What does one write about in the week leading up to Father's Day? Well, of course, Father's Day! We fathers are viewed sometimes as walking ATMs, tellers of lame jokes, less bright than our wives and children and hopelessly inept at the social graces of civilized society. We deserve some praise. But that is not what is on my mind these days.

    Fifty years ago this past Sunday, I graduated from high school. A bit of a wake-up call. Somehow, even with illnesses and struggles and gray hair these last several years, I didn't hear old age rushing up behind me. That is probably because my hearing is going. But I have had to face the fact that eighteen year old Larry is gone for good.

    And yet, I haven't been thinking about my classmates much. It isn't because I have anything against my class, we were just never all that close, even during school. Other classes were, but we just never fell into that groove. My best friend, Keith, was in my class. We met when we were three years old. I loved Keith like a brother. Keith passed away three years ago and left a hole in my heart. But our friendship was mostly out of school. With everyone else, when the final school bell rang for the day, we all went our separate ways.

    No, I really haven't been thinking about my classmates. Mostly I have been thinking about the passage of time and the changes that have taken place. You never could believe a politician back then, but you wanted to believe. Now you don't even consider that they might be telling the truth. We thought a vehicle that got thirteen MPH was pretty good. Now, forty MPH is the benchmark, and government mandate is trying to change that. When four or five guys were all peering into the engine compartment while another guy was bent over the engine working on it, the other guys were offering advice based on their knowledge of auto repair. Now, if several guys are looking into an engine compartment, they are looking to see how you plug it in, since they couldn't find the plug on the outside. Back in the olden days, when we were simple minded folk and before society became so enlightened, we actually thought there were just two genders. Now, since we have become so smart, there are 107 different gender identities. I am not kidding. Just put in Google how many genders are there in 2024 and be amazed.

    Now, here is one for you. According to the Center for Disease control (and why they keep statistics on this is beyond me), every thirty six seconds a marriage ends in the USA. Prisons are full of inmates from broken homes. Obviously, marriages ended back in my day, but it was only seen as the most extreme option. Now, it is the first or second option. In the state of Ohio you have to be licensed in the state to perform marriages (one of the few states that require it). You have to meet several standards to prove you are ordained or licensed by a church. When I returned to Ohio from Indiana, I decided not to reapply for that license. I don't ever want to do another marriage. When the emphasis is more on the party after the wedding and the dress and the cake than the sacredness of the marriage, as it usually is these days, there are problems on the horizon.

    I heard an interview by Red Skelton back in the mid 1090s about the state of comedy at that time. Red was not a perfect man. He was not a pillar of decency. But he was funny. He said in the interview that the problem with comedy in the 1990s was that people thought you had to be vulgar in language and subject matter. When was the last time you heard a comedian who didn't sprinkle in some vulgarity. Some comedians start with vulgarity and get worse as they go along. It is hard to maintain your personal decency while being assailed with garbage.

    So, since June is the 'marriage month,' I thought I would give you Red's secrets to a good marriage. Think what a current comedian would do with this subject and then read Red's. Maybe our problem is we have forgotten how to laugh while learning how to be offended at the least little thing. Everything is so serious and filled with hate. Anyway, Red said.....

1. Two times a week we go to a nice restaurant, have a little beverage, good food and companionship. She goes on Tuesdays, I go on Fridays.

2. We also sleep in separate beds. Hers is in California and mine is in Texas.

3. I take my wife everywhere, but she keeps finding her way back.

4. I asked my wife where she wanted to go for our anniversary. "Somewhere I haven't been in a long time!" she said. So I suggested the kitchen.

5. We always hold hands. If I let go, she goes shopping.

6. She has an electric blender, electric toaster and electric bread maker. She said "There are too many gadgets, and no place to sit down!" So I bought her an electric chair.

7. My wife told me the car wasn't running well because there was water in the carburetor. I asked where the car was. She told me, "In the lake."

8. She got a mud pack and looked great for two days. Then the mud fell off.

9. She ran after the garbage truck, yelling, "Am I too late for the garbage?" The driver said, "No, jump in!".

10. Remember: Marriage is the number one cause of divorce.

11. I married Miss Right. I just didn't know her first name was 'Always'.

12. I haven't spoken to my wife in 18 months. I don't like to interrupt her.

13. The last fight was my fault though. My wife asked, "What's on the TV?" I said, "Dust!"

    And like Red said to finished every show, "And may God bless!"

