Manns Choice, Pennsylvania – It’s Sunday evening and 184 people are crowded into the local Church of God. The pastor notes that that’s more than half the population of this small town in the Laurel Highlands of western Pennsylvania.
They’ve all come out to hear the Byrd Family, country gospel musicians and singers from Georgia. I’m traveling with the group this week, preaching after they play and sing.
After a hymn and a prayer, the pastor introduces Randy Byrd, who opens with a few rousing notes on the fiddle. It’s a foot stomping, hand clapping piece. “Let’s all go down to the river; there’s a man walking on the water….”
For the second verse of the song Randy switches from the fiddle to he five-sting banjo, and then on the third verse he plays the guitar. In a typical concert he will play five different string instruments and, and he’s master of them all.
Randy’s father, Darvin Byrd, plays rhythm guitar and sings lead for the group. In his younger years Darvin was manager for Bill Monroe and the Bluegrass Boys, regulars on the Grand Ole Opry. Then in 1958, Darvin found the Lord. That’s when he left the Nashville scene and formed a family evangelistic team with his wife, who was a licensed Pentecostal evangelist.
Randy was only 7 when his family hit the road for Jesus. Today he jokingly says, “I wasn’t called into the ministry. I was yanked into the ministry. My parents said, ‘Get up there and play that fiddle, boy, or you won’t eat.’” Randy, who now manages the group, has been traveling full-time ever since.
Mama Byrd went on to her eternal reward in 1972. That was not before Randy married Mary, who he met at the University of Tennessee. Although Mary was a Catholic from Toledo, Ohio, she has a good voice and blends with the family perfectly. Today Randy and Mary’s two youngest children, Joseph and Sarah, fill out the group.
Joseph, who plays bass guitar and sings solos, became the youngest person ever (at age 4) to join the American Federation of Musicians. Sarah, a bubbly teenager, has a beautiful soprano voice. Her father teasingly calls her “The world’s only bluegrass percussionist.”
This morning the Byrd Family led the morning worship service at a church in Boonesboro, Maryland. Tomorrow night we will be in Hanover, Pennsylvania, then back south of the Mason-Dixon line into Maryland again for two more dates before returning to Georgia for a couple of days.
Last week the Byrd Family sang in Florida. Next week it will be on to South Carolina, and then back up into the eastern shore of Maryland and Delaware. Almost non-stop they criss-cross the eastern states from Maine to Florida, and as far west as the Kansas/Colorado border large and small of all denominations.
I wondered: What makes them keep pushing so hard? Could it be the romance of the road? Just one week of traveling with them makes me doubt it. The romance soon wears thin; sleeping on the bus in a Burger King parking lot, traveling long distances between churches, arriving early to set up, and then having to stay late to tear down the sound equipment. There is an element of excitement, but is mostly plain hard work.
Could it be they are in it for the money? That couldn’t be the case as Randy has turned down many offers to wok in secular music for many times his current earnings. The Byrd Family members do not see themselves as entertainers or professional musicians, but as ministers of the Gospel. They never set a price, but live only on the free-will love-offerings of the people to whom they minister.
On this tour five pastors in a row have apologized for the small offering. Each has said, “I’m sure the next church will make it up to you.” But the next church never does.
The Byrd Family completed their package of songs in Manns Choice and I preached. They returned to the platform for the altar call. While they sang and the pastor and I waited, more than a dozen souls came forward to seek the Saviour. There was hardly a dry eye in the place. Families were reunited; the whole community was blessed. God received the glory.
The Byrd Family barely received enough offering to get them to their next engagement, but it had been worth it.
Friday, September 15, 2006
Friday, August 18, 2006
A Biblical Answer to Terrorism
Few things in the world give mankind a greater sense of fear or helplessness than does international terrorism. According to one count, a major terrorist incident happens somewhere on our planet once every three hours. Terrorism unrestrained not only afflicts the innocent but has the potential to immobilize governments and wreak havoc on civilization itself.
Much of the terrorism making today’s headlines centers around the tiny nation of Israel. That’s nothing new, for satanically inspired terrorists have plagued Israel since ancient times. The remedy for terrorism then is still applicable today.
In the 13th century B.C., Israel was the brunt of severe terrorist activity by marauders from Midian, Amalek and other neighboring nations. The land of Israel was repeatedly plundered by these “hijackers” until the people were reduced to abject poverty and many fled to the mountains where they hid out in caves and dens.
At last the people of Israel began to cry out to God to deliver them. In answer to their prayers an angel appeared to one of the least likely persons imaginable, a man named Gideon, and gave him instructions on how to end the terrorism.
Gideon’s family was the poorest in the whole tribe of Manasseh, and he was the least respected of the entire family. At the very moment the angel appeared to Gideon he was on his father’s farm threshing wheat while hiding in the bottom of a pit for fear of the Midianites.
God’s messenger instructed Gideon that the way to deal with terrorism was not to hide from his persecutors, but to recruit an army to fight them. Gideon did not take a defensive stance, but with a select hand-picked corps of 300 men he crept up on the main encampment of his enemies during the night. Just after midnight Gideon’s small band surprised the enemy with a piece of strategy which involved psychological warfare. The sleeping terrorists were so confused and frightened that they began fighting and killing one another in a mad frenzy. The Midianites who survived fled into the night. Gideon then called upon Israel’s allies to join in the chase.
During his pursuit of the Midianites, Gideon captured a young soldier from Succoth. Unlike the captured terrorists who we have recently seen freed to return to their diabolical activities, Gideon forced this young soldier to give him the names of all the 77 leaders of the mob. He then returned to the city of Succoth and rounded up the instigators of the terrorism. Although these hoodlums were disguised as political and religious leaders, they were arrested and promptly executed.
Gideon’s actions would cause some dovish souls to see him as a man of violence and bloodshed. Actually Gideon was a man who loved peace and respected human life. By destroying a few terrorists he was insuring the peace and safety of a far greater number of innocent people.
Gideon had no political aspirations. Other tribal leaders of Israel were jealous of his success but Gideon was quick to share the credit and glory, telling them that their actions at the end of the battle were more important than his at the beginning. When the people of Israel tried to make Gideon king he refused their offer. All he wanted to do was live out the rest of his life in peace.
After his victory Gideon lived for 40 years, during which time Midian never recovered and there was no terrorism in Israel.
Those who intercede for peace would do well to pray for another Gideon, bold enough to act decisively against the terrorism so rampant in our world today, without thought for political power or personal glory.
Much of the terrorism making today’s headlines centers around the tiny nation of Israel. That’s nothing new, for satanically inspired terrorists have plagued Israel since ancient times. The remedy for terrorism then is still applicable today.
In the 13th century B.C., Israel was the brunt of severe terrorist activity by marauders from Midian, Amalek and other neighboring nations. The land of Israel was repeatedly plundered by these “hijackers” until the people were reduced to abject poverty and many fled to the mountains where they hid out in caves and dens.
At last the people of Israel began to cry out to God to deliver them. In answer to their prayers an angel appeared to one of the least likely persons imaginable, a man named Gideon, and gave him instructions on how to end the terrorism.
Gideon’s family was the poorest in the whole tribe of Manasseh, and he was the least respected of the entire family. At the very moment the angel appeared to Gideon he was on his father’s farm threshing wheat while hiding in the bottom of a pit for fear of the Midianites.
God’s messenger instructed Gideon that the way to deal with terrorism was not to hide from his persecutors, but to recruit an army to fight them. Gideon did not take a defensive stance, but with a select hand-picked corps of 300 men he crept up on the main encampment of his enemies during the night. Just after midnight Gideon’s small band surprised the enemy with a piece of strategy which involved psychological warfare. The sleeping terrorists were so confused and frightened that they began fighting and killing one another in a mad frenzy. The Midianites who survived fled into the night. Gideon then called upon Israel’s allies to join in the chase.
During his pursuit of the Midianites, Gideon captured a young soldier from Succoth. Unlike the captured terrorists who we have recently seen freed to return to their diabolical activities, Gideon forced this young soldier to give him the names of all the 77 leaders of the mob. He then returned to the city of Succoth and rounded up the instigators of the terrorism. Although these hoodlums were disguised as political and religious leaders, they were arrested and promptly executed.
Gideon’s actions would cause some dovish souls to see him as a man of violence and bloodshed. Actually Gideon was a man who loved peace and respected human life. By destroying a few terrorists he was insuring the peace and safety of a far greater number of innocent people.
Gideon had no political aspirations. Other tribal leaders of Israel were jealous of his success but Gideon was quick to share the credit and glory, telling them that their actions at the end of the battle were more important than his at the beginning. When the people of Israel tried to make Gideon king he refused their offer. All he wanted to do was live out the rest of his life in peace.
After his victory Gideon lived for 40 years, during which time Midian never recovered and there was no terrorism in Israel.
Those who intercede for peace would do well to pray for another Gideon, bold enough to act decisively against the terrorism so rampant in our world today, without thought for political power or personal glory.
Monday, July 31, 2006
Four Brothers in a Three Man Tent
There we were, four guys huddled together in a three-man tent for 48 hours, waiting out a snowstorm. What’s worse, it was the middle of July. It’s not our usual idea of how to spend a summer vacation.
We were camping at 11,000 feet, high above the timberline in the Titcum Basin of Wyoming’s Wind River Range. Crowned by Gannett Peak, the highest point in Wyoming at 13,785 feet, these glacier-spangled mountains are the most alpine in the American Rockies outside of Alaska.
The first two days of our adventure passed in beautiful sunny weather. We backpacked away from civilization into the spectacular Bridger Wilderness area. We were 25 miles from the nearest forest service road when the storm hit. On a small patch of high mountain meadow, surrounded by rocks and snowfields, we pitched our tent to shelter ourselves from what we expected to be a brief summer shower.
Temperatures were in the 30s when the storm struck. It began to rain and hail, then turned to freezing rain, sleet and finally snow. The temperature dropped to 25 degrees. Winds gusting at 60 miles per hour made it seem much colder.
We sought warmth in our sleeping bags, Evening came, then morning, as the storm continued. A short break in the clouds around mid-day gave us hope, and we took the chance to stretch our legs. Then the sky turned black again; the wind increased; the storm worsened.
