For some reason, in my younger days and up through my late 20s, older people would say that today, the day between Good Friday and Easter Sunday- was the day to plant your garden. I used to think there was some agricultural/scientific reason behind this. Easter, coming when it does (Easter comes the first Sunday after the first full moon following the vernal equinox – note: Eastern Orthodox celebrate it a week later), made the weather right for planting seeds in the ground. However, that turns out not to be true, especially for tubers. Tubers planted today will probably rot in the earth, and the Saturday is called Rotten Saturday by some.

The weather is so variable that seeds and plants may or may not grow.

So why did they do it?

Many say it was because their ancestors did- their grandparents, and the grandparents of those people, and so forth for generations back.

But why did they do it?

Here’s my theory, and I do not know how to prove it. But here goes.

Those early farmers listened to the story of the death, burial, and resurrection of Jesus and believed there was something universal being told there. Jesus died and was buried, lay in the earth that Saturday, and was raised on Sunday. So they put their seeds and plants in the ground on Saturday just to see what would happen. And a tradition began.

While I am no farmer (and farmers are people outstanding in their field- sorry, I couldn’t resist!), I have had a few gardens in my life. Square-foot gardening is my favorite. Planting seeds on Holy Saturday sometimes produced good results. A few times it did not. Neither was the result of faith, but due to the weather and some other things (like my attention to the garden).

But there is a deeper lesson here for me. Maybe for you, too.

On this day, some things within me that have died, or are just seeds or seedlings, need to be planted in the ground, and allowed to stay until they come up on their own.

Things faith-

• Faith that people, whoever they are, are basically good, that our inner core is not evil but kind.
• Faith that our work together will make a difference; that a few people standing together to make a better world will attract more people.
• Faith that compassion does not equal weakness and that charity does not promote laziness.

Things like hope-

• Hope that our country will get over its selfishness and decide to live and work together for the common and greater good.
• Hope that my life will have some kind of meaning, will help the world be kinder, gentler, more accepting.
• Hope that relationships I have hurt and/or broken in the past will be healed, reconciled, and restored.
• Hope that I can live out the remainder of my days in better health and learning new things in this wonderful world.

Things like love-

• Love for those who have hurt me and for those I have hurt.
• Love for the world that used to be and for the world that is yet to come.
• Love for my neighbors that I know, and the neighbors I do not know- both those near and far.

Someone once wrote those things- faith, hope, and love- last forever. Today I think I’ll plant them in the garden of my heart, and wait and see what comes up.

I have often wondered why this day is called Good Friday. Oh, I know the “official” reason- it’s the day Jesus died to show the depths of God’s love for us, to overcome our sin and separation from God and from each other. Some people say it was the day that our penalty was paid, but over the years I have begun to think this whole judicial way of looking at our relationship with God and each other is, well, at best, inadequate.

In most ways, the term Good Friday does not seem to fit. It’s the day that showed how we- the human race- can be so creative in torturing and murdering those who threaten our way of thinking. (I shouldn’t really say the day. As it turns out, a cursory look at our history shows it’s one of the many days we do that.) The depth of our depravity, it seems, has no bounds.

But maybe it is Good in that we are told the ultimate truth- that the real way of life is sacrifice. And what Jesus did on that day is a model for us all.

Paul, an early follower of Jesus, wrote to other followers in the city of Philippi and said that we should have the same mind, or attitude, as that of Jesus. He gave up all that it was to be God, became fully human, and died a horrible death on a cross. Paul concludes by saying “Therefore, every knee shall bow in heaven and on earth and under the earth, and every tongue should confess that Jesus Christ is Lord, to the glory of God the Father.”

There was a popular little praise song years ago that went:

As nice as it was to sing that chorus, it subverted the Scriptures. The reason, Paul says, he is Lord is not because he rose from the dead, but because he died on a cross.

The way of sacrifice is the way of life. Jesus taught it. Jesus lived it. And Jesus died to prove it. Jesus also told us that if we want to be his followers, we must do it, too. It is one of the few “no option” things Jesus told us. “If anyone wishes to come after (follow) me, they must deny themself, and take up their cross daily and follow me. For whoever wishes to save their life will lose it, but whoever loses their life for my sake, that is the one who will save it.” (Luke 9:23-24)

Maybe that is why it is called Good Friday. Because we can see clearly what it will cost to be truly human, to be what God made us to be. There is no guessing about it. Now we know. And as hard as it may be, I think it’s Good.

NOTE: Today, March 25, is the Feast of The Annunciation. It is when we celebrate the angel Gabriel coming to Mary, asking her if she’ll bear Christ into the world, and her answer being yes. This year (2024) it also occurs during Holy Week, when we celebrate Christ’s triumphal entry into Jerusalem, his last supper with his disciples, his passion and death on a cross, and his resurrection on Sunday. Several years ago I wrote a story that brings the Annunciation and Holy Saturday (the day between Good Friday and Easter) together, looking at everything from Mary’s point of view. I wrote it for Christmas, but I think it is appropriate for today and this week.

---

It was early Saturday morning when I went looking for Mary. Yesterday, Friday, had been the worst day of both of our lives. The past few days had been more than horrible. She had seen her first-born son die, and I had watched as my best friend, and the man I thought was God incarnate, give his life away uselessly on a cross. We had seen it all, some up close, other parts from a distance, but we had been there, side by side, watching it, thinking it would all change in a minute, knowing that something different, something wonderful, would happen.

But it didn’t. He died.

On Thursday night he had been taken away by the soldiers and brought before this mock trial in front of Pilot and Herod, since they were both in town. Now he’ll show them, I thought. After all, he had done that with the authorities before. We watched as he was beaten, and I held Mary as the tears ran down her face, seeing her son wear a crown of thorns, and people who he had fed and healed yell ‘crucify him.’ Crowds can turn so quickly. We had seen it before. We knew he would turn the crowds back to him. We followed behind as he was taken out to the hill to be crucified. Mary kept whispering, not to me but to herself, “I know he’ll come to save him. The Lord won’t let him down. God will come any minute now.” I felt it, too, but my hope died with each step he took. When they nailed his hands and feet to the cross, I heard Mary scream as if it were her hands that the spikes were piercing. She called out to God to come and save her son, and for a moment we thought he would. The skies got dark, the wind blew, and the earth shook. “Now God will come to us and save him,” Mary screamed through her tears.

But he didn’t.

You could tell the moment he died. His spirit had left his body. It just hung there empty, a shell of what used to be great, high on the cross for all to see. The wind stopped blowing, the clouds grew lighter, the earth stopped moving. Everything was back to normal. And we just stood there, looking at the body hanging on the cross. When a soldier rammed his spear into the side to make sure he was dead, when that spear entered his heart, Mary was leaning against me and I felt her heart break, too.

A few minutes earlier, before he had died, he had looked at his mother and said, “Mom, John will take care of you.” Then he looked over at me and said, “John, watch after Mom.”

So, while friends took the body off the cross, I held her close to me. Then, when the body was lying on the ground, she walked over to it, held it close to her, as only a mother can, and brushed the hair out of his eyes. Our friends wrapped his body and took him away to be buried before we had time to prepare him with the oils used for burial. It was getting dark, the Sabbath was about to begin. I took Mary back to Bethany to stay at home of Mary, Martha and Lazarus. She didn’t go to the temple or the synagogue that night. She just sat there, numb. I left the house to stay with others.

This morning I found her in the courtyard, sitting on a bench, leaning against the wall of the house. I looked at her and she looked old beyond her years. For the first time, I could not see the young girl in her anymore. She must not have been more than 48, but she looked like she was 90, older than Sarah, Abraham’s wife. She was gaunt and wrinkled and hunched over and frail. You could tell she had not slept at all.

“How are you?” I asked.

“It seems like it was only yesterday,” she said, answering a question that I did not ask.

“Mary….it was yesterday,” I said. “He died yesterday.”

“No….not that…..it seems like it was only yesterday when the angel appeared to me.”

“What angel?”

“The one that told me I would have this boy if I wanted. That I could bear him into the world, but the choice was mine.” This was a story I had not heard, so I asked her to tell me about it. Maybe it would help her deal with her grief. I had said I would care for her.

“I was just a young girl, barely past the age of becoming a woman,” she said, “when I met Joseph. He was a few years older than me, and was learning his father’s trade as a carpenter. We used to steal glances at each other in the synagogue in Nazareth. We were almost immediately attracted to each other. We would ‘accidentally’ bump into each other in the market, and our hands would touch and I could feel a spark fly between us. This went on for months, and I thought I would die if I didn’t get to be with this handsome young man. I don’t know why, but something was happening between us. Finally….and I don’t know how he did it…..his father talked with my father and a marriage was arranged between us. We were engaged! We were promised to each other!” Mary’s face brightened as she recalled that time, her back straightened up, and it looked like some of the wrinkles left her face.