 

I was young. In Christian college in Chattanoga, Tennessee. I was every bit of twenty years old, so you know it was a long, long time ago. I had been serving in a church in Loudon, Tennessee for a year while going to school. I was inexperienced and extremely unsure of myself, so I was an easy target for jokesters. Mr. Williams, one of our deacons, was the best of the best of these jokesters. One day he began telling me of a preacher who had started a ministry on Saturday evenings and I should go one evening to support him. All the signs were there that should have tipped me off that Mr. Williams was about to make me miserable, but I was impressionable and I respected Mr. Williams. Retired Army major with a chest full of medals from WWII and Korea. He thought it was great fun to torment the young preacher boy. The national average that someone stays in the ministry is only five years, and part of the reason is that nearly every church has a Mr. Williams. 

Anyway, when that Saturday night came, Mr. Williams picked me up and we drove to an old, abandoned cinema. At least, I had assumed it was abandoned. Windows boarded up, just a few letters on the sign outside, an old movie poster still on the wall. Abandoned. However, the preacher he wanted me to hear had rented it and had picked up the trash and debris in the first ten rows and had put an old, beat up pulpit on stage and called it all the only Holy Spirit filled church in the whole county. There was no music, just this preacher ranting and raving up on that stage. This went on for about an hour and a half. Other than Mr. Williams and me, there were maybe ten people there, and most of them were asleep by the end. I was having trouble staying awake myself. You can get so used to yelling that it just bounces off you.

The preacher was winding down and then he said, "Now, brothers and sisters, old Arnold down here has brought a young preacher boy with him and I want to say a prayer over him. Young brother, y'all come down here!" I didn't know he was talking about me. I didn't know Mr. Williams' name was Arnold. I guess I would have sat there quietly, but Mr. Williams was telling me to go down front. The preacher was standing on the elevated stage about fifteen feet above us and he was pointing at a spot on the floor at the base of the stage. So, I got up and went down to that spot and bowed my head. The preacher started praying, then he started yelling, then he started stamping his feet, begging God to fill me with the Holy Ghost. Literally yelling at God. I finally decided I was done and was just about to leave when there was a boom next to me. Startled, I opened my eyes to see that the preacher had jumped from the stage to the floor next to me. His hand smacked on my forehead so hard it dazed me, and then his long, boney fingers wrapped around my head. He started jerking my head one way and then another, commanding me to be filled with the Holy Spirit. It was all I could do to stay on my feet. It finally ended and Mr. Williams managed to hold it together until we got to his truck. Then he roared with laughter. Somehow, I saw no humor there.

I have had some conversations in the last week or so about the filling of the Spirit, and I am surprised at what the world sees and understands about the filling of the Holy Spirit. Almost without fail the unbeliever thinks Christians equate being filled with that raving preacher back in Tennessee. But what is more surprising is that most Christians do not want to be associated with being filled because they think the same as the unbelievers. They don't want to act stupid. So I thought we would look at the Bible.

The gifts of the Holy Spirit allow us to share the Gospel of Christ. The fruit of the Holy Spirit lets others know we are Christians. We are familiar with the gifts, except some Christians use them  for other reasons than to share the Gospel. So let's look, briefly, at the fruit. 

Galatians 5:19-24; 19. Now the works of the flesh are evident: sexual immorality, impurity, sensuality, 20. idolatry, sorcery, enmity, strife, jealousy, fits of anger, rivalries, dissensions, divisions, 21. envy, drunkenness, orgies, and things like these. I warn you, as I warned you before, that those who do such things will not inherit the kingdom of God. 22 But the fruit of the Spirit is love, joy, peace, patience, kindness, goodness, faithfulness,  23. gentleness, self-control; against such things there is no law. 24. And those who belong to Christ Jesus have crucified the flesh with its passions and desires. 