A sound almost like thunder echoed several times during the afternoon. We peered from our tent. Avalanches of rock and snow rumbled and crashed, as if in slow motion, down the vertical granite walls of Freemont Peak and the other mountains rising a half-mile above us.
The second night of the storm seemed longer than the first. Finally, on the afternoon of the third day it was over. The evening alpenglow on the peaks was especially glorious. The stars shone with an unusual brilliance through with an unusual brilliance through the rarefied mountain atmosphere. The next morning, fragile multicolored wildflowers poked their way through the melting snow and it looked like springtime.
Backpacking in Wyoming, and even a summer snowstorm, was fabulous.
The most memorable part, however, was spending two days and nights with four guys in a three-man tent. What made it even more special was the fact that we are all brothers.
While shivering and waiting out the storm we talked, laughed, prayed, sang, reminisced, debated theology and politics, got on each other’s nerves, let our hair down, and generally had a grand time. A week earlier I had sweltered in 99-degree heat with humidity to match at a church youth camp in Georgia. It hardly seemed possible.
My brothers and I grew up in Tennessee, as part of a family of 12 children, but our separate paths had scattered us. At the time of this adventure we lived in four different states. Bruce and Jeff were both university professors, Raymond a building contractor, and I a pastor. A three man tent in the mountains of western Wyoming reminded us how close we still are in spite of living very different lives.
I have thousands of acquaintances and a few good friends, but if four men are going to spend two days and nights in a three-man tent, it’s best if they are brothers. They’re special.
That’s the kind of relationship Jesus desires to have with us. He said “For whoever does the will of my Father in heaven is my brother and sister and mother.” Matthew 12:50
We were camping at 11,000 feet, high above the timberline in the Titcum Basin of Wyoming’s Wind River Range. Crowned by Gannett Peak, the highest point in Wyoming at 13,785 feet, these glacier-spangled mountains are the most alpine in the American Rockies outside of Alaska.
The first two days of our adventure passed in beautiful sunny weather. We backpacked away from civilization into the spectacular Bridger Wilderness area. We were 25 miles from the nearest forest service road when the storm hit. On a small patch of high mountain meadow, surrounded by rocks and snowfields, we pitched our tent to shelter ourselves from what we expected to be a brief summer shower.
Temperatures were in the 30s when the storm struck. It began to rain and hail, then turned to freezing rain, sleet and finally snow. The temperature dropped to 25 degrees. Winds gusting at 60 miles per hour made it seem much colder.
We sought warmth in our sleeping bags, Evening came, then morning, as the storm continued. A short break in the clouds around mid-day gave us hope, and we took the chance to stretch our legs. Then the sky turned black again; the wind increased; the storm worsened.
A sound almost like thunder echoed several times during the afternoon. We peered from our tent. Avalanches of rock and snow rumbled and crashed, as if in slow motion, down the vertical granite walls of Freemont Peak and the other mountains rising a half-mile above us.
The second night of the storm seemed longer than the first. Finally, on the afternoon of the third day it was over. The evening alpenglow on the peaks was especially glorious. The stars shone with an unusual brilliance through with an unusual brilliance through the rarefied mountain atmosphere. The next morning, fragile multicolored wildflowers poked their way through the melting snow and it looked like springtime.
Backpacking in Wyoming, and even a summer snowstorm, was fabulous.
The most memorable part, however, was spending two days and nights with four guys in a three-man tent. What made it even more special was the fact that we are all brothers.
While shivering and waiting out the storm we talked, laughed, prayed, sang, reminisced, debated theology and politics, got on each other’s nerves, let our hair down, and generally had a grand time. A week earlier I had sweltered in 99-degree heat with humidity to match at a church youth camp in Georgia. It hardly seemed possible.
My brothers and I grew up in Tennessee, as part of a family of 12 children, but our separate paths had scattered us. At the time of this adventure we lived in four different states. Bruce and Jeff were both university professors, Raymond a building contractor, and I a pastor. A three man tent in the mountains of western Wyoming reminded us how close we still are in spite of living very different lives.
I have thousands of acquaintances and a few good friends, but if four men are going to spend two days and nights in a three-man tent, it’s best if they are brothers. They’re special.
That’s the kind of relationship Jesus desires to have with us. He said “For whoever does the will of my Father in heaven is my brother and sister and mother.” Matthew 12:50
Sunday, June 18, 2006
You Can't Believe Your Eyes
How should a pastor react when he catches one of the deacons from his church out with another woman? My wife and I pondered that question over a candlelight dinner for two at a romantic restaurant on the riverfront.
I first saw them when the hostess seated the deacon and his lady friend at a table near the door. We were about halfway through our meal in the back of the darkened room. I was sure the deacon had not seen us.
I quietly asked my wife, “Isn’t that our deacon?”
“Yes,” she answered. “I’m sure it’s him, but who is that woman he’s with?” She didn’t look familiar to either of us.
“Maybe she’s just a business associate.” I suggested, “and they’re working late?” But that didn’t seem likely on a Saturday night, and in such an out-of-the-way place.
Then, as we watched, our deacon put his arm around the woman and gave her an all-too-friendly kiss on the cheek. “Perhaps she’s his sister,” I ventured.
“I know the man’s sister,” my wife replied, “and that woman is definitely not she.”
We both agreed the body language between the two seemed inappropriate for a married man out with another woman. And we told ourselves that surely there was a reasonable explanation.
We finished our dinner and lingered over coffee until it was time to go. The couple’s table sat between us and the exit. We considered detouring around it to avoid embarrassing them in a public place. Then we decided to just act normal and walk right past.
As we neared the table the deacon’s eyes caught mine. “Good evening, Stephen,” he greeted me cheerily.
“Hello,” I responded. Then turning to the woman a great sense of relief came over me. I saw his wife had cut and colored her hair and had lost several pounds. “You look lovely tonight,” I told her truthfully. “I hardly recognized you with your new hairstyle.”
As we walked out the front door I reminded myself of the old adage, “Don’t believe anything you hear, and only half of what you see.”
Some people may counter, “Seeing is believing.” But a person’s interpretation of what he sees can be totally wrong.
*****
A minister friend shared with me the story of Mildred, a church gossip, and self-appointed monitor of the church's morals, who kept sticking her nose into other people's business. Several members did not approve of her extra curricular activities, but feared her enough to maintain their silence.
She made a mistake, however, when she accused George, a new member, of being an alcoholic after she saw his old pickup parked in front of the town's only bar one afternoon. She emphatically told George and several others that everyone seeing it there would know what he was doing. George, a man of few words, stared at her for a moment and just turned and walked away. He didn't explain, defend, or deny. He said nothing.
Later that evening, George quietly parked his pickup in front of Mildred's house, walked home....and left it there all night.
Don't you just love old George?
I first saw them when the hostess seated the deacon and his lady friend at a table near the door. We were about halfway through our meal in the back of the darkened room. I was sure the deacon had not seen us.
I quietly asked my wife, “Isn’t that our deacon?”
“Yes,” she answered. “I’m sure it’s him, but who is that woman he’s with?” She didn’t look familiar to either of us.
“Maybe she’s just a business associate.” I suggested, “and they’re working late?” But that didn’t seem likely on a Saturday night, and in such an out-of-the-way place.
Then, as we watched, our deacon put his arm around the woman and gave her an all-too-friendly kiss on the cheek. “Perhaps she’s his sister,” I ventured.
“I know the man’s sister,” my wife replied, “and that woman is definitely not she.”
We both agreed the body language between the two seemed inappropriate for a married man out with another woman. And we told ourselves that surely there was a reasonable explanation.
We finished our dinner and lingered over coffee until it was time to go. The couple’s table sat between us and the exit. We considered detouring around it to avoid embarrassing them in a public place. Then we decided to just act normal and walk right past.
As we neared the table the deacon’s eyes caught mine. “Good evening, Stephen,” he greeted me cheerily.
“Hello,” I responded. Then turning to the woman a great sense of relief came over me. I saw his wife had cut and colored her hair and had lost several pounds. “You look lovely tonight,” I told her truthfully. “I hardly recognized you with your new hairstyle.”
As we walked out the front door I reminded myself of the old adage, “Don’t believe anything you hear, and only half of what you see.”
Some people may counter, “Seeing is believing.” But a person’s interpretation of what he sees can be totally wrong.
*****
A minister friend shared with me the story of Mildred, a church gossip, and self-appointed monitor of the church's morals, who kept sticking her nose into other people's business. Several members did not approve of her extra curricular activities, but feared her enough to maintain their silence.
She made a mistake, however, when she accused George, a new member, of being an alcoholic after she saw his old pickup parked in front of the town's only bar one afternoon. She emphatically told George and several others that everyone seeing it there would know what he was doing. George, a man of few words, stared at her for a moment and just turned and walked away. He didn't explain, defend, or deny. He said nothing.
Later that evening, George quietly parked his pickup in front of Mildred's house, walked home....and left it there all night.
Don't you just love old George?
Wednesday, May 24, 2006
The Letter and Spirit of God’s Law
One of my little boys came into the house for the evening looking like any kid after a summer’s day of hard playing. I ordered him to go upstairs and get into the bathtub.
Thirty minutes later, my son reappeared in the den wearing clean pajamas, but his hands and feet obviously had not been washed. “Why didn’t you get in the tub?” I asked him.
“But, Daddy,” he protested. “I did get in the tub.”
He certainly had not had a bath, but his protest sounded sincere. I didn’t want to call my boy a liar. Then I remembered how it was when I was his age and said, “But you didn’t put any water in the tub, did you?”
“No, Sir,” he admitted. “You didn’t tell me I had to get wet.”
What was a father to do? Should I laugh? Should I punish my son for disobedience? Should I just be sure to remember next time to stipulate that water be in the tub? I asked him to sit down and told him it was about time I explained to him the differences between the letter and spirit of the law.
Regrettably, our American judicial system is one which does not balance the letter of the law with the spirit of it. The letter of the law, or legal technicalities, matter most. Because of this imbalance in our judicial system our newspapers are filled with reports of known murderers, thieves and admitted criminals who have been set free by our courts because they managed to come within the letter of the law, regardless of how much they violated the spirit of it.
In the courts of God we are judged both by the letter and the spirit of His law. Jesus’ sermon of the Mount (Matthew 5-7) is perhaps the best example on the subject ever given. Jesus made it clear that he had not come to destroy the law, but to fulfill it. He added a new spiritual dimension to the legalistic interpretation of the law given by the Pharisees.
As examples, Jesus pointed out that the letter of the law forbids murder, but the spirit of the law makes it just as wrong to hate. According to the letter of the law it is a sin to commit adultery, but the spirit of the law says that those who lust have committed the same sin in their hearts.
Jesus was a “friend of sinners,” but when it came to the legalistic religious people he could be very harsh. The Living Bible paraphrases His words: “Yes, woe unto you, Pharisees, and you other religious leaders – hypocrites! For you tithe down to the last mint leaf in your garden, but leave the more important things undone.” Matthew 21:23.
Once Jesus stopped for a drink of water at a well outside a village in Samaria. A woman there, one of the best known sinners in town, questioned Him concerning some legalities of God’s law. The answer Jesus gave her still applies to all God’s children everywhere: “God is a Spirit: and they that worship him must worship him in spirit and in truth.”
Thursday, May 11, 2006
Don't Worry; Be Happy!
That’s a simple sounding slogan but it’s a very tall order. Telling some people not to worry is like telling the sun not to shine.
Burdened by debt, Sir Walter Raleigh was once told by his physician to stop worrying or he would die. Raleigh replied, “I can’t stop worrying as long as that debt is over my head. It may kill me, but you might as well tell my cook to order the water in the kettle not to boil as to command my brain not to worry.
According to Dr. John A. Schindler, 50 percent of all people going to doctors in the United States are victims of one disease – worry. Out of 500 admissions to the Ochsner Clinic in New Orleans, fully 77 percent were sick of this same malady – worry.
Studies reveal that heart disease is the No. 1 killer in America. But worry may be then number one cause of heart disease.
Don’t worry; be happy,” is an idea at least as old as the Bible. King David, who had more reason to worry than most, said, “Do not fret because of evildoers.” Jesus admonished his disciples, “Let not your heart be troubled.” The Apostle Paul wrote, “Be anxious for nothing….” All of this can be summed up as a command of God’s word, “Don’t worry; be happy.”
Anxiety is an insult to God. It demonstrates a lack of faith in God’s goodness and power. Here are four scriptural principles to help a person worry less and enjoy life more:
1. Invest time in working instead of fretting. Remember the Old Testament Prophet Elijah in his utter despair. God sent him back to work. Dr. Charles Mayo of the famed Mayo Clinic once said, “Worry effects the circulation – the heart, the glands, the whole nervous system. I have never known a man who died from overwork, but many have died from doubt.
2. Learn the difference between needs and wants. At the beginning of the 20th century sociologists reported that the average American wanted 72 things, 18 of which were necessary or important. When the 21st century dawned the want list had grown to 496 things, of which 96 are considered essential to happiness. In the first century the Apostle Paul listed only two absolute necessities, “… having food and clothing, let us be content.”
3. Concentrate on today. You can’t change the past, and most of the things we fear concerning the future never happen. Paul advised, “Forget those things which are past.” Matthew said, “Don’t worry about tomorrow … each day has trouble enough of its own.”
4. Focus on good things. Look to God instead of your circumstances. Sure you have problems, but God is greater. The prophet Isaiah said, “You will keep in perfect peace him whose mind is steadfast.” Philippians 4:8 advises “…whatever is true, whatever is noble, whatever is right, whatever is pure, whatever is lovely whatever is admirable – if anything is excellent or praiseworthy – think about such things…. And the God of peace will be with you.”
Despite all the good Scriptural and logical reasons not to worry, some people still insist on carrying around an unnecessary load of anxiety. They remind me of the fellow who set an elaborate scheme to keep the elephants out of his garden. When informed there were no elephants within a thousand miles he replied. “See, my system works.” His attitude was, “Don’t tell me that worry doesn’t do any good. I know better; the things I worry about don’t happen.”
Tuesday, March 28, 2006
Song of the Shenandoah
The bear appeared an hour before sunset. When I first saw her she was more than one hundred yards away padding quietly through the deep mountain forest. She was a regal creature – a magnificent beast. I estimated her to be at least twice my two hundred pounds. Her twin cubs, less than a quarter her size, bumbled along behind like a pair of frisky puppies. After hiking almost one thousand miles solo along the Appalachian Trail, this black bear in Virginia’s Shenandoah National Park was the first I had encountered.
The bruin walked self-assuredly, directly toward the log upon which I was sitting. My open backpack lay beside me. I stood to make sure she saw that a human was present. I had heard that a black bear would never make an unprovoked attack upon a human. I thought she would be frightened away upon sighting me. I was wrong on both counts.
She continued in my direction until not more than thirty feet away she stopped and sniffed the air. Her massive head bobbed slowly as she now paced deliberately back and forth in front of me. I nervously focused my camera and snapped a quick shot. Until that moment it did not occur to me that the brute might charge.
It happened with breathtaking suddenness. The powerful beast lowered her head, gave a deep “woof,” and hurled herself toward me like frightful black lightning. My mind screamed “Run!” but my body didn’t respond. I froze in horror.
As quickly as she had charged the bear skidded to an abrupt halt with only inches of empty space and my now-forgotten camera between us. Her wild ebony eyes fixed on mine and the stench of her breath was almost overpowering. She emitted a low grumbling sound so deep that it was more nearly felt than heard. The thought of what her knife-blade claws and dagger teeth could do sent a shudder through me and I felt the blood drain from my face. Every nerve ending of my body seemed charged as if by electricity.
Unwilling to accept the dark demon’s challenge, I slowly backed away. I dared not run for fear that any quick movement might provoke her. Silently I prayed that I would safely reach the nearest climbable tree some twenty yards distant.
From my perch I watched in semi-shock as the bruin buried her entire head into my open pack, lifted it, and snorted as she shook it violently. In a moment she emerged with a plastic bag of gorp (trail food) between her teeth and retreated to the base of a giant poplar nearby where she lay down, ripped the bag open with her sharp incisors, and began to eat. The cubs had disappeared either into the forest or up a tree. I did not see them again. The mama bear had my undivided attention.
As she lapped up the gorp, I cautiously returned to my pack. I didn’t want to be around if she came back for seconds. A hungry park bear who has lost all fear of humans, especially a mother with cubs, can be an extremely dangerous animal. With a watchful eye on the beast I threw my things together and hastily departed.
My original plan had been to spend the night in that spot, where I had met the bear. Now I thought it wise to hike another mile or two before setting up camp.
A light steady rain began as I trudged uphill for the final mile of what had become a very long day. In the gathering dusk this was a particularly good mile for wildlife viewing. I delighted in the sight of eight whitetail deer, including two spotted fawns and two young bucks, proudly sporting new velvet racks. Also, there was a striped skunk near the Elkwallow Wayside where the trail intersected the famous Skyline Drive. A fat raccoon crossed my path at one spot, and a wood thrush eyed me intently from her nest on a low-hanging branch not more than five feet from the trail. However, the preoccupation of my mind was the hungry bear which might be following my scent. After dozens of peaceful nights alone on the trail – this night I was afraid.
My trail guidebook indicated that the Range View Cabin should be just ahead of me. The cabin would be locked, unless it was occupied, but I hoped that the overhanging front porch might at least give me refuge from the rain.
Twilight had come in earnest when I broke into the clearing. Three brightly colored tents decorated the grassy area in front of the cabin. Six young men and women sat Indian fashion in a circle under the shelter provided by the cabin overhang. I noticed that in each of their laps was an opened book. They had not yet seen me. I paused at the edge of the clearing and listened.
Above the gentle whisper of the rain a beautiful melody floated from their lips. It sounded to me at the time like a choir of guardian angels. The words came from the Bibles in their laps, which were turned to Psalm 34:
“O magnify the Lord with me,
And let us exalt his name together.”
I joined in, adding a seventh voice to the chorus:
“I sought the Lord, and he heard me,
And delivered me from all my fears.”
God had provided me a safe refuge for the evening. And six members of my spiritual family were on hand to welcome me.
The bruin walked self-assuredly, directly toward the log upon which I was sitting. My open backpack lay beside me. I stood to make sure she saw that a human was present. I had heard that a black bear would never make an unprovoked attack upon a human. I thought she would be frightened away upon sighting me. I was wrong on both counts.
She continued in my direction until not more than thirty feet away she stopped and sniffed the air. Her massive head bobbed slowly as she now paced deliberately back and forth in front of me. I nervously focused my camera and snapped a quick shot. Until that moment it did not occur to me that the brute might charge.
It happened with breathtaking suddenness. The powerful beast lowered her head, gave a deep “woof,” and hurled herself toward me like frightful black lightning. My mind screamed “Run!” but my body didn’t respond. I froze in horror.
As quickly as she had charged the bear skidded to an abrupt halt with only inches of empty space and my now-forgotten camera between us. Her wild ebony eyes fixed on mine and the stench of her breath was almost overpowering. She emitted a low grumbling sound so deep that it was more nearly felt than heard. The thought of what her knife-blade claws and dagger teeth could do sent a shudder through me and I felt the blood drain from my face. Every nerve ending of my body seemed charged as if by electricity.
Unwilling to accept the dark demon’s challenge, I slowly backed away. I dared not run for fear that any quick movement might provoke her. Silently I prayed that I would safely reach the nearest climbable tree some twenty yards distant.
From my perch I watched in semi-shock as the bruin buried her entire head into my open pack, lifted it, and snorted as she shook it violently. In a moment she emerged with a plastic bag of gorp (trail food) between her teeth and retreated to the base of a giant poplar nearby where she lay down, ripped the bag open with her sharp incisors, and began to eat. The cubs had disappeared either into the forest or up a tree. I did not see them again. The mama bear had my undivided attention.
As she lapped up the gorp, I cautiously returned to my pack. I didn’t want to be around if she came back for seconds. A hungry park bear who has lost all fear of humans, especially a mother with cubs, can be an extremely dangerous animal. With a watchful eye on the beast I threw my things together and hastily departed.
My original plan had been to spend the night in that spot, where I had met the bear. Now I thought it wise to hike another mile or two before setting up camp.
