The difference Between Passing Through and Passing By

We love to sing the old familiar song “This world is not my home I'm just a passing through, my treasures are laid up somewhere beyond the blue, the angels beckon me from heaven's open door and I can't feel at home in this world anymore”. The song jingles in our head and flows from our lips and gives warm thoughts in the heart as we think of the beauties of heaven, the loved ones who are already there, and the thoughts that we will one day dwell there also. I understand the sentiment. But if we are not careful we can be so busy focusing on our heavenly destination that we lose sight of the journey that has been set before us. We rush through life oblivious to the sights, sounds and stories and situations around us. We are headed to glory but we forget the gospel encounter that is enabling us to have the hope of glory. In doing so we fail to communicate the doctrines of grace that will help others join us in glory.

Jesus did not make the mistake of just passing through. In Luke 18:35-43 we read the story of Jesus and the blind beggar. The blind man was sitting beside the road cobbling together a living by the only means available to him. He was begging. He could not see but he could hear and feel the commotion of the crowds and he inquired about what was going on. The people told him “Jesus of Nazareth is passing by” (Luke 18:37). I submit to you that there is a measurable difference between passing by and just passing through. Jesus demonstrates what that difference is.

When you are just passing through you take the easiest route. You take the interstate and by pass the towns and crooked roads and the crowds and congestion. You want to get through the territory and make it to your destination as soon as possible and with limited stress. But when you are passing by you take the interesting route. Jericho was a less than desirable town and there was a road that went around it. But Jesus did not avoid Jericho but ventured right into the middle of it. He waded into the thick of the crowd where he could touch them and feel their pulse. He heard their stories. He saw their struggles and recognized their pain. He stopped and engaged in conversation with the people. His followers did not understand his concern and methods. When the blind man cried out for mercy Jesus’ disciples tried to silence him and blockade his access to Jesus. But Jesus stopped amongst the masses and asked that the man be brought to him. The disciples and the crowds saw the blind man as a freak to be shunned but Jesus saw him as a man in great need. The disciples were in passing through mode but Jesus was in passing by mode and so he stopped and engaged in a dialogue with the blind man.

The blind man was desperate and lonely and needy. When asked what he wanted Jesus to do for him he answered quickly and clearly “Lord, I want to see. It has been a long time since these eyes have functioned. Let me recover my sight”.  Jesus said ok. “Receive your sight”! The man’s vision was recovered and he followed Jesus around the rest of the day, glorifying God, telling people what Jesus had done for him. And all the people who saw it began giving praise to God.

We live in a world that is blind in a multiplicity of ways and for a myriad of reasons. They need the touch of Christ. They need the power of His mercy and grace. They need the gospel that loves and the gospel that saves and the gospel that heals. They are not going to encounter that gospel if we just pass through. But if like Jesus we will take the slower difficult road and pass by and stop and engage them with the power of the gospel, lives will be changed. Jesus himself does not walk physically upon this earth today. But we do. While we do let us tell the story of Jesus and administer the help and forgiveness that Jesus has to offer.  

 

 

Coming and Going

Coming and Going

"Life is about coming and going". That is what my cousin Bill said at his mother's funeral yesterday.  I wrote that down (actually I typed it into notes on my iPhone).

My Aunt Bertie was my mother's sister. She was 86. She had raised five children and worked and volunteered at a variety of things. She and Uncle Ken had been married for 69 years. She had done a lot of coming and going. But she had spent the last twelve years in a nursing home. Alzheimer's had ended her coming and going. But that did not keep her husband Ken from coming and going to her. Twelve years of coming nearly every day to the nursing home to see his wife. Twelve years of going back home to an empty house. Nor did it keep her children from coming to and fro to visit. Coming to make sure she was taken care of and then leaving to take care of the other responsibilities in their lives. I am sure there were times that the coming and going was difficult and probably a few times they asked why. But some things you just do because it is the right thing to do. You come and you go because that is what life is about.

So yesterday we gathered for her funeral. To be honest I argued with myself a little about whether I should go or not. I had not seen her in a long time and I did not know my cousins very well. It would be a long trip and would my going really be that helpful? But her children had come to both of my parent's funerals and some of them had even made the trip to Virginia when my niece died. I had been honored by the care and concern demonstrated in their coming and going. So I decided that I wanted to go and I determined that I should. Though I had not yet heard my cousin Bill say it, I guess something whispered in my ear that life is about coming and going.

So I went. Brock who is always up for a trip came with me to keep me company. We shook some hands and hugged some necks and caught up on a few people. We shared a few memories and sang some of my Aunt Bertie's favorite hymns. We celebrated the life she had lived and we rejoiced in the heaven she now enjoyed. Then we left.

I am so glad that I came. There are some things we just need to stop and go do, because life is about coming and going.  And you know sometimes we get so busy with the comings and goings of life that we forget that life is about coming and going.