“The marriage ceremony was planned for 6 months later, so family would be able to save and take the time to get there. And each day just drug on forever. I thought they would never end! I could hardly wait for the day to come when I would be his wife. What could be more wonderful than marrying the person you love, spending the rest of your days with them!”

I know, I thought. I had never married, but I had felt that way before, wanting to spend every day with a certain person. But that didn’t work out. He was dead, now.

“Then it happened,” Mary said. “One evening, about 4 months before the wedding, I was behind our house in Nazareth. It was a bright, clear, star-filled night, when suddenly there was a brilliant light that flashed, almost blinding me. I thought at first it was some sort of lightning, but when my eyes could focus again, there was a giant of a man standing before me. I couldn’t tell if he was 7 feet tall, or if he just seemed that way because everything else seemed small in his presence, including me. There seemed to be some light that shone from within him, some sort of reflection of the light that had just flashed before me. He was dressed in a robe that reached the ground, but didn’t seem to be dirty anywhere. He had dark brown eyes that didn’t so much look at you as look INTO you. He stood there for a moment, and I began to back away, not looking back up at his face. “

“Then he spoke. His voice was deep. He had no question in his voice, no wavering. He said, ‘Don’t be afraid, Mary. I am Gabriel and I come from the throne of God. God has seen you and chosen you. You will have a child, a boy, and you are to give him the name Jesus. He will be great and will be called the Son of the Most High. The Lord God will give him the throne of his father David, and he will reign over the house of Jacob forever; his kingdom will never end.’”

“ ‘How can this be?’ I asked. ‘I’ve never….been…with a man.’ He told me that the Holy Spirit would do something wonderful, something miraculous in me, and that way I would know it was God’s son. Then he just stood there, like he was waiting for me to say something, those dark eyes looking into my soul. It was as if he had to have my permission for this to happen.”

“What did you think?” I asked.

“Everything went through me,” she said. “What would my family think? Would they believe me? What about Joseph? Would he still marry me? How can this happen? In a just a second, I thought of all the things that might happen because of this. Then I thought, say yes! Because who knows what tomorrow may hold! So I looked at the man…the angel….and said….yes. As a matter of fact, that’s what I taught my son for all those years growing up- always say yes, because who knows what tomorrow may hold.”

I had heard Jesus say something like it several times, and now I knew where it came from, He had put it this way, “Why do you worry about tomorrow, what you shall eat and drink and wear…. God loves you so don’t worry about tomorrow….who knows what tomorrow may hold. So that’s where he got it from, his mother.

“So what happened next?” I asked, trying for a moment to get her mind away from yesterday and the terrible things we saw. “Was Joseph excited?”

“No,” Mary said, laughing at the memory. “It wasn’t funny then, but it seems so now. He was furious, just knowing that I had…been…with another man. All this stuff of flashing light and angels seemed like a lie to cover up my sin to him. Even my parents agreed and were ashamed of me. But he loved me, and though he was hurt, didn’t want to shame me in public. He was going to break the engagement privately and send me away. But then that same man, the angel, showed up at his house and helped him to…uh…see the light. And though he didn’t understand it he decided to go ahead and marry me, but not until after the child was born.”

“What about your parents?” I asked.

“When I got to where I began to show,” she said, looking down at her stomach, “they sent me away to see my cousin Elizabeth. She was old, but somehow she was pregnant, too. And my parents knew that if I was around folks would talk. So I went off to stay with her for a while.”

“While I was there Caesar Augustus decided to have a census and a taxation of the whole empire. And to make it harder for everyone, he said everyone had to go back to their ancestral homes to be registered. So Joseph came and got me and took me to Bethlehem, because that’s where his family was from. His great, great, great, great, great granddaddy was King David, you know.” I had heard this from Jesus, that he was the ‘son of David.’ As a matter of fact, that’s what the people had yelled just six days earlier as we rode into Jerusalem, “Hail the One who Comes in the Name of David!”

“You ever been to Bethlehem?” Mary asked me. “I’ve been through it,” I said, “not much there. A Podunk of a town.” 

“You’re right,” she said. And when you fill it with people who are descendants, there’s no place to stay. When we got there I was about ’12 months pregnant’ and about to pop. Joseph couldn’t find a room at the only inn in town. The only shelter was a cave used as a barn for the animals. There I had Jesus, and Joseph put fresh hay in the feeding trough, and that’s where my son slept for the first time. It wouldn’t be the last time he would not have a place to lay his head.”

“Yeah, he told us who followed him to be prepared to have no place to stay,” I said.

“Shepherds showed up and told us what seemed like incredible stories of the angels appearing to them, but we both knew what that was all about. Jerusalem’s only 6 miles from Bethlehem, so when the time came a week later, we were able to go to the Temple and present him there, something we could not have done if we were back in Nazareth.  As we were coming out of the temple, an old priest named Simeon came over, looked at my baby, and said ‘this child will be a light for the Gentiles and glory for Israel. Then he looked at me, and a strange look came on his face, and he said ‘and a sword will pierce your heart, too.’ …. How did he know?” Mary said, looking down at her feet, tears coming again.

“Tell me more. I’ve not heard these stories,” I said.

“We went back to Bethlehem, and stayed there for a while. Then came the time of the massacre…” She did not have to tell me more. I had heard stories about Mad King Herod and his ordering of the execution of male children. “…so we escaped to Egypt. After a few years we heard that Herod had died, so we went back to Nazareth. Jesus was your typical boy growing up, obeying us most of the time, but occasionally going his own way. He got lost in Jerusalem one year when we went there for the Passover,” she said, a smile coming over her face. 

“Yeah, I heard about that,” I said.

“But I gave him a talking to that he never forgot,” Mary said, “and was no trouble at all after that. As a matter of fact, he was an incredible son. Joseph died young…” Mary said, a shadow coming over her face. Jesus had never spoken to me about his earthly father, only about what he called his ‘heavenly father,’ a term he used with great familiarity. I wanted to know, but didn’t push Mary about how Joseph had died. She was already in enough pain. “….and even though Jesus knew he didn’t want to be a carpenter, that didn’t seem to be what he was born for, he took over the family business until one of his younger brothers could do it and provide for us. We were all very poor, but we worked together. Then the day came when he took me outside the home, and said ‘Mom, it’s time for me to do what I was called to do.’ I remembered what the angel had told me, and I gave him my blessings. You know the rest of the story.”

Yeah, I knew it. As a matter of fact I had lived most of it. The healings, the feedings, the miracles, the teachings, the crowds. It was so exciting. We never thought it would end this way.

I looked over at the old woman sitting on the bench. Finally I asked the question that had been building up in my heart and mind. “Mary, if you had the chance to do it again, would you say yes? You know, knowing the joys, but also the heartache and the pain, knowing what would happen, knowing about….yesterday…..would you have born Jesus into this world?” I wasn’t really asking for her. I was asking for me. You see, Jesus had told me something strange one day, something I didn’t quite understand, not sure that I really do now. He told me that I…that all of us who followed him…had to ‘bear’ him into the world, to carry him within us, sort of like having a life within that is part of you but is still not yours alone. Almost like having a baby inside, but a grown up one. I know it doesn’t make much sense, but it seems like he was saying that somehow he could live in us and in this world through us. But I saw what happened yesterday. I’m not sure I could handle it. So I had to know. “Mary, would you say yes again?”

She looked up at me and nodded. “Yes,” she said, “because who knows what tomorrow may hold.”

We just sat there for a few minutes, not saying a word. Finally I said, “Get some rest today. I’ll get the ointments so that tomorrow morning we can go and properly prepare his body.” “Okay,” she said, and leaned back against the wall and closed her eyes. 

I walked away, leaving her in the courtyard. I thought, “Would I say yes? Then I thought, “Who knows what tomorrow may hold?”

Note: In looking back over my writings and blogs over the years, I realize I have had several different blogs. To get all my writing in one place, I am porting them over to this one. The date in the title is the original date of publication.

Every year around this time I do a Spring cleaning of my home study, closets, dresser, and chest of drawers. Clothes I have not worn much are separated from the ones I wear a lot and put in a box for House of Hope. Books that I know I will never open again are removed from the shelves and sent on their way to their next home. Trinkets, toys, ephemera are all looked at and decided whether I need to keep them or not. And things that are broken, damaged beyond repair, or just too dirty to use any more are either tossed or sent on to HOH. At the end, I have a room that is clean, freed of clutter, and feels comfortable.

I repeat this in the Fall.

It’s amazing how much stuff builds up, and how cluttered my life can become if I do not do this cleaning regularly.