A light steady rain began as I trudged uphill for the final mile of what had become a very long day. In the gathering dusk this was a particularly good mile for wildlife viewing. I delighted in the sight of eight whitetail deer, including two spotted fawns and two young bucks, proudly sporting new velvet racks. Also, there was a striped skunk near the Elkwallow Wayside where the trail intersected the famous Skyline Drive. A fat raccoon crossed my path at one spot, and a wood thrush eyed me intently from her nest on a low-hanging branch not more than five feet from the trail. However, the preoccupation of my mind was the hungry bear which might be following my scent. After dozens of peaceful nights alone on the trail – this night I was afraid.
My trail guidebook indicated that the Range View Cabin should be just ahead of me. The cabin would be locked, unless it was occupied, but I hoped that the overhanging front porch might at least give me refuge from the rain.
Twilight had come in earnest when I broke into the clearing. Three brightly colored tents decorated the grassy area in front of the cabin. Six young men and women sat Indian fashion in a circle under the shelter provided by the cabin overhang. I noticed that in each of their laps was an opened book. They had not yet seen me. I paused at the edge of the clearing and listened.
Above the gentle whisper of the rain a beautiful melody floated from their lips. It sounded to me at the time like a choir of guardian angels. The words came from the Bibles in their laps, which were turned to Psalm 34:
“O magnify the Lord with me,
And let us exalt his name together.”
I joined in, adding a seventh voice to the chorus:
“I sought the Lord, and he heard me,
And delivered me from all my fears.”
God had provided me a safe refuge for the evening. And six members of my spiritual family were on hand to welcome me.
Sunday, March 05, 2006
The Night the Angels Sang
When the doctor entered my sister’s hospital room we suddenly knew from the expression on his face that something was terribly wrong. My wife, mother, and brother-in-law, Sarah’s husband, listened in disbelief as he informed us that her cancer was in the last stages. My sister was only 26; she had three adorable children; she was beautiful, bright and talented; and in a few weeks at most, she was going to die.
Sarah was dismissed from the hospital just in time to prepare for a last Christmas with her family. She went to the shop which sold her artwork near her home in the foothills of the Great Smoky Mountains, and bought back enough of her paintings to give one to each member of her family. Contrary to her doctor’s expectations, she stayed strong for the Holiday by sheer grit and determination.
Sarah’s boys, Charles and Mike, were delighted when they found new sleds under our tree on Christmas morning. Her baby daughter, Debbie, loved her new doll. As we sat around the breakfast table on that happy/sad day, Sarah gazed wistfully out the window and said, “This has been the perfect Christmas. The only thing that could make it better is if it would snow.”
As if the heavens were awaiting their cue, the snow began at that precise moment. Six inches covered the ground by the time the table was set for Christmas dinner.
As the New Year began, Sarah’s condition deteriorated rapidly. By mid-January she was re-admitted to the hospital. I did not know it would be her final evening when I took my turn at staying with her for the night.
Early in the evening Sarah asked if I would sing with her. Over and over throughout the night she would awaken and begin singing again a song which had been a favorite of hers since childhood,
Oh love of God, how rich and pure,
How measureless and strong,
It shall forevermore endure
The saints and angel’s song.
Interspersed with her singing, Sarah prayed. There was no petition – just a stream of praise flowed from her lips to the God she loved. Throughout the night nurses would stand silently in the doorway and listen. It was an unusual worship experience. A warm, strangely wonderful presence I had never sensed before seemed to fill the room.
The next day was more of the same. Between short naps, Sarah would sing and pray. At her request, the whole family came over, a few at a time, to sing with her.
Late that afternoon, Sarah called her husband down to her bedside and told him of her love. She smiled at me with a mischievous grin that spoke volumes without words. Then her eyes darted around the room and she gasped with excitement, “Listen! The angels are singing.”
I heard nothing, but a chill shot up my spine. Sarah sang a few exuberant notes, then stopped and chided, “Come on; can’t you hear the angels? Let’s sing with them.”
What happened during the next hour was not to be described. I felt as if I had been privileged to hold the hand of one who was already living in the supernatural realm beyond.
I thought the air could not be any more spiritually charged. That was before Sarah squealed, “There He is! There’s Jesus!” I looked in the direction toward which Sarah’s eyes were fixed and saw only an empty corner.
And now Sarah seemed to forget everyone and everything else around her, as she beheld her Lord. She weakly reached her arms upward and cried and laughed at once, “Oh Jesus. I love You, Jesus. I want to be with You, Jesus.”
Something rumbled deep down inside Sarah and she expelled her final breath. Her arms dropped; her eyes rolled back. All was silent. She had entered her rest.
I leaned my head against the wall and wept uncontrollably. I’m still not sure exactly why.
Sarah always loved the snow, and a fresh blanket covered the ground the day we buried her. As family and friends watched her casket being lowered into an East Tennessee hillside, I sensed that Sarah was standing there beside us, wearing her mischievous grin.
Friday, February 24, 2006
The World Is Coming to an End
The world as we know it is coming to an end. Planet Earth is literally going to go up in smoke – perhaps in the near future.
Here are some of the startling predictions: No place on earth will be safe; every nation of the world will be involved to some degree. Entire islands and mountains will be blown off the map. The great metropolitan areas will be obliterated as fire falls like rain. At least one third of the world’s population will be annihilated, and things will be so bad for the survivors many will wish desperately that they were dead.
I am no prophet and these predictions are not my own. Neither do they come from an anti-nuke fanatic, a right wing fundamentalist, or the imagination of some Hollywood producer. These prophecies were made in ancient days by men with Hebrew names such as Ezekiel, Isaiah and Zechariah – all of them seers with an uncanny tract record for accuracy.
Did these prophets of old foretell the awful effects of atomic warfare at the end of the age? Will the long dreaded battle of Armageddon be a nuclear holocaust? One cannot say for certain, but for a person speaking in their time, it is difficult to imagine what better expression could have been used to describe nuclear warfare.
Here are Isaiah’s words: “Therefore the curse has devoured the earth, and those who dwell in it are desolate. Therefore, the inhabitants of the earth are burned, and few men are left … The earth is violently broken, the earth is split open, the earth is shaken exceedingly. The earth shall reel to and fro like a drunkard, and shall totter like a hut.”
Ezekiel gives the Word of God: “Surely in that day there shall be a great shaking in the land of Israel, so the fish of the sea, the birds of the heavens, and beasts of the field, all creeping things that creep on the earth, and all men who are on the face of the earth shall quake at My presence. The mountains shall be thrown down, the steep places shall fall, and every wall shall fall to the ground … I will rain down … an overflowing rain, and great hailstones, fire and brimstone.”
Zachariah gives a description which could either be of the effects of an atomic explosion, the resulting nuclear fallout, or both. “And this shall be the plague wherewith the Lord will smite all the people that have fought against Jerusalem; their flesh shall consume away while they stand upon their feet, and their eyes shall consume away in their holes, and their tongue shall consume away in their mouth.”
Certainly, much of the description quoted is in pictorial language. Not everyone agrees upon the interpretation. Still, there can be no doubt that the prophets speak of a horrible destruction to come, whether by war or supernatural forces.
The Bible makes it clear that the fulfillment of these prophecies will be followed immediately by the coming of Israel’s Messiah. To the Christian believer, He is Jesus. First He came as the Lamb of God, slain for the sins of the world. Now we look for Him to return as King of kings and Lord of lords. Jew and Christian alike know Him as the Prince of Peace.
And therein lies the Good News in an otherwise gloomy world forecast. Lasting peace is just around the corner. Written on the cornerstone of the United Nations building in New York is a quotation from Isaiah: “…they shall beat their swords into plowshares and their spears into pruning hooks; nation shall not lift up sword against nation, neither shall they learn war any more.” Isaiah 2:4.
Since the dawn of time man has talked of peace; but his chief legacy has been war. Lasting peace will not come from the United Nations. Neither shall it come from a strong defense system, nor from disarmament. Genuine peace only comes from the Prince of Peace. He shall rule and reign in a new earth with peace, equality, and justice.
To find this “peace that passes all understanding,” one need not wait for Armageddon. Jesus said, “Peace I leave with you, my peace I give unto you: not as the world giveth give I unto you. Let not your heart be troubled, neither let it be afraid.” John 14:27
Here are some of the startling predictions: No place on earth will be safe; every nation of the world will be involved to some degree. Entire islands and mountains will be blown off the map. The great metropolitan areas will be obliterated as fire falls like rain. At least one third of the world’s population will be annihilated, and things will be so bad for the survivors many will wish desperately that they were dead.
I am no prophet and these predictions are not my own. Neither do they come from an anti-nuke fanatic, a right wing fundamentalist, or the imagination of some Hollywood producer. These prophecies were made in ancient days by men with Hebrew names such as Ezekiel, Isaiah and Zechariah – all of them seers with an uncanny tract record for accuracy.
Did these prophets of old foretell the awful effects of atomic warfare at the end of the age? Will the long dreaded battle of Armageddon be a nuclear holocaust? One cannot say for certain, but for a person speaking in their time, it is difficult to imagine what better expression could have been used to describe nuclear warfare.
Here are Isaiah’s words: “Therefore the curse has devoured the earth, and those who dwell in it are desolate. Therefore, the inhabitants of the earth are burned, and few men are left … The earth is violently broken, the earth is split open, the earth is shaken exceedingly. The earth shall reel to and fro like a drunkard, and shall totter like a hut.”
Ezekiel gives the Word of God: “Surely in that day there shall be a great shaking in the land of Israel, so the fish of the sea, the birds of the heavens, and beasts of the field, all creeping things that creep on the earth, and all men who are on the face of the earth shall quake at My presence. The mountains shall be thrown down, the steep places shall fall, and every wall shall fall to the ground … I will rain down … an overflowing rain, and great hailstones, fire and brimstone.”
Zachariah gives a description which could either be of the effects of an atomic explosion, the resulting nuclear fallout, or both. “And this shall be the plague wherewith the Lord will smite all the people that have fought against Jerusalem; their flesh shall consume away while they stand upon their feet, and their eyes shall consume away in their holes, and their tongue shall consume away in their mouth.”
Certainly, much of the description quoted is in pictorial language. Not everyone agrees upon the interpretation. Still, there can be no doubt that the prophets speak of a horrible destruction to come, whether by war or supernatural forces.
The Bible makes it clear that the fulfillment of these prophecies will be followed immediately by the coming of Israel’s Messiah. To the Christian believer, He is Jesus. First He came as the Lamb of God, slain for the sins of the world. Now we look for Him to return as King of kings and Lord of lords. Jew and Christian alike know Him as the Prince of Peace.
And therein lies the Good News in an otherwise gloomy world forecast. Lasting peace is just around the corner. Written on the cornerstone of the United Nations building in New York is a quotation from Isaiah: “…they shall beat their swords into plowshares and their spears into pruning hooks; nation shall not lift up sword against nation, neither shall they learn war any more.” Isaiah 2:4.
Since the dawn of time man has talked of peace; but his chief legacy has been war. Lasting peace will not come from the United Nations. Neither shall it come from a strong defense system, nor from disarmament. Genuine peace only comes from the Prince of Peace. He shall rule and reign in a new earth with peace, equality, and justice.
To find this “peace that passes all understanding,” one need not wait for Armageddon. Jesus said, “Peace I leave with you, my peace I give unto you: not as the world giveth give I unto you. Let not your heart be troubled, neither let it be afraid.” John 14:27
Monday, February 13, 2006
Faith Vs. Wishful Thinking
When Rick graduated from West Point Academy he was assigned to Ft. Gordon, Georgia. It was his first Sunday in Augusta when I met him.
He was a sharp young lieutenant, bright, eager, and excited about the promising career that awaited him. As we chatted following the morning service at the church I was pastoring I asked, “Do you have a wife?”
Without hesitation he responded, “Yes, Sir, I do.”
And where is she now?” I continued.
“I’m not sure about that, Sir,” Rick answered. “I haven’t met her yet.”
Noting my puzzled expression Rick explained. “I’ve been praying for a good wife, and God has given me the assurance He has one all picked out for me. I’m just waiting to meet her.”
It was only a few weeks later on another Sunday morning that Rick and I were talking again in the church lobby.
Enter Edie.
The charming Southern belle from Savannah was a recent university graduate who had just arrived in Augusta to continue her education at the Medical College of Georgia. I introduced myself to her as the pastor, and then introduced her to Rick.
The chemistry between them seemed just right. Rick and Edie’s immediate attraction for each other soon resulted in friendship and within weeks the two became a couple. Before the year was out friendship turned to love, and they asked me to officiate at their wedding. Today they are in process of living happily ever after.
Rick’s faith perfectly illustrates the Biblical definition: “Now faith is being sure of what we hope for and certain of what we do not see.” Hebrews 11:1.
Contrast Rick with another young man I’ll call Ralph. In his late twenties Ralph had a good job, was musically talented and was a faithful church member. He was also bashful.
Ralph used to stop by my office from time to time. On several occasions he asked me to pray for him to find a wife. I did – but Ralph never even had a date.
One afternoon I suggested to Ralph that he consider Jesus’ words: “Ask and it will be given you; see and you will find; knock and the door will be opened to you.” Matthew 7:7.
“It’s not enough to just ask God for a wife,” I explained. “You’ve got to do some seeking; you’ve got to go knock on some girl’s door.”
His response was a long monologue about why he never had an opportunity to meet anyone. Having heard enough excuses I offered to help him compose a classified ad for the newspaper. It went something like this: “SWM, 28, Christian, shy, enjoys music and outdoor activities, seeks SWF for friendship.”
The ad appeared a few days later and in two weeks I saw Ralph again. “did you get any response to your ad?” I asked.
Ralph said he had received about five letters.
“Have you met any of them yet?” I was anxious to know. “Are there any good prospects?’
Ralph told me he had not called any of the women who had answered his ad and he didn’t intend to do so. “I got to thinking it over,” he said, “and I don’t believe I’d be interested in anyone who would respond to a lonely hearts ad in the newspaper.”
Unless a very aggressive woman targets him, Ralph could die a lonely old man. Faith works. But what Ralph calls faith is really only wishful thinking.
He was a sharp young lieutenant, bright, eager, and excited about the promising career that awaited him. As we chatted following the morning service at the church I was pastoring I asked, “Do you have a wife?”
Without hesitation he responded, “Yes, Sir, I do.”
And where is she now?” I continued.
“I’m not sure about that, Sir,” Rick answered. “I haven’t met her yet.”
Noting my puzzled expression Rick explained. “I’ve been praying for a good wife, and God has given me the assurance He has one all picked out for me. I’m just waiting to meet her.”
It was only a few weeks later on another Sunday morning that Rick and I were talking again in the church lobby.
Enter Edie.
The charming Southern belle from Savannah was a recent university graduate who had just arrived in Augusta to continue her education at the Medical College of Georgia. I introduced myself to her as the pastor, and then introduced her to Rick.
The chemistry between them seemed just right. Rick and Edie’s immediate attraction for each other soon resulted in friendship and within weeks the two became a couple. Before the year was out friendship turned to love, and they asked me to officiate at their wedding. Today they are in process of living happily ever after.
Rick’s faith perfectly illustrates the Biblical definition: “Now faith is being sure of what we hope for and certain of what we do not see.” Hebrews 11:1.
Contrast Rick with another young man I’ll call Ralph. In his late twenties Ralph had a good job, was musically talented and was a faithful church member. He was also bashful.
Ralph used to stop by my office from time to time. On several occasions he asked me to pray for him to find a wife. I did – but Ralph never even had a date.
One afternoon I suggested to Ralph that he consider Jesus’ words: “Ask and it will be given you; see and you will find; knock and the door will be opened to you.” Matthew 7:7.
“It’s not enough to just ask God for a wife,” I explained. “You’ve got to do some seeking; you’ve got to go knock on some girl’s door.”
His response was a long monologue about why he never had an opportunity to meet anyone. Having heard enough excuses I offered to help him compose a classified ad for the newspaper. It went something like this: “SWM, 28, Christian, shy, enjoys music and outdoor activities, seeks SWF for friendship.”
The ad appeared a few days later and in two weeks I saw Ralph again. “did you get any response to your ad?” I asked.
Ralph said he had received about five letters.
“Have you met any of them yet?” I was anxious to know. “Are there any good prospects?’
Ralph told me he had not called any of the women who had answered his ad and he didn’t intend to do so. “I got to thinking it over,” he said, “and I don’t believe I’d be interested in anyone who would respond to a lonely hearts ad in the newspaper.”
Unless a very aggressive woman targets him, Ralph could die a lonely old man. Faith works. But what Ralph calls faith is really only wishful thinking.
Monday, January 30, 2006
Gossip: The Sin No One Confesses
Almost every sin imaginable has been confessed to me during the 35 years I have been a minister: stealing, lying, adultery, and even murder. But I do not recall that anyone has ever confessed to me the sin of gossip. Yet gossip is surely one of the most prevalent sins of all, and one of those most severely condemned in Scripture.
Perhaps one reason so few people feel guilty of telling about another person’s faults is because we have developed such clever ways to disguise what we are doing. Much of the worst slander is prefaced with a disclaimer such as, “I don’t mean to be spreading rumors, but ….” That is an absurd statement. Anyone who ever makes it should immediately just shut up, or at least change the subject.
Gossip may be disguised as false sympathy: “Isn’t it too bad how Joe beats his wife.” Some gossip is even passed off as a prayer request: “Now I’m just telling you this so you can pray about it.” Then there is the person who as a question: “Is it true that George and Alice are getting a divorce?”
We also gossip just by listening. If the receiver of stolen goods is as guilty as the thief, is not the person who provides a willing ear the accomplice to the one who bears the tale? I personally consider it an insult when a person brings me a bit of malicious gossip. In so doing he is passing judgment on me, assuming I am the kind of person who delights in hearing such slander.
A gossip may argue, “But I am only telling the truth.” The fact that a slanderous story is true does not necessarily justify its being told. If one man sins and another tells about it, the talebearer may have committed the worst sin of the two.
For example, Genesis 9 tells how Noah became intoxicated and lay naked in his tent. It’s a shame for anyone to get drunk and indecently exposed, especially a preacher.
One of Noah’s sons, Ham, discovered his father’s drunkenness and couldn’t wait to go tell his two brothers about their old man. All he told was the truth. But Shem and Japheth refused to look upon their father’s sin; instead they covered him.
The sons who would not listen to or spread the gossip were blessed and they prospered. Ham, because of his gossip, was cursed and condemned to a life of servitude. Like all sinners who repent, Noah was forgiven. In the New Testament he is later listed in Hebrews 11 as one of the great men of faith and righteousness.
In this scenario God’s judgment against one who gossips was even more severe than it was against the man guilty of drunkenness and indecent exposure. That’s something to think about the next time you hear yourself say: “I don’t mean to gossip, but….” The Living Bible says: “Anyone who says he is a Christian but doesn’t control his sharp tongue is just fooling himself, and his religion isn’t worth much.” James 1:26
Perhaps one reason so few people feel guilty of telling about another person’s faults is because we have developed such clever ways to disguise what we are doing. Much of the worst slander is prefaced with a disclaimer such as, “I don’t mean to be spreading rumors, but ….” That is an absurd statement. Anyone who ever makes it should immediately just shut up, or at least change the subject.
Gossip may be disguised as false sympathy: “Isn’t it too bad how Joe beats his wife.” Some gossip is even passed off as a prayer request: “Now I’m just telling you this so you can pray about it.” Then there is the person who as a question: “Is it true that George and Alice are getting a divorce?”
We also gossip just by listening. If the receiver of stolen goods is as guilty as the thief, is not the person who provides a willing ear the accomplice to the one who bears the tale? I personally consider it an insult when a person brings me a bit of malicious gossip. In so doing he is passing judgment on me, assuming I am the kind of person who delights in hearing such slander.
A gossip may argue, “But I am only telling the truth.” The fact that a slanderous story is true does not necessarily justify its being told. If one man sins and another tells about it, the talebearer may have committed the worst sin of the two.
For example, Genesis 9 tells how Noah became intoxicated and lay naked in his tent. It’s a shame for anyone to get drunk and indecently exposed, especially a preacher.
One of Noah’s sons, Ham, discovered his father’s drunkenness and couldn’t wait to go tell his two brothers about their old man. All he told was the truth. But Shem and Japheth refused to look upon their father’s sin; instead they covered him.
The sons who would not listen to or spread the gossip were blessed and they prospered. Ham, because of his gossip, was cursed and condemned to a life of servitude. Like all sinners who repent, Noah was forgiven. In the New Testament he is later listed in Hebrews 11 as one of the great men of faith and righteousness.
In this scenario God’s judgment against one who gossips was even more severe than it was against the man guilty of drunkenness and indecent exposure. That’s something to think about the next time you hear yourself say: “I don’t mean to gossip, but….” The Living Bible says: “Anyone who says he is a Christian but doesn’t control his sharp tongue is just fooling himself, and his religion isn’t worth much.” James 1:26
Monday, January 23, 2006
Remember the Forgotten Victims of Abortion
I’ll call her Barbara. That isn’t her real name, but every other fact of her story is true. Barbara is the first person who ever confessed to me that she had willfully taken the life of another person.
I was a very young pastor when Barbara came to see me. She didn’t look like a killer. She had a ready smile, stylish short brown hair, and always looked like she had just stepped out of the pages of Dress for Success.
Barbara was a doctor, with a flourishing private practice. Still in her early 30s, she commanded a respect in her community which made her the idol of many other young women. Little did anyone suspect the secret torment she harbored in her soul.
I was not Barbara’s pastor, which is one reason she chose to make her confession to me. She was very active in her church in a neighboring city, but said she just could not bear to tell her own pastor. Perhaps he would be understand and forgiving, but she wasn’t sure she could handle her own emotions in having to face him again every Sunday, knowing that he knew of her great sin.
It had happened seven years earlier while she was a medical student. Becoming pregnant had definitely not been a part of her plans. When she learned she was expecting a baby she had already broken off her relationship the young man who would have been the father. Barbara’s decision to have an abortion was her own. No one ever knew but she and her doctor.
Barbara did have some reservations before she took the life of her unborn child. But she had her career to think about and she had consoled herself that it was perfectly legal. Barbara told me that for a couple of years she thought little of the abortion. She expected to soon forget completely about it. She was wrong.
As a doctor Barbara was committed to healing and saving human lives. Through her practice of medicine she had not been able to escape the irrefutable evidence that human life begins at conception. Many times after a long day of caring for her patients she would find herself going home and crying herself to sleep because of the hypocrisy from her past that came back to haunt her.
It was not only the conviction that came from her medical knowledge that troubled Barbara. Shortly after setting up her medical practice she began to attend a local evangelical church. At first she attended because she thought it would be good for business. In the process she had been convinced by the claims of the gospel. Barbara had asked Jesus Christ to become the Lord and Savior of her life. As she began to study the Bible she realized that God’s word confirmed her medical conclusions – abortion is murder.
When I hear that 26-million abortions are performed somewhere in the world every year, 126-thousand of them every day, that is just a statistic. But when a young woman like Barbara sits across the room and sobs as if her heart is breaking, several years after the fact, it is a personal tragedy.
Barbara’s story should remind us of the hidden victim (or victims) behind every abortion – those who must deal with the guilt of taking the life of the most innocent and helpless. Barbara didn’t need condemnation; she needed to be reassured of God’s love and forgiveness. Through prayer and counsel she left my study that day with her burden lifted.
My prayer is that while Christians denounce the terrible sin of abortion, that the forgotten victims will also be remembered. May God help us to hate sin while we love the sinner. Jesus’ words to a sinful young woman are still applicable to all: “Nether do I condemn you; go and sin no more.”
I was a very young pastor when Barbara came to see me. She didn’t look like a killer. She had a ready smile, stylish short brown hair, and always looked like she had just stepped out of the pages of Dress for Success.
Barbara was a doctor, with a flourishing private practice. Still in her early 30s, she commanded a respect in her community which made her the idol of many other young women. Little did anyone suspect the secret torment she harbored in her soul.
I was not Barbara’s pastor, which is one reason she chose to make her confession to me. She was very active in her church in a neighboring city, but said she just could not bear to tell her own pastor. Perhaps he would be understand and forgiving, but she wasn’t sure she could handle her own emotions in having to face him again every Sunday, knowing that he knew of her great sin.
It had happened seven years earlier while she was a medical student. Becoming pregnant had definitely not been a part of her plans. When she learned she was expecting a baby she had already broken off her relationship the young man who would have been the father. Barbara’s decision to have an abortion was her own. No one ever knew but she and her doctor.
Barbara did have some reservations before she took the life of her unborn child. But she had her career to think about and she had consoled herself that it was perfectly legal. Barbara told me that for a couple of years she thought little of the abortion. She expected to soon forget completely about it. She was wrong.
As a doctor Barbara was committed to healing and saving human lives. Through her practice of medicine she had not been able to escape the irrefutable evidence that human life begins at conception. Many times after a long day of caring for her patients she would find herself going home and crying herself to sleep because of the hypocrisy from her past that came back to haunt her.
It was not only the conviction that came from her medical knowledge that troubled Barbara. Shortly after setting up her medical practice she began to attend a local evangelical church. At first she attended because she thought it would be good for business. In the process she had been convinced by the claims of the gospel. Barbara had asked Jesus Christ to become the Lord and Savior of her life. As she began to study the Bible she realized that God’s word confirmed her medical conclusions – abortion is murder.
When I hear that 26-million abortions are performed somewhere in the world every year, 126-thousand of them every day, that is just a statistic. But when a young woman like Barbara sits across the room and sobs as if her heart is breaking, several years after the fact, it is a personal tragedy.
Barbara’s story should remind us of the hidden victim (or victims) behind every abortion – those who must deal with the guilt of taking the life of the most innocent and helpless. Barbara didn’t need condemnation; she needed to be reassured of God’s love and forgiveness. Through prayer and counsel she left my study that day with her burden lifted.
My prayer is that while Christians denounce the terrible sin of abortion, that the forgotten victims will also be remembered. May God help us to hate sin while we love the sinner. Jesus’ words to a sinful young woman are still applicable to all: “Nether do I condemn you; go and sin no more.”
Friday, January 20, 2006
Just Call Me Christian
Many people seem to be addicted to the pursuit of giving everything a label. Nothing can just exist. It must be titled, categorized and classified.
For example, every bookstore is filled with field guides for the amateur naturalist. It is not enough to appreciate and enjoy a bird for its beauty and song alone. It has to have a name. The bird watcher can look up smugly from his field guide and declare “That was a yellow-billed Cuckoo,” and feel that somehow by naming the bird he has put it in its proper place. Yet he may understand little or nothing about the bird’s behavioral patterns, diet, habitat, breeding, or any of the other things that make a Yellow-billed Cuckoo different from a Yellow-bellied Sapsucker, or a Yellow-breasted Chat.
Label makers find especially fertile ground in the field of religion. To them, every belief and every believer must be neatly tucked away into a slot.
When I was growing up in the mountains of East Tennessee, they called people at the church I attended at that time “Holy Rollers.” Kids at school would ask me if it were true that in our church we turned off the lights and rolled on the floor. We didn’t but sometimes I think we came close.
“Holy Roller” was considered a slangy term which our church indignantly disclaimed. Long before my time, way back in 1915, the Church of God denomination had passed a resolution repudiating the title as a “slanderous and malignant offense.” My parents taught me early that I was not a “Holy Roller.” If not a Holy Roller, then I wanted to know what I was.
“Protestant” is one answer I received. However, the term “protestant” is a most negative one, and in my own personal spiritual pilgrimage I have discovered that serving God is the most positive lifestyle one can live. I’m not protesting anything. Perhaps “Catholic” would be a more apt term to describe the way I feel about the church, for I see myself as a part of the universal, or catholic, body of Christ. Yet many who belong to the Roman branch of the church might not appreciate my saying I am Catholic unless I give allegiance to the Pope.
While studying theology in college a teacher informed me that I was a “Fundamentalist.” In fact I do believe in the fundamental tenants of the Christian faith. But as a writer I have been attacked more by Fundamentalist Christians than any other group. From many angry letters-to-the-editor I’ve learned that many Fundamentalists don’t consider me a part of their camp.
“Pentecostal” is a category into which many would put me. Yet Pentecostals themselves are so divided that I have a difficult time deciding into which of their slots I fit, if any. There are classical, neo, progressive, old line, liberated and post-Pentecostals, to name a few. Some Pentecostals have called me “Charismatic,” but most hard-core Charismatics don’t consider me to be one of them.
Many of the terms people use to distinguish themselves are broad almost to the point of being meaningless. For example, some say they are “New Testament Christians,” but whoever heard of a Christian who disclaimed the New Testament? Many call themselves “Full Gospel,” but no one admits to being “Half Gospel.” Others use the term “Spirit Filled,” and so do I, yet, the term is open to a score of different theological interpretations.
“Born Again” once seemed to me a powerful term which adequately described the dramatic change Christ makes in a life. However, in recent years that term has been so secularized that it has lost its original punch. At times I have referred to myself as an “Evangelical,” but some people always mistake that to mean that I have the gift of an evangelist, which I don’t.
So please don’t put me in a box. If I have a label I’m sure to fall short of somebody’s expectations. Really, it takes all the effort I’ve got just to try to live up to the name “Christian.”
For example, every bookstore is filled with field guides for the amateur naturalist. It is not enough to appreciate and enjoy a bird for its beauty and song alone. It has to have a name. The bird watcher can look up smugly from his field guide and declare “That was a yellow-billed Cuckoo,” and feel that somehow by naming the bird he has put it in its proper place. Yet he may understand little or nothing about the bird’s behavioral patterns, diet, habitat, breeding, or any of the other things that make a Yellow-billed Cuckoo different from a Yellow-bellied Sapsucker, or a Yellow-breasted Chat.
Label makers find especially fertile ground in the field of religion. To them, every belief and every believer must be neatly tucked away into a slot.
When I was growing up in the mountains of East Tennessee, they called people at the church I attended at that time “Holy Rollers.” Kids at school would ask me if it were true that in our church we turned off the lights and rolled on the floor. We didn’t but sometimes I think we came close.
“Holy Roller” was considered a slangy term which our church indignantly disclaimed. Long before my time, way back in 1915, the Church of God denomination had passed a resolution repudiating the title as a “slanderous and malignant offense.” My parents taught me early that I was not a “Holy Roller.” If not a Holy Roller, then I wanted to know what I was.
“Protestant” is one answer I received. However, the term “protestant” is a most negative one, and in my own personal spiritual pilgrimage I have discovered that serving God is the most positive lifestyle one can live. I’m not protesting anything. Perhaps “Catholic” would be a more apt term to describe the way I feel about the church, for I see myself as a part of the universal, or catholic, body of Christ. Yet many who belong to the Roman branch of the church might not appreciate my saying I am Catholic unless I give allegiance to the Pope.
While studying theology in college a teacher informed me that I was a “Fundamentalist.” In fact I do believe in the fundamental tenants of the Christian faith. But as a writer I have been attacked more by Fundamentalist Christians than any other group. From many angry letters-to-the-editor I’ve learned that many Fundamentalists don’t consider me a part of their camp.
“Pentecostal” is a category into which many would put me. Yet Pentecostals themselves are so divided that I have a difficult time deciding into which of their slots I fit, if any. There are classical, neo, progressive, old line, liberated and post-Pentecostals, to name a few. Some Pentecostals have called me “Charismatic,” but most hard-core Charismatics don’t consider me to be one of them.
Many of the terms people use to distinguish themselves are broad almost to the point of being meaningless. For example, some say they are “New Testament Christians,” but whoever heard of a Christian who disclaimed the New Testament? Many call themselves “Full Gospel,” but no one admits to being “Half Gospel.” Others use the term “Spirit Filled,” and so do I, yet, the term is open to a score of different theological interpretations.
“Born Again” once seemed to me a powerful term which adequately described the dramatic change Christ makes in a life. However, in recent years that term has been so secularized that it has lost its original punch. At times I have referred to myself as an “Evangelical,” but some people always mistake that to mean that I have the gift of an evangelist, which I don’t.
So please don’t put me in a box. If I have a label I’m sure to fall short of somebody’s expectations. Really, it takes all the effort I’ve got just to try to live up to the name “Christian.”
Tuesday, January 17, 2006
Please Don't Call Me Reverend!
Just one month after I was first married in 1965, my new bride and I had one of our first disagreements, and it was over whether or not I was a Reverend. She thought I was, but I insisted I wasn’t.
In those days I was Associate Pastor of a church and she was a first grade teacher. Her school was selling “personalized” Christmas cards as a fundraiser. My wife brought home two boxes which she had ordered a few weeks before our October wedding, and they were imprinted with “Rev. and Mrs. J. Stephen Conn.”
There were two things I didn’t like about the cards. First, nothing is much more impersonal than a Christmas card on which the name is imprinted rather than signed. But much worse was the pretentious title, “Reverend.” The cards sat in a drawer for several years before we finally threw them away.
The truth is, all the mail I receive from my denominational headquarters prefaces my name with “The Reverend,” so I suppose the title is legitimate. But after 35 years as an ordained minister I have never called myself Reverend, and I still shudder whenever anyone else does. Even worse is to call a person “The Most Reverend,” “The Right Reverend” or “The Very Reverend.”
Reverend means quite literally “worthy of reverence,” or “holy.” That which is reverend is to be regarded with profound respect and honor to the point of worship and adoration. Frankly, I don’t qualify. And neither does anyone else I have ever known, clergy or otherwise. We are all still better described by the bumper sicker; “Christians aren’t perfect – just forgiven.”
Has any pastor ever actually felt that he stood on a pedestal smiling benevolently down on the flock, basking in their praise, and bestowing them with blessings? God forbid! Whenever I preach, I have always felt that I was simply one beggar telling another beggar where he could find bread. My message is: “Fellow pilgrim, I haven’t arrived yet either. But come on; take my hand; we can make it together.”
If “Reverend” is a proper title then surely it should be the highest thing one could be called. Yet it has always amused me that many who call themselves “Rev.” are quick to drop the term in preference to putting a “Dr.” before their name. Those whose “doctorates” come by mail-order are usually the most eager to flaunt the title. But if a person may rightly be called reverend then surely that should be preferred above doctor. It is greater to be holy than it is to be educated.
Some may think I am showing a “holier-than-thou” attitude in expressing my personal prejudice against a title which is used by many wonderful people. If so, let me admit that for many years I allowed myself to be called reverend in two areas.
First is the telephone book. Actually I never told the telephone company that was my title. But they asked my occupation when I applied for service and then when the book came out it was listed that way. I later changed the listing and the title was dropped.
The other place where my name was prefixed with “Rev.” was on my checkbook. My wife handles the check book most of the time, and she said it might help in cashing a check (which I have always doubted.)
One day I used a personal check at a store where I was unknown. The clerk glanced at the check then looked up at me and said with sarcasm, “Rev., huh? The last time we got one of these with rev. on it , it bounced.”
That did it. I ordered new checks that very day with the title deleted. You can call me mister; you can call me brother. Better yet, call me Stephen. But please, don’t call me reverend.
In those days I was Associate Pastor of a church and she was a first grade teacher. Her school was selling “personalized” Christmas cards as a fundraiser. My wife brought home two boxes which she had ordered a few weeks before our October wedding, and they were imprinted with “Rev. and Mrs. J. Stephen Conn.”
There were two things I didn’t like about the cards. First, nothing is much more impersonal than a Christmas card on which the name is imprinted rather than signed. But much worse was the pretentious title, “Reverend.” The cards sat in a drawer for several years before we finally threw them away.
The truth is, all the mail I receive from my denominational headquarters prefaces my name with “The Reverend,” so I suppose the title is legitimate. But after 35 years as an ordained minister I have never called myself Reverend, and I still shudder whenever anyone else does. Even worse is to call a person “The Most Reverend,” “The Right Reverend” or “The Very Reverend.”
Reverend means quite literally “worthy of reverence,” or “holy.” That which is reverend is to be regarded with profound respect and honor to the point of worship and adoration. Frankly, I don’t qualify. And neither does anyone else I have ever known, clergy or otherwise. We are all still better described by the bumper sicker; “Christians aren’t perfect – just forgiven.”
Has any pastor ever actually felt that he stood on a pedestal smiling benevolently down on the flock, basking in their praise, and bestowing them with blessings? God forbid! Whenever I preach, I have always felt that I was simply one beggar telling another beggar where he could find bread. My message is: “Fellow pilgrim, I haven’t arrived yet either. But come on; take my hand; we can make it together.”
If “Reverend” is a proper title then surely it should be the highest thing one could be called. Yet it has always amused me that many who call themselves “Rev.” are quick to drop the term in preference to putting a “Dr.” before their name. Those whose “doctorates” come by mail-order are usually the most eager to flaunt the title. But if a person may rightly be called reverend then surely that should be preferred above doctor. It is greater to be holy than it is to be educated.
Some may think I am showing a “holier-than-thou” attitude in expressing my personal prejudice against a title which is used by many wonderful people. If so, let me admit that for many years I allowed myself to be called reverend in two areas.
First is the telephone book. Actually I never told the telephone company that was my title. But they asked my occupation when I applied for service and then when the book came out it was listed that way. I later changed the listing and the title was dropped.
The other place where my name was prefixed with “Rev.” was on my checkbook. My wife handles the check book most of the time, and she said it might help in cashing a check (which I have always doubted.)
One day I used a personal check at a store where I was unknown. The clerk glanced at the check then looked up at me and said with sarcasm, “Rev., huh? The last time we got one of these with rev. on it , it bounced.”
That did it. I ordered new checks that very day with the title deleted. You can call me mister; you can call me brother. Better yet, call me Stephen. But please, don’t call me reverend.
Thursday, January 05, 2006
Entering the Holy Land
AMMAN, JORDAN: Arriving alone in Amman, Jordan in the spring of 1985 presented no problems. An immigration officer at the airport matter-of-factly gave me a 30-day visa.
Two days earlier in Istanbul (see previous post,) I had been separated from the tour group with which I was traveling to the Holy Land. My problem had been compounded by the fact that I was the only non-Methodist in a group comprised of Methodist ministers. I later learned that concluded I had used their group to get to Turkey, and that our unscheduled stop in that country had been part of some clandestine plan. They had gone ahead without me, giving it little more thought. When I arrived in Jordan, they had already left that country by bus and were somewhere in Israel.
It was evening when I landed in Amman. I checked into a hotel, expecting to buy a ticket the next morning for the two hour bus trip to Jerusalem. That morning a travel agent near the hotel gave me the distressing news. Israel and Jordan were officially at war with each other, and have been since the six day war of 1967. There is absolutely no public transportation between the two countries.
“A tour group is different,” the agent explained. “Both Jordan and Israel need the tourist dollars, so they have an agreement to allow foreign pilgrims to cross the border with a special visa. There is no way a person can make the journey alone.”
Back at my hotel I began calling in search of a tour group. Eureka! There was a bus load of Christian pilgrims eating a late breakfast at a hotel across the city. In less than an hour they were leaving for Israel.
I ran to catch a taxi. Arriving at the hotel restaurant which was full of Americans, I asked for the tour leader. To my delight he turned out to be Kash Amburgy, a Pentecostal preacher from Lebanon, Ohio. When I introduced myself he said he was an old acquaintance of my father.
Sitting in the back of the bus, traveling toward the Israeli border, I felt great. “God is so good,” I thought. I had an unexpected adventure in Istanbul, and now I’m safely on my way to Jerusalem.”
As we neared the border it was obvious we were in a war zone. There were soldiers, tanks, and bunkers at frequent intervals. About 100 years short of where the Allenby Bridge crosses the Jordan River into Israel, the bus came to a halt. Twenty soldiers armed with submachine guns surrounded us. Mr. Amburgy assured our group that this was just a routine stop.
One soldier boarded the bus and walked down the aisle checking passports. When he looked at mine his stoical expression suddenly changed. “You don’t belong on this bus,” he growled. “Come with me.”
A young couple with whom I had been talking became frantic. “Quick,” they insisted. “Give us your home telephone number. We’ll call your family and tell them where you are. I tossed them my card as the soldier yanked me off the bus.
The 20 soldiers outside gathered around me, much as those had done a couple of days earlier at the airport in Istanbul, except these seemed even more excited. Across the river Israeli artillery was pointed toward the Jordanians through bunkers and barbed wire. I prayed beneath my breath, “Lord, please get me over to that side of the river.”