We see what the works of the flesh are, and we see what the fruit of the Spirit is. Many believe that being in the Spirit is getting wound up by loud music and shouting from a preacher. But those folks have a hard time living for the Spirit outside of the church. Why? Because the reality of living for the Spirit is so very boring. We want our hearts to pound, but is that the Holy Spirit? Think about the fruit of the Spirit. Love, joy, peace patience, kindness, goodness, faithfulness, gentleness and self control. I don't see shouting there. I don't see loud music there. I don't see speaking in tongues there. I don't see healing with a touch there. Do you show the fruit of the Spirit or the works of the flesh in your own life? 

Do something for me. Think of these things and then think of the person who best shows the fruit of the Spirit. Give them a call and thank them for being an example. I can think of a few and every one of them would be embarrassed to be thought of as a great example. That is called humbleness and that is a hallmark of someone who bears the fruit.

Blessings.     

    There are many interesting things about where I live now in Northeast Ohio. Heisley Park Senior Complex. Not assisted living. Apartment life, for folks 55 and over. Even so, I am one of the youngest people here. The place has many amenities, if you choose to participate. In fact, there are some who never leave the building except to go on doctor's visits, and yet still live very active lives. Even groceries and restaurant orders can be delivered right to your apartment. Personally, I can't see that. I am gone somewhere every day. Goodness, I haven't been to the Coffee Shop in the building in two whole weeks because they are only open from nine till noon and I am quite busy during those hours. But, if you are so inclined, you can stay put. Everything you need, including a workout room, is right in the building. Lots of activity, lots of enjoyments and lots of laughter.

    But along with all of that, just below the surface, is a sadness. Not a sadness of growing old, but rather a sadness of loss. Loss over a relationship that came apart, loss over a death that fractured a life-long commitment, loss over the failed love for family now gone astray. Since beginning our worship service, I am hearing more stories about the sadnesses that have marked lives. I suppose they now see me more as a pastor than just the guy who lives in apartment 227, which is something I knew would happen. My heart hurts for these folks.

    Years ago, I pastored a church in Geneva, Ohio, which is where my son grew up and where he lives today. Maybe twenty-five minutes away. I was there a considerable time and while there, I came to know Mac and Francine. Mac's first name was not actually Mac, but Mac was the first three letters, and the first syllable, of his last name. So, he was Mac. At 5'4", he was the tall one of the two. A very cute couple. Mac and Fran were very faithful in another church, but we got to knowing one another because of community involvement. He had retired early and, unable to sit at home, he became active in all sorts of community things. Especially the Food Pantry. I was the president of the board that oversaw the Pantry, so Mac and I saw a lot of each other. One of the first times we worked together was putting a rear axle on a hay wagon. (I don't remember why) My adjustable wrench slipped and I took some skin off my knuckles. Mac said, "Careful, preacher. Don't go losing your religion. Franny'll blame me!" Almost any time you saw one of them, you saw both. They were so close and so in love, even after five decades.

    Eventually, I resigned from the church and went to work at a large, local funeral home as staff clergy. I hadn't seen Mac and Fran for some time. I heard Mac had dementia, but Fran was determined to see to his needs. One night they walked into one of our funeral homes for a visitation. They both looked great and I gave Fran a hug and turned to Mac with my hand out. He took my hand in a friendly handshake, but his eyes were void of any recognition. Fran took him into the visitation room and sat him down, and then hurried back to me. "Pastor, I am so sorry! His dementia is so fast moving! It is like another part of him is gone every day. The doctor says he doesn't have long. When Mac goes away, will you handle the arrangements?"

    Well, of course I said yes. But his health was so good. I figured he would live for several more years. Three months later he was gone.

    Fran and their children came in and we worked everything out. It really helped that they had prearranged (everyone should) and we didn't have a great deal to do. Just some minor details. One of those details was the little poem or writing that goes into the memorial folder. Fran looked in the catalogue and looked and looked. "Nothing is right! Mac was my life, the light of my life. Nothing says that here." Then she turned to me and said, "Pastor, please find me something. Something that says something about our love!" I said yes and later fired up the internet. Still, having known them for years, I could find nothing that fit. I was as lost as Fran had been.

    Until about 2 AM. I can't explain how it happens. Maybe ask Miss Mary or someone you know who writes. But sometimes it will happen that your mind suddenly has a moment of clarity. So it was then. I got up and sat down at my computer and put together some words. It couldn't be lengthy because it had to fit the folder, and it had to say something. When Fran read it, she cried. Said it was perfect. I never told her it didn't come from a catalogue, that didn't matter. It spoke to her heart at her time of need.