A couple of things I have discovered- 1. I am able to find what I am looking for much more quickly after the cleaning; and 2. I have room for something new.

My heart is the same way. It gets cluttered, filled with things not needed, or even harmful. Broken dreams, hurt feelings, secret (and not-so-secret) sin, clinging to things that were good once but no longer are. It gets filled regularly with stuff so there’s no room for something new, something creative, something helpful. And there’s no room for Jesus. Or if Jesus is in there, he’s getting pretty cramped. There’s no room for more of him.

The psalmist said in Psalm 51, “Create in me a clean heart, O God.” I have to give God permission to clean my heart. To remove all that is not needed anymore, all that is harmful, all that clutters up my life. And, I have to cooperate with God in it. I’ve seen a couple of those shows about hoarders, and even worked with some at Salkehatchie camps. They cling to everything as if their life depended on it. Until we let it go, and throw it away, we really don’t have room for real life, which is Jesus.

This is not a “once and done” thing. Just as we have to regularly clean our homes, we need to regularly ask God to clean our hearts. Is it time for a Spring cleaning over your way?

Note: In looking back over my writings and blogs over the years, I realize I have had several different blogs. To get all my writing in one place, I am porting them over to this one. The date in the title is the original date of publication.

Billy Graham died today. Lots of people have a “Billy Graham story”. Here’s mine.

Thanksgiving of 1971 I was dating a young woman who attended Montreat-Anderson College, in Montreat, NC. She had a job caring for a couple of horses at Billy Graham’s home near there. She was invited to Thanksgiving supper with the Grahams, and she invited me to go along. Which I did. Nervously. After all, this was Billy Graham I would be sitting with at the table.

We stood at the front door, waiting for someone to answer. I tried to make jokes to ease my nervousness. “Do I need to take off my shoes, this being holy ground?” “Is that a burning bush I see over at the edge of the yard?” Not very funny, but I was trying.

The door opened and there he was. He welcomed us into his home, stuck out his hand, and said, “Hello. I’m Billy Graham.” I took his hand and told him my name. We went into the dining room, had supper, and good conversation. Every time the conversation would turn towards him, Billy would direct it in another way. He wasn’t being overly private or hiding anything; he just didn’t think he was that interesting.

Late in the conversation, I ventured these thoughts to him. “Mr. Graham, you may be the best-known person on the planet right now. Your voice is known all over the world. Even if people did not know what you looked like, they would recognize your voice because it is heard on radio stations everywhere. You are probably the only person who would not need to introduce himself. Yet, you told me your name at the door. You didn’t need to. Why?” (I thought that he probably thought I was too stupid to remember where I was having supper.) He said, “I have always thought it was presumptuous to think that anyone would know who I was.”

That has stuck with me for the last 47 years.

Thanks, Dr. Graham, for your life and witness. I will wager everything that this morning when you woke up in heaven, someone called you by name.

Note: In looking back over my writings and blogs over the years, I realize I have had several different blogs. To get all my writing in one place, I am porting them over to this one. The date in the title is the original date of publication.

We have a large whiteboard in one of the hallways at church. We put it up several years ago and asked people to write on it things they were thankful for. For a long time, people did that. You would walk by and see where folks had written things like God’s grace, my family, trees, food, and laughter. You would often see the name of someone that a person was thankful for.

Lately, that’s been dying down. Not many people are writing things on the board. The newness has worn off.

Except for our children.

And they write on it every day. They draw pictures, scribble lines, and just mark it all to bits. And they write whatever is on their hearts and minds.

Like today’s photo. They have been learning about the death and resurrection of Jesus. They have learned songs and made crafts that express it. One of them wrote what he or she was thankful for- “Jesuses Resurrection.”

They have learned how to spell resurrection correctly, but haven’t learned about the singular possessive of a noun that end with ‘s’.

But I’ve been thinking about this.

If Christ is in us (1 Corinthians 1:27), if we are the Body of Christ (1 Cor. 12), if because Christ lives, we too shall live (John 14), then maybe that little child had it right. We are “little Jesuses” and we too will live! I am thankful for Jesuses resurrection, too!

Note: In looking back over my writings and blogs over the years, I realize I have had several different blogs. To get all my writing in one place, I am porting them over to this one. The date in the title is the original date of publication.

I’ve been thinking about how to live in these contentious days. It does not seem to be getting easier to be a civilized person. And to be a follower of Jesus during all the hatred that is coming from the highest of offices is quite a challenge.