Ole Jacks

On Tuesday I had seven hours from the time I arrived in Anchorage from Pilot Station, AK where daughter lives until my flight back home to Illinois. So I left the airport, took a cab to downtown and explored a bit of the city. I visited a museum and then walked down the street to the mall. I visited every floor but I am not a mall kind of guy. I left the mall from the 5^th Avenue exit. I immediately saw a sign that read “Fur Alaska”. I found my way across the street and entered the shop. There I met “Ole Jacks”. That is how introduced himself when I asked his name. He said I used to be “young Jacks” but now I am 80 so I am “Ole Jacks”. The store appears a bit cluttered. One whole wall is covered with newspaper clippings and pictures from times past. Jack himself is sitting in a tiny passage way between two counters partially hidden by a stack of magazines. We begin to visit and he tells me his story. He is native Alaskan. He has lived here all his live except for the time he worked for President Truman during the Korean War. When he came home he went in the fur business trapping and buying furs, selling some and making others into clothing. He got his pilots license so he could travel into far away and remote places in the Alaska interior to buy furs. Alaska is God’s country he tells me at least a dozen times. “Ole Jacks” is good at what he does. I am guessing that fur coats are his specialty. He has made fur coats for Presidents Ford and Reagan and for a Japanese president and for former Soviet President Leonid Brezhnev. He proudly shows me a picture of Brezhnev wearing his coat in the presence of President Ford. “If I can measure a man I can make it fit” he says. He asks about where I am from and what I am doing in Alaska. I tell him I have come to visit my daughter who is a teacher in Alaska and he is interested in how she is doing. We visit for probably 20 minutes. I am pretty sure I cannot afford one of his fur coats. He must know that as well because he does not try to sell me one. Before I leave he says “I think you are a salt of the earth man from Illinois”. I am thinking this man is a salt of Alaska’s earth. I have traveled a lot of places and what I enjoy most about travel are the people I meet, often by chance encounter, along the way. Cab fare from the airport to downtown cost me $40 but meeting Ole Jacks is far more valuable than that. If you go to Anchorage you ought to stop in at Fur Alaska 329 W. 5^th Avenue. Maybe Ole Jacks will be there.

Adventures in Pilot Station

My daughter Brittney made the move to her new home in Alaska this week. After a long flight she arrived in Anchorage last Sunday evening. She spent the next two mornings participating in new teacher in-service and spent the afternoons taking care of details like buying a semester’s worth of groceries, obtaining an Alaska driver’s license, registering to vote, etc. Then on Wednesday she made the 450 air mile journey from Anchorage to Pilot Station Alaska. The last leg of that journey was in a six passenger Cessna. She was impressed that she got to ride in the co-pilot seat. Pilot station is a native Alaskan fishing village, population 800, located along the Yukon River. There is no highway system. It is accessible by boat or by air.

The locals were out in mass to meet them upon their arrival as were a multitude of dogs with their litters of pups. I deprived her of pets growing up but as an adult she has developed a fondness for dogs. She will be living in a three bedroom house that she shares with another teacher. She says the area is pretty. She quickly went to work setting up her new home and is fast making friends with both the local population and the school personnel. The local hangout is the AC store, which is part of a chain of stores that operates in remote Alaska villages. She has made several trips there and bought a coffee mug in which she can get free refills. She has tasted pilot bread. She has learned to use a propane stove and has baked her own bread. She bought a package of Reindeer meat and cooked and sampled some of it. She went to the river at the time when the local fishermen give out free Salmon. I never taught her to fish. But with a little instruction she managed to clean her own fish “I cut its head off and took its guts out Daddy.” It was a big fish. She cut it into 11 pieces, froze 10 of them and cooked the other piece. She reported that it was good. Today she and some other teachers picked some wild berries and they are hoping for another free Salmon.

She is an adventuresome soul. I did not let her have pets when she was growing up and I did not take her fishing. But I did try to teach her to dream and to explore and to not be afraid. Next week she will fly to another village in the school district for new teacher meetings and the next week she will be making preparations at her school. Then the school year will begin. I am confidant that she will do well. She is a brave young lady. I wish I had been as brave as she is when I was her age.

Dancing with Life

When my daughter was a daisy girl scout her troop had a father-daughter dance. No moms allowed. Just dads and their five and six-year old daughters. She bought a new dress and put ribbons in her hair. I bought her a corsage. I put on my best suit and on a Saturday night, on the eve of Sunday morning, we went to the dance. One of the deacons from my church was there with his daughter. We gave each other a gloriously devious grin and we held our daughters in our arms and we danced. I could show you pictures to prove it. But all the proofs I need are the lingering images of my daughters smiling face. That is the only time I ever took my daughter to a dance. But we have done a lot of things together. In those times I tried to teach her how to dance the dance of life. I sought to show her how to dance to the tune of God’s call on her life. She is all grown up now. Her professional career has taken her to the plains of western Kansas and to the ghettos of Mississippi. This fall she will venture into the bush country where she will teach school in the Native American village of Pilot Station, Alaska. People ask me, don’t you worry about her going that far away? Well yeah, but I am her daddy and I worry about a lot of things. But I would worry more if she did not dream and work to bring those dreams to fruition. When opