floating in the surf and had to be pushed aside as they came in. Then they fought their way to Berlin. Lonnie was a tank commander in Korea. My father and Omar both made crude little jokes about guys who fought in tanks, but they were gentle jokes. Lonnie told about the retreat from North Korea after their invasion failed and the tank running out of fuel and having to be abandoned. He and his crew had to walk with the foot soldiers in that brutal winter. There were no more jokes.

          I listened for another half hour, then the men got up and headed into the house. The little gathering was breaking up. I sat in one of the chairs. War had always been like an adventure to me. An exciting adventure. As I sat there now, though, I had a feeling of confusion. Were all those guys I had watched in movies and read about as scared as my father and uncles? Had they all wished to be home again? Had all those heroes really just been regular guys? And then the thought came. Were my father and uncle’s heroes?

          They are gone now. Lonnie died fairly young from a heart attack. Edith never remarried. My father and Omar died at about the same time as each other, though Omar passed first. Age had taken its toll on both of them. The America they had fought for was a different place when the three died. None of them were happy about it. But they raised their families. My father and Omar got to see the century turn. Life had good moments and bad moments.

          Looking back, I now think of them all as heroes. Certainly, much greater heroes than the guys who did heroic things on screen or in the pages of books. Three men who answered the call to arms of their country. Three men who left their mommas behind and went to war. Three men who came home irrevocably changed. Just regular guys. Guys who never wanted to talk about it except with other men who had ‘been there.’ They would have laughed at being called heroes. But they were. And so are all of you men and women who are reading this who put on that ill fitting uniform. Whether it was war time or peace, you were ready. You were scared, you were thinking of home, you were not happy. But were ready. Thank you for your service. We remember your greatness.