    With my life in the place where it is now, that all comes to mind. Please, love your spouse, your children, your siblings, your parents with an unspeakable love. At some point it will slip away. One lady in my building told me of her great love and now her great grief, but I asked her if that love was worth the grief that followed. "Oh yes! To love like that! Yes, always."

    Love with an open heart. 

    I came across that little writing the other day. Marsha had kept it. It really isn't much, but Fran liked it, and that is what mattered.      

                                       The Light of My Life

When the winds blow,

I will think of you.

When the rains fall,

I will think of you.

When the snows blanket the land,

I will think of you.

And I will smile,

For you will be my calm,

On a blustery day.

You will be my sunshine,

On a dreary day.

You will be my warmth,

On a frosty day.

For you are the light of my life, even now.

It's funny. I have had this reaction before, but not to this extent. 

When I first arrived in Ohio, I was actually very sick. Last August I was in the hospital for three weeks. A combination of things, but all are manageable. In fact, I was starting to feel pretty good just before Christmas, but COVID then took me down. Took me three weeks for that, but since I have really started to feel better. I feel better now than I have in years. However, I still have the dreaded 'follow-up appointments' to deal with. Last week I had four, but not another one until November.

So last week I walked into my cardiologist's office, and I was walked back to a room by a young lady I had not met before. I sat down and she started asking the regular questions while reading my chart. All was normal until she got to allergies. 'Demurral?' 'Yes.' 'Morphine?' 'Yes.' 'Pork products? Wait. Pork? You're allergic to pork?' 'Yes ma'am.' 'Does that include bacon!?' 'Yes ma'am. And most hotdogs and pepperoni and processed lunch meats.' 'What?!? You can't eat pizza, either?' 'Only vegetable pizza, and then only if the vegetables are not fried on the same griddle the meat is fried on.' 'So, you have never had PORK?' 'Actually, I started having reactions to it at around 55 years of age and it has just gotten worse.' It was like I had just told her my only child had died in a horrific accident. She looked at me with horror and compassion. She was stunned. Like I said, never had that intense of a reaction before.

It was a bit of drive home and I thought about her reaction. It was, actually, quite funny. But at the same time, it says something about who we are. What is normal for us and our loved ones, must be normal for everyone. As a people, neither the Jews nor the Muslims eat pork, but they are not 'us.' They aren't normal. My family opened gifts on Christmas Eve. My best friend's family opened gifts on Christmas morning. They weren't normal. Some people do not eat meat at all and some cannot eat most kinds of bread and some cannot eat peanuts, and they are not normal.  If they are not like us, something is wrong.

And it extends to religion. If folks go to a different church than ours, they are really missing out. If they are a different denomination, they are really misguided. If they don't go to church at all, they are not normal.

And yet, people not eating certain foods or opening gifts on the right day or someone who has bread or peanut or pork allergies...well, that really isn't a big deal. But, in the religious spectrum, it is different. We feel sorry for them and their eternal souls. We feel pity, we feel sadness. However, do we feel badly enough to actually go to them and initiated a conversation about God? Does our feeling of sadness galvanize us into action for the name of Jesus. Or do we just shrug it off, or maybe just invite them to church and let it go at that? People don't need church, they need Jesus. 

Why do churches get smaller and smaller? Because the people in the church are not sharing. It is not the pastor or even the Elders. It is the folks in the pews.     

It seemed like a good idea at the time.

Every year in Holland, Michigan is the Tulip Festival. I am not a flower guy, but it seemed like a really good idea for Marsha. Lots of color, people moving around, lots of activity. Very good for someone who has suffered a couple of strokes. So, we made plans to drive up. Just north of Holland is Muskegon, Michigan. There you can board a fast lake ferry and cross Lake Michigan to Milwaukee, Wisconsin. The trip takes two and a half hours. (This was my part of the trip. I am not a flower guy, but I am a water guy.) So, the plan was to drive up on Monday, spend the night, board the ferry on Tuesday morning and go to Milwaukee, spend the night, board the ferry and cross back on Wednesday to Michigan, spend the night and go to the Tulip Festival on Thursday and return home on Friday. Seemed like a good idea.