From the stamp in my passport It was evident to the soldiers I had entered Jordan alone, from Turkey, and was not part of this group from Ohio. Under the hot desert sun they seemed to argue endlessly among themselves concerning how to handle the matter.
All of a sudden Mr. Amburgy, with holy boldness, cam e storming off the bus. With a red face and a loud commanding voice he waded into the circle of soldiers. “This boy’s with me; I know his daddy. He comes from a very important family back in America. Now you let him go!
To my utter amazement the officer who seemed to be in charge gave a disgusted grunt and motioned us both back onto the bus. We rolled over the Allenby Bridge, across the muddy Jordan, and into the Promised Land.
Two days earlier in Istanbul (see previous post,) I had been separated from the tour group with which I was traveling to the Holy Land. My problem had been compounded by the fact that I was the only non-Methodist in a group comprised of Methodist ministers. I later learned that concluded I had used their group to get to Turkey, and that our unscheduled stop in that country had been part of some clandestine plan. They had gone ahead without me, giving it little more thought. When I arrived in Jordan, they had already left that country by bus and were somewhere in Israel.
It was evening when I landed in Amman. I checked into a hotel, expecting to buy a ticket the next morning for the two hour bus trip to Jerusalem. That morning a travel agent near the hotel gave me the distressing news. Israel and Jordan were officially at war with each other, and have been since the six day war of 1967. There is absolutely no public transportation between the two countries.
“A tour group is different,” the agent explained. “Both Jordan and Israel need the tourist dollars, so they have an agreement to allow foreign pilgrims to cross the border with a special visa. There is no way a person can make the journey alone.”
Back at my hotel I began calling in search of a tour group. Eureka! There was a bus load of Christian pilgrims eating a late breakfast at a hotel across the city. In less than an hour they were leaving for Israel.
I ran to catch a taxi. Arriving at the hotel restaurant which was full of Americans, I asked for the tour leader. To my delight he turned out to be Kash Amburgy, a Pentecostal preacher from Lebanon, Ohio. When I introduced myself he said he was an old acquaintance of my father.
Sitting in the back of the bus, traveling toward the Israeli border, I felt great. “God is so good,” I thought. I had an unexpected adventure in Istanbul, and now I’m safely on my way to Jerusalem.”
As we neared the border it was obvious we were in a war zone. There were soldiers, tanks, and bunkers at frequent intervals. About 100 years short of where the Allenby Bridge crosses the Jordan River into Israel, the bus came to a halt. Twenty soldiers armed with submachine guns surrounded us. Mr. Amburgy assured our group that this was just a routine stop.
One soldier boarded the bus and walked down the aisle checking passports. When he looked at mine his stoical expression suddenly changed. “You don’t belong on this bus,” he growled. “Come with me.”
A young couple with whom I had been talking became frantic. “Quick,” they insisted. “Give us your home telephone number. We’ll call your family and tell them where you are. I tossed them my card as the soldier yanked me off the bus.
The 20 soldiers outside gathered around me, much as those had done a couple of days earlier at the airport in Istanbul, except these seemed even more excited. Across the river Israeli artillery was pointed toward the Jordanians through bunkers and barbed wire. I prayed beneath my breath, “Lord, please get me over to that side of the river.”
From the stamp in my passport It was evident to the soldiers I had entered Jordan alone, from Turkey, and was not part of this group from Ohio. Under the hot desert sun they seemed to argue endlessly among themselves concerning how to handle the matter.
All of a sudden Mr. Amburgy, with holy boldness, cam e storming off the bus. With a red face and a loud commanding voice he waded into the circle of soldiers. “This boy’s with me; I know his daddy. He comes from a very important family back in America. Now you let him go!
To my utter amazement the officer who seemed to be in charge gave a disgusted grunt and motioned us both back onto the bus. We rolled over the Allenby Bridge, across the muddy Jordan, and into the Promised Land.
Monday, January 02, 2006
An Arresting Experience in Istanbul
ISTANBUL, TURKEY: I was en-route to the Holy Land, in early spring, 1985, flying from Amsterdam, Netherlands, to Amman Jordan, on a KLM Airlines 747. The captain’s voice came over the speaker, “Ladies and gentlemen, we are going to make an unscheduled stop in Istanbul, Turkey. We’ll be on the ground for about one hour.” No explanation was give as to the purpose of the stop.
What great luck, I thought. That’s just long enough to say that I’ve been to Istanbul, ancient Constantinople.
Viewing the exotic Moslem city from the air made my pulse quicken. The skyline, with its numerous domed mosques looked like something out of a Rudyard Kipling novel. In the outlying fields shepherds herded their flocks.
The airport was heavily guarded. Armed soldiers stood on elevated platforms above the high fence which surrounded the runway. In my excitement I didn’t hear the announcement that all passengers were to remain on board. I’ll never know why I wasn’t stop as I walked off the plane.
The best souvenir I could imagine was not a trinket from an airport gift shop, but a stamp in my passport. Without any luggage, I walked through customs unhindered. At the immigration desk I presented my passport for the coveted stamp, and received it without a hitch.
Walking outside the airport, I took a deep breath and smiled to myself. “So this is the legendary Turkish capital.” I walked around the front of the airport to see as much as I could. Forty minutes of the allotted one hour passed. Just to be safe, I decided to re-board the plane.
That’s when two armed guards stopped me at the airport entrance. “Ticket,” they demanded. That seemed to be about the only word they knew in English. The other word was “No!” which they repeated with increasing vehemence as I tried vainly to explain to them my situation.
When I made an effort to enter the airport above their protest, they pressed the barrels of their submachine guns into my stomach.
I’ve never seen anyone prouder than these two young Turks as they marched me off to the police sub-station in the airport. I was taken into a bare room where one stood guard over me while the other went for assistance.
Soon I was surrounded by a dozen angry looking dark-faced men in uniform. One of them spoke English. He demanded my passport. With exaggerated motions he crossed out my immigration stamp, scribbling something beside it in Turkish. I glanced out the window just in time to see my flight taxiing onto the runway. My heart sank; the blood drained from my white face.
I was informed I had entered the country illegally. My ticket was from Atlanta to Amsterdam and from there to Amman. I didn’t have passage into our out of Turkey. The officer gravely shook his head, “This is very serious.”
For more than an hour I stood in the middle of the room, praying silently while the police argued among themselves in excited tones as to what to do with me. Through the interpreter I laboriously explained again and again how I had arrived in their country.
Finally they must have decided I wasn’t subversive – just stupid. The English-speaking officer turned to be with a wide grin which showed a missing front tooth. Returning my passport he said in a pronounced accent. “Velcome to Istanbul. You may go now.”
The first flight I was able to book to Amman was 26 hours later via Royal Jordanian Airlines. They were very kind to offer me free passage. Twenty-six hours gave me the opportunity for a fascinating day of exploration. A taxi took me to a hotel near the Bosporus Bridge, which connects Europe with Asia.
The next morning, while visiting the famed Blue Mosque, I met a local young man who was eager to practice his English. I accepted his invitation to have afternoon tea with his family. He treated me as an honored guest and proudly showed me off to his friends and neighbors. It was an experience I would not have wanted to have missed.
Little did I know that in only 48 hours, on a lonely Jordanian road, near the place where Moses looked over into the Promised Land, I would be arrested again.
What great luck, I thought. That’s just long enough to say that I’ve been to Istanbul, ancient Constantinople.
Viewing the exotic Moslem city from the air made my pulse quicken. The skyline, with its numerous domed mosques looked like something out of a Rudyard Kipling novel. In the outlying fields shepherds herded their flocks.
The airport was heavily guarded. Armed soldiers stood on elevated platforms above the high fence which surrounded the runway. In my excitement I didn’t hear the announcement that all passengers were to remain on board. I’ll never know why I wasn’t stop as I walked off the plane.
The best souvenir I could imagine was not a trinket from an airport gift shop, but a stamp in my passport. Without any luggage, I walked through customs unhindered. At the immigration desk I presented my passport for the coveted stamp, and received it without a hitch.
Walking outside the airport, I took a deep breath and smiled to myself. “So this is the legendary Turkish capital.” I walked around the front of the airport to see as much as I could. Forty minutes of the allotted one hour passed. Just to be safe, I decided to re-board the plane.
That’s when two armed guards stopped me at the airport entrance. “Ticket,” they demanded. That seemed to be about the only word they knew in English. The other word was “No!” which they repeated with increasing vehemence as I tried vainly to explain to them my situation.
When I made an effort to enter the airport above their protest, they pressed the barrels of their submachine guns into my stomach.
I’ve never seen anyone prouder than these two young Turks as they marched me off to the police sub-station in the airport. I was taken into a bare room where one stood guard over me while the other went for assistance.
Soon I was surrounded by a dozen angry looking dark-faced men in uniform. One of them spoke English. He demanded my passport. With exaggerated motions he crossed out my immigration stamp, scribbling something beside it in Turkish. I glanced out the window just in time to see my flight taxiing onto the runway. My heart sank; the blood drained from my white face.
I was informed I had entered the country illegally. My ticket was from Atlanta to Amsterdam and from there to Amman. I didn’t have passage into our out of Turkey. The officer gravely shook his head, “This is very serious.”
For more than an hour I stood in the middle of the room, praying silently while the police argued among themselves in excited tones as to what to do with me. Through the interpreter I laboriously explained again and again how I had arrived in their country.
Finally they must have decided I wasn’t subversive – just stupid. The English-speaking officer turned to be with a wide grin which showed a missing front tooth. Returning my passport he said in a pronounced accent. “Velcome to Istanbul. You may go now.”
The first flight I was able to book to Amman was 26 hours later via Royal Jordanian Airlines. They were very kind to offer me free passage. Twenty-six hours gave me the opportunity for a fascinating day of exploration. A taxi took me to a hotel near the Bosporus Bridge, which connects Europe with Asia.
The next morning, while visiting the famed Blue Mosque, I met a local young man who was eager to practice his English. I accepted his invitation to have afternoon tea with his family. He treated me as an honored guest and proudly showed me off to his friends and neighbors. It was an experience I would not have wanted to have missed.
Little did I know that in only 48 hours, on a lonely Jordanian road, near the place where Moses looked over into the Promised Land, I would be arrested again.
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