Seeing As God Sees

Reminded this past weekend, once again, of what the family of God looks like. Edwina has been a part of Open Door for a lot of years. In the past four months, she and her husband Lester joined the church, Lester was baptized, and he shipped off to Army boot camp--leaving Memphis right after the burial of his father. As Edwina traveled to Ft. Leonard Wood, MO, to bring him home for Christmas, she received word that her father had died. Last Friday, Lester successfully completed Basic Training. That night, Edwina stopped by our Couples Fellowship. She was on her way to Regional One to deliver Lester IV. In each of these events, people from Open Door were deeply involved. Sacrificially giving of their time and resources to meet needs. I am thankful for our family of faith!

BROADENING HORIZONS

Wedding receptions are a curious thing. They are attempts to bring together in celebration those people who are near and dear to the bride and groom. It can seem a curious mix. Some attendees only know either the bride or the groom, so we separate them in the chapel with his friends on one side and hers on the other. As if it were the marriage of Mr. Hatfield to Miss McCoy. The reception can offer glimpses into what the new family recently minted during the ceremony might look like. Had a similar experience recently in Orlando. Two great loves of my life involve the ministry of Open Door Bible Church and that of a mission organization called Pioneers. I had the privilege of inviting friends from the church I’ve pastored for 38 years to meet friends of the mission organization that I’ve been a part of for 33 years (if I can include the 23 years on the boards of Arab World Ministries before the merger). No question that the one group would bond with the other in mutual admiration and commitment to the same goals. Pioneers captures their passion in the tagline: “The relentless pursuit of the unreached.” Open Door has always had that same heart for the world. And it was a powerful couple of days! New friendships formed. New opportunities to explore working together for kingdom glory. I’m excited to see what the Lord has in store in the coming days.

The Resurrection Direction in Life

On this Good Friday, I am thankful that the Lord Jesus Christ presented Himself as the ultimate Passover Lamb who would die for my sins and be raised from the dead. This year Good Friday coincides with another legacy that has benefited my life immeasurably. On April 19, 1995, the Murrah Buiding in Oklahoma City was destroyed, taking with it the lives of two people I did not have the privilege of knowing. Still, they enrich my life even today. Dr. Charles Hurlburt and his wife Jean stopped in that day to deal with some Social Security business. Their grandson, Robert Palmer, would marry my daughter, Beth, a dozen years later. The Hurlburts left behind a rich heritage. They built into the lives of their family and of people around the world. As we celebrate the resurrection, may we strive to live as they did--with eternity in view.

https://oklahomacitynationalmemorial.org/people/dr-charles-erwin-hurlburt/?fbclid=IwAR3Sp8E6guJyxENeU8SDMD-3njixIUyBTLfZvMbx8XSg0NWeOKnH5C6okw8

Generational Blessing

There are moments when God draws back the curtain of day-to-day life and allows us to see the bigger picture of what He's about. Sunday morning, August 19, was just that. As Ethan and I headed toward the baptistry and we had a few minutes to talk, he smiled. "My dad says you baptized him, too." We stood together as the seven year old gave a clear testimony of his faith in Christ, now a little over a month old. Later in the service, I was holding Ethan's baby sister as Shane and Ruth dedicated her to the Lord. Ethan, Norah, and Esther come from sturdy stock. Lots of godly folks from both sides of the family going back for generations--my own life has been blessed by four! Ethan, Norah, and Esther have footprints, deep and distinct, to follow.

The Malibu and the Motorcycle

While a freshman at the University of Missouri, I was always flat broke.  When my friends in the dorm ordered out for pizza, I regularly pretended to be “not hungry.”  They would end up getting me to eat a slice or two “just to be sociable,” then playfully accuse me of gaming them out of paying for my share.

It soon became apparent that I could not afford to care for and feed my 1964 Chevelle, first car I ever owned.  Five hundred hard-earned dollars on wheels.  Nicknamed “The Magnet,” it managed to get hit seven times in six months—never while I was in it.  As a high school senior, my pride and joy was stolen one day in March 1971.  Appropriately enough, it was recovered and hauled to the impound lot on April Fool’s Day, three weeks after its disappearance.  The thieves wrecked and abandoned her in the middle of an intersection, those boys fleeing the scene while my front bumper waved goodbye.  As a final insult, I had to scrape money together to redeem it from the city.  Hammers, Bondo, and spray paint made it the source of cruel humor.  But it ran.  Sort of.

Sometime early in my first semester, between gallons of gas, cases of oil, exorbitant insurance, and multiple repairs, I knew it was time to say goodbye.  When I told my grandparents, they suggested my dad needed a vehicle.  He was back “on the wagon,” and he had a job lined up.  I would have given it to him.  In 18 years, I had never had the opportunity to give him anything, but they insisted on paying me $600 for it.  And it seemed right and good that the old vehicle would stay in the family.  A curious link to a man I barely knew.  We were all painfully aware by now that jobs and sobriety never lasted long, though we would not say so out loud.  Maybe this time would be different.

And so I did my 125-mile trips between Kansas City and Columbia for the rest of the year using the campus rideshare bulletin board or hitchhiking.  My handcrafted “Home and Mom!” sign proved to be an effective, tug-at-the-heartstrings-of-passing-motorists ticket for free trips down I-70.  But I would need transportation for work in the summer.  That’s when inspiration struck.  I would buy a motorcycle!  Mom was not pleased with the idea.  The grandparents were horrified.  And so they approached me with an offer.  Dad had been living down in Louisiana somewhere.  The Malibu had been his mobile home.  But he was back, and the car was only slightly worse for wear.  He wasn’t using it.  It was out of place in their suburban neighborhood.  They gifted it back to me on the condition that I promise to give up my dream of a motorcycle.  To this day, I have never owned one.

And the connection to my Dad grew a bit stronger.  There was an old single-burner Coleman stove in the trunk and a sleeping bag that had outlived its usefulness and a few other vestiges of his last big adventure.  I proudly drove that prodigal vehicle until it would barely go, dating the young and beautiful Peggy McGovney in it.  We still joke that she only married me for my car.  Sold it for $500.  A good investment.  Many times over.  As my senior year at Mizzou began, Dad passed away.  Of all the vehicles I have owned, the midnight blue Chevy Malibu (my first, Dad’s last) remains my favorite.

Lessons from Charlottesville

When 9/11 happened, I wished more peaceable Muslims had stated clearly that the actions were evil. Seems obvious enough to me that white separatists are evil. If my stance on this is news to anyone, they really don't know me. But it needs to be said. White supremacy, indeed! Such people reject the idea that every human bears the divine image. They pretend they are better than others. God is moving His plan toward a grand crescendo of praise when people from every tribe, tongue, and nation will gather to praise the Lamb who was slain for all people. Those who insist themselves to be even somewhat good--never mind "supreme"--by virtue of their pigmentation (or anything else) will not be a part of that celebration. Is there guilt enough to go around? Are there planks in the eyes of those who only care to see the unrighteousness of others? Hating haters is problematic for those who adhere to grace. The BLM website will demonstrate they are no friend to biblical truth. Lawlessness and violence in the name of self-righteousness will not produce lasting fruit worth having. God resists the proud. He gives grace to the humble. Claiming moral superiority is sheer folly, turning me into my own brand of "holier than thou" counter protestor.

LEW

The unlikeliest of friends, we met along a property line I was never allowed to cross. Eventually our talks occurred through an eight-foot chain link fence topped with swirls of concertina wire. He was born in the shadow of Monteagle,    TN; I’m a city boy. He was former military; I never made it past Tenderfoot in Boy Scouts. He sported a big, bushy beard; I struggle to do respectable sideburns. Lew shared photos of his show dogs, spoke of his service in Vietnam, kept me up to date on his progress rebuilding an old pickup truck. Sometimes, we spoke of eternal things. We were often interrupted when I headed off to talk with people approaching the abortion clinic where he worked security. In the earlier days, he was married to the clinic director. Even after their divorce, he continued to protect the place from crazy prolifers. Like me.

These sidewalk conversations spanned 25 years. Our ministry was committed to the proposition that the workers at the abortion clinic were not the enemy. Everybody bears the divine image; everyone needs Jesus. And deserves respect.

Eventually, the clinic was taken over by others. Lew was fired. He stopped one day in that pickup and joked he might come over to our side of the fence and help out. Sounded good to me! The clinic closed after a time, and that sad old house at Bellevue and Monroe was demolished. And then my phone rang. It was Lew. I had given him my card years earlier and suggested he call if he ever wanted to talk.

To this day, he’s the only person ever to vape in my office. More expletives flew through the room during his visits than you will hear on Nixon’s Watergate tapes. But we talked about life. About important things. He welcomed my offers to pray for and with him. Lew showed up for church once on Easter. And more than a few times for our community cookouts. Yesterday, I received a call from his ex-wife Jo Ann. He was failing quickly, succumbing to a fast-moving pancreatic cancer. She was providing him care. William Green and I visited Lew yesterday afternoon. William spoke of his own journey to faith in Christ and made sure Lew understood the need for trusting Jesus as Savior. This morning, Jo Ann called to tell me he had passed away in his sleep.  I am confident we will see each other again.