The trip up on Monday was made on the roughest paved roads I have ever been on. But you allow for construction when you travel in areas that have rough winters. The motel was fine. On Tuesday the boat crossing was a lot of fun and the motel in Milwaukee was OK. Then, however, it all began to unravel.

I got Marsha situated in her room and then, suddenly, she announced she was going down. I grabbed her, but there was no way I could hold her dead weight. All I was able to do was let her down softly. She couldn't move her legs and I, fearing another stroke, called 911. She was not happy about that, but she couldn't move. EMTs got there quickly and transported her to the nearest hospital. It was just after dark and diving the car to the hospital was an experience. I don't see well at night and I was in a strange city. I kept thinking how I was going to explain to our son how I managed to misplace his mother in Milwaukee. In the end I arrived at the hospital where I sat with her all night, first in the ER lobby and then in an ER room. They finally determined it was not a stroke. She was dehydrated and had an infection. She was released just before daylight (so another trip in a strange city in the dark) and we managed to get two hours of sleep before we needed to get back to the dock for the ferry. I dozed most of the crossing and when we got back to the Michigan motel, we were both so tired we could do nothing. 

The star of the trip, though, was to be the Tulip Festival. Up on Thursday and in the car. And it began to pour rain. Not a sprinkle. Not a drizzle. A Noah's ark rain. We drove around Holland a bit, but Marsha didn't want to get out and neither did I. So, we left the next morning for Ohio on a beautiful day. The whole trip seemed like a bust. When I talked to my son to tell him of our misadventures, he said, "You know, you could have saved a lot of money by staying in Ohio and getting rained on and taking Mom to the hospital." Smart aleck.

However, I was struck by something during the trip. Milwaukee is a rough town, kind of run down. I am sure there are nice areas, but I have been there twice now and have not seen those areas. The hospital they took Marsha to is a city hospital, and they tend to be burdened down with indigent cases. We waited in the lobby a long while. Some of the people there were in withdrawal because they hadn't gotten their fix for the night. Some were falling down drunk. Some were there just to be able to be inside for the night. People everywhere. People with failing lives, just wanting their next bottle or injection or pill. As I watched all of this misery around me, it occurred to me that they didn't even know they were in misery. They were just living life as usual.

Then I took a long look at the professionals who were handling these cases. Competent nurses and aides, smart young people checking folks in, police officers and security personnel treating everyone with respect and two or three young doctors going from one to the next. All of the professionals and all the patients were in a ten year range of each other. Marsha and I were the oldest people there. As I looked around, I wondered what the difference was among these people.

Society will tell you it is white privilege. The poor were slaves, after all, held down by their white masters. Except, the professionals were about evenly split between white and black. Others would say that the economic divide keeps the poor poorer and the rich richer, but that doesn't explain it, either. Some would say it was bad parenting, but we all know some who have good children and then a troubled child. Some would say it came down to gender confusion, but that is just the current, nonsense cause of the day. 

So, what is the reason?

I don't really know. Some were driven to do well, some just were content to fail. I suppose it comes down to attitude, but how is a good attitude generated? What makes one look to the future and another look for the pleasure of the moment. The desire to have a reason to live?

There can be a lot of things that triggers a good response. But I see life differently from the world. I would love to introduce you to this doctor I know, two veterinarians, several nurses, teachers, a football coach, a lawyer, a few dynamite homemakers, a couple who have gone out and started their own businesses, a Marine, one who is a successful relator, several tool and die makers, a man who can make works of art with bricks and his brother who is a master carpenter and several others who are successful in their own fields. People who were in a church I pastored? Yes, sort of. Kids in my youth groups who were taught to love and respect the Word of God. And almost all of those kids will be in church somewhere this Sunday.

Proverbs 22:6 "Raise up a child in the way he should go, and when he is old he will not depart from it." The world would scoff, but I speak from my own experience.

Be faithful.

I miss pastoring a church. I really do. And I hope to never pastor a church again.

Uh....what?

It is true. 