As I was praying this morning, I remembered a drawing that I have yet to hang up in my new home. (We’ve not hung any pictures yet.) Thirty years ago I met an artist in Hendersonville who did wonderful works with crayon and ink. She made a drawing for me of my favorite quote from Camelot (based on the book The Once and Future King, by T.H White). Here’s the quote:

“By God, Excalibur, I shall be a King! This is the time of King Arthur, and we reach for the stars! This is the time of King Arthur, and violence is not strength and compassion is not weakness. We are civilized! Resolved: We shall live through this together, Excalibur: They, you and I! And God have mercy on us all.”

Violence is not strength and compassion is not weakness! I love it!

Excalibur was the mighty sword Arthur drew from the stone. What if we decided that our Excalibur would be the “Word of God” (see Ephesians 6:7), and that Word is Jesus (John 1)? Could we live empowered by the Spirit, so that we face this world with compassion? Could we actually be different from the prevailing crowd?

To quote Arthur from another movie, “It is a dream I have….”

Note: In looking back over my writings and blogs over the years, I realize I have had several different blogs. To get all my writing in one place, I am porting them over to this one. The date in the title is the original date of publication.

Note 2: The next eclipse in the eastern US is coming up April 8. I plan to go to Dayton, Ohio to watch it with Cathy and my niece Megan. Can’t wait!

Some thoughts on today’s eclipse-

I decided I wanted to see it in totality, and since Florence had only around 99%, I had to go somewhere else. Cathy and I scoped out the Santee Indian Mound a couple of weeks ago, and went at the same time as today’s event. Found it to be perfect. Traffic down I-95 was crowded, but never bad. Can’t say the same thing for coming back. Cathy and I decided to take the back country roads home. It gave us time to talk about the eclipse and other things.

If you haven’t been to the Santee Wildlife Reserve and Indian Mound (and Fort Watson), and you live in the area, it’s worth the time. Maybe not in the heat of the summer, but it is a great place. We figured it would not be crowded, and honestly, it wasn’t. There were several hundred people spread throughout the reserve, but no place was really crowded. Before the eclipse started, it was fairly quiet and peaceful. People were talking, children playing, a few dogs running around. There was no loud music, no drinking, just folks getting to know each other. We were from all over the East Coast- Florida, Georgia, North Carolina, Virginia, Maryland, Pennsylvania, Delaware, New Jersey, and New York. People were sharing stories of how they got there, about other things to see and do in the area, and sharing glasses, solar binoculars, and solar telescopes. We were all different ethnicities, and probably a wide variety of political persuasions, but none of that mattered. We were there to see something magnificent up in the sky. What united us was greater than what divided us.

The sky started out cloudy, but by 1:30 it was clear blue! We watched as the moon made its way across the sun. Right before totality, maybe 3 seconds before, when we could see the first diamond ring- which we had been talking about- the crowd moaned with delight. Then when totality came, everyone cheered. You could see three streams of gasses coming out from the corona, just about equally spaced around the sun. To the northwest we could see a few stars. Cathy pointed out one of the things I had not thought about- for 360 degrees, a full circle, the clouds reflected the sun like it does at dusk. Those red clouds that we usually see only in the west, were all around us. The temperature cooled down about 20 degrees, and it was like an early evening gathering with some close friends.

We watched the diamond ring show up again 2 minutes and 36 seconds later. As the sun started showing up again, everybody broke into singing George Harrison’s Here Comes The Sun. Seems like everyone knew it. We were smiling, shaking hands, talking about how good it was to be there. I’ve been in a few worship services like that. It changes your heart.

Of course, the traffic was horrendous getting out. What was easy coming in was a parking lot going out. But that was okay. We were all taking our time, letting each other in the line, talking to people on the side of the road, offering water and soft drinks to people, and wishing them a good trip home. Some even talked about trying to make it to Carbondale in 2024. We will see.

As Cathy and I drove home, two thoughts came to me. The first is the opening lines from Psalm 19-

The heavens declare the glory of God;

the skies proclaim the handiwork of his hands.

Day after day they pour forth speech;

night after night they reveal knowledge.

They have no speech, they use no words;

no sound is heard from them.

Yet their voice goes out into all the earth,

their words to the ends of the world.

And the second was this- what united us was greater than what divided us.

God, that it would always be so, I prayed.