Consider your typical church. People in leadership positions who, with the best of intentions, feel a church needs to adhere to their ideals. The businessperson feels the church needs to be run like a business. The politically minded person feels the church needs to be run like a political endeavor along political party lines. Younger folks feel the church should follow their ideals and concerns and the older folks should be quiet and let the future happen while the older folks feel like the church should follow their ideals and the younger folks should be quiet and respectful. In any church situations there are tidal forces at work all the time. And the typical way a congregation handles these differences is to form a committee. Then, of course, there are the bullies who try to intimidate and the schemers who try to go behind everyone's back to get what they want.

So, what is the pastor's job? Almost any church will say that the pastor's job is to see to the Spiritual needs of the church. The congregation will handle the rest. But that doesn't work. The pastor is drawn into every controversy. People come to the pastor to see what he (or she, as the case may be) thinks about the 'problem.' The music is too loud so could you tone it down? The church is to dim (or to bright) so could you fix it? The grass needs cut, don't you think? The curtains in the restrooms are tacky, so we need a committee. The pastor goes into his first church feeling he is going to be the Spiritual leader and instead finds he is an administrator. And with all of this, he has to be careful not to overstep his bounds. This is why most pastors don't make it five years.

So, while I miss pastoring a church, I hope to never pastor a church again. (Notice I didn't say I will never pastor a church again. After dealing with the Lord for half a century I have come to see that if I say 'never,' He will create a situation where 'never' becomes a necessity.) However, I am pastoring right now, just not a church. 

Janet broke her arm playing with the granddaughter. Patty has personal issues and needs to be comforted. Rosa had some serious surgery and is struggling to bounce back. Bert is conflicted. Neil is trying to maintain his cool around silly people. Suzy is working hard to do her job in spite of her cancer. These are people who live in my building. I lead a weekly worship service. Some of these mentioned come, some don't. But I consider them all a congregation. As yet, no one has refused prayer. Even the lady who rejects Christianity in favor of a reincarnation theology, allowed several of us to gather around her in prayer when her husband died. I have been in the ministry almost forty nine years, and I am finally getting to minister 100% of the time.

For me, the ministry has been an awesome privilege. I have help people, I have impacted people and I have made some really close friends. But the responsibility and the juggling act often takes away the enjoyment. But here, now, it is different. I am having fun!

On Tuesday, Thursday and Saturday in my building we have a coffee shop. Coffee and a pastry of some type. All free, but they take donations. Lots of talking (mostly women, so there you go) and a fair amount of laughing. Tuesday morning I was sitting next to Mary Lou. Since there were about seven conversations going on, I was just sitting and drinking my coffee and letting the noise run in one ear and out the other. Then Mary Lou turned to me and said, "I better watch what I say. You're a religious person." That immediately made me wonder what she had said, but then I began to think of the word 'religious.' 

What does 'religious' mean exactly? We assume it is related to 'religion,' right? Practically the same word. Most of us have a definition in mind that concerns going to church. But what about when someone says something like, "I eat breakfast religiously." Does that mean they eat breakfast in church. No, it means they eat breakfast daily at the same time. And then there was my roommate in Christian college who told me he dated religiously. What did that mean? That he dated regularly or was it that he only dated the young lady in church? I don't know. But back to Mary Lou.

Mary Lou is a Catholic, so I looked up the meaning of a religious person in the Catholic church. "A member of a religious order who is bound by vows of poverty, chastity and obedience." Maybe she meant it like that, but it doesn't apply to me. I am not a member of a religious order, I have taken no vow of poverty. I suppose I am chaste, but that is unavoidable. And as for obedience, that would depend on who I am obedient too. I give my obedience to God and God alone. Still, I imagine Mary Lou was using the word in the way most people use it, that being someone who walks the path of holiness and righteousness and who is above even hearing unclean things. That is not me, either. Any holiness or righteousness in me comes from Jesus, not me. And if I was above hearing and seeing unclean things, well, I would never turn on my computer, radio or television and I would never go outside.  You cannot get away from worldliness, but you don't have to participate. 

So, am I a religious person? No, not at all. I am a Christian. A believer. I have sinned in the past and I will sin again. I have chosen to accept Christ as Savior and He has accepted me, as He promised He would. DO NOT try to be religious. Never. Just be the best child of God you can be.  

Blessings.