Note: In looking back over my writings and blogs over the years, I realize I have had several different blogs. To get all my writing in one place, I am porting them over to this one. The date in the title is the original date of publication.

Ok. Now that I have your attention, let me say I do not HATE Andy Stanley. I have never met the man. I have read a fair number of his books. Like Will Willimon, he does not seem to have an unpublished thought. And, like Willimon, most of his thoughts are worth considering. We have some theological differences, but that’s not a reason to hate him (or anyone). He seems to be a good man, he loves the Lord, and he loves people. So how can you not like him? But something in me gets riled up by him.

I have the same feelings for Rick Warren, the heir apparent to Billy Graham as America’s pastor, Max Lucado, one of the best story-tellers in the country, and Craig Groeschel, pastor of the largest church in the country. And, just so you’ll know it’s not all of these in their particular denominations. There are some within my own tribe, the UMC, that raise the same feelings in me.

Here’s the issue: I am not them and I do not serve a church like theirs. Every time someone comes to me (and they often do) and say, “Pastor Mike, I just heard the most moving sermon I have ever heard by (fill in the name of any nationally known preacher),” what I hear is, “Why can’t you preach sermons like that?” When someone says, “Well, at that church they have the best process for welcoming non-believers into the church. Why can’t you do that?” I want to say, “Because I’m trying to just keep up with us.” A well-meaning church member told me, “You just need to work smarter.” I didn’t know how to tell them, but this is about as smart as I can get.

Those churches with pastors like Stanley, Warren, Lucado, Groeschel, etc. are different. Not only are they much larger, but they have different needs, and are in different communities. They do not do pastoral care in their congregation. That doesn’t mean people aren’t cared for, it just means that it’s not the pastor who cares for them. If you have an illness, if your parent dies, if your child is in a horrible wreck, in Florence SC, and you are part of a church, you pretty much expect your pastor to show up. And he/she wants to. If you are part of a 25,000-member church with seven campuses, and you see your preacher more often on a screen than in real life, don’t expect him to be there to pray with you before you go into surgery. Perhaps someone from the congregation, or from your small group, will be there, but you cannot expect your pastor to…..well….pastor.

I get leadership “tips” from most of the above-mentioned folks, and some others, almost every day. I’m on about a zillion email lists.  And I like what they have to say. But it’s obvious we’re in very different places. One of them writes about his schedule. “I get up early, spend some time with the Lord, go to the gym, work out and talk with friends there, then get into the office about 10. I’m usually in the office from 10 until 3, where I work on the Sunday service most days of the week. After 3 I go home, spend time with my kids and wife, then read and relax for the evening. And I usually take Friday and Saturday off.” Curious about how that works, I emailed and asked some questions, and, surprisingly enough, he wrote back. I’ve emailed, mailed, and handwritten a lot of pastors, asking questions. Most do not reply. So I was grateful for his.  Here are some of the questions and answers.

Q:“When and how often do you visit your home-bound and assisted living members?”

A: “I don’t. We have very few members like that. Our church was a new church plant, and we reached out to younger adults. We really have very few older adults, and we let their small group, if they are in one, care for them.”

Q: “Do you visit the hospitals when your members are sick?”

A: “No. I watch after my staff and their families. I expect the congregation to take care of itself.”

Q: “What kind of relationship do you have with the children and youth in your church?”

A: “I love every one of them! But I know less than a hand full. I let my staff care for that.”

Q: “How many church meetings do you attend?”

A: “One. I have an advisory board of 7 people in my church. We meet once a month.”

Q: “How much time do you spend with your church doing community outreach?”

A: “Very little. I spend most of my time developing sermons that will meet people’s needs. I find that if I do that, all the rest takes care of itself.”

There were a few other questions he answered, then wished me well.

Andy Stanley says that his church, which started with more people than my current church has, said they wanted to make a church that non-churched people would be comfortable in. And they did that. According to him, you might walk into their worship space and the band be playing old Beatles songs. Nothing wrong with that. I sort of like the idea. But I would feel real bad about all of those people in my church that have loved it and supported it for generations walking out. This is not to say that I don’t want to change, because I do, but there’s a dynamic here that is not in other places.

Rick Warren has all his 100,000 people reading the same book at the same time (usually written by him) for a few months. It’s a great thing. A couple of years ago our church decided to read through the Bible together and use our readings for Sunday school and worship for about 9 months. For some in the church, you would have thought that I had said, “Why don’t we all burn the International Lesson Series in a bonfire.” By the way, the church did it, the people learned and grew and were very appreciative of it, but said, by and large, “let’s not do anything like that again.”

Another one of the pastors said his church gives him the summer off, so he can plan the sermons for the other nine months. I can hear how that might go at my church. “You want to take off for the summer so you can work on the rest of the year? Okay by me, as long as you don’t mind if we don’t pay you for the summer.”

I also know that there are some of my colleagues who hate me. For the same reasons. We have a wonderful children’s ministry, an active and growing youth ministry, and the best preschool weekday ministry in town. I also have the best staff members leading those programs. And I’m sure that at some smaller, struggling church, a church member is saying to their pastor, “Mike Henderson’s church does this…..” and that pastor walks off muttering my name and a few words.

Please hear me clearly. I’m not complaining about where I am or what I do. I am in a church that has some older members “who want to see the preacher, and anybody else, but only the preacher really counts,” some parents of teenagers and children who want me to know what’s going on in those areas and to make sure that everything they do is the best in town, and some younger members who are looking for ways to serve and wondering why we don’t meet in the local pub. I have lots of people who sincerely want to serve Jesus by serving others, and some who are here to see what’s in it for them. I have some who are scared to death of change, and others who are scared we will not change.

Many of them want to see the best at Highland Park, and by best, they mean what they have read about or seen in those other churches. I am sure that those other high profile preachers have struggles, though for all their talk about authenticity and vulnerability, most do not share them with the congregations. Maybe that’s why so many fall, and our hearts go out to them. In my church, people see my shortcomings and failures up close. They see how I am not able to do everything, and the things I do, while they may be the best I can do, are not the best.

So while I do not really hate Andy Stanley and the rest, I am not one of them. And though I do not know what to do to make Highland Park be “the next big thing” among churches in Florence, there are three things I do know. I will just try to be the best me. I will continue to love Highland Park, because they are a great church and at the same time just regular people (like me). And I will find ways to serve Jesus in the world.

Note: In looking back over my writings and blogs over the years, I realize I have had several different blogs. To get all my writing in one place, I am porting them over to this one. The date in the title is the original date of publication.

I’m finishing day 9 of a 30 day experiment- no TV. No network TV, no streaming, Netflix, Youtube.   I read a Fast Company article last week, How Giving Up TV For A Month Changed My Brain And My Life, and it challenged me. So I am giving it a try.

Not that I watched that much anyway. Star Trek TNG, 3rd Rock from the Sun, Call The Midwife, Sherlock, Boardwalk Empire, Maria Bamford, maybe a movie, and then I was through for the night. Okay, I didn’t watch all of those every night, but usually two or three. I’ve made it through this first week okay. And if I can make it through the next couple, I should make it more than the 30, since I’m going to Africa at the end of the month for a couple of weeks. I know, they have TV over there, but I’ll be busy doing other things. I remember being in Belgium years ago, coming in from some touring, turning on the TV in my refrigerator-sized room, and watching The Dukes of Hazard. In Flemish. A waste of a beautiful language.

I’ve noticed some things. First, I don’t (as yet) miss it. Which means I was probably mindlessly watching it. Well, it is the boob tube. And I’ve kept up with important stuff in other ways- radio, newspaper, occasional smoke signal. I don’t need to see videos of radical Southern terrorists to know the harm and damage they do. Or Donald Trump ranting and Hillary Clinton responding. I’ve seen enough already.

Second, I’m sleeping better. I do not usually sleep well through the night. Haven’t for a long time. But I am doing better. Hoping one night to make it six hours in a row.

And third, I’ve been thinking about the shows I used to watch. Not a lot, but about one characteristic that jumps out now. Almost none of them ever have anyone watching TV. The sitcoms, the dramas, even the animated shows, usually have people talking to each other, going somewhere, doing something. My wife is a big fan of HG TV. She loves to watch Fixer Upper. That show and the couple on it have saved HGTV in the same way that Pawn Stars saved The History Channel several years ago. Chip and Joanna Gaines are getting to be more than famous for their TV show as well as what seems like a great marriage. In a recent interview, Joanna revealed that they do not have a TV in their home. Their children do not watch TV. They do not watch TV. Not even their own show.

If people who make a living on TV do not watch TV, that ought to tell us something.

Now I have read most of my magazines. I’ve finished a couple of books. And even begun writing again. Will I make it 30 days? I don’t know, but I think I will. And in the meantime, I’ll get a few other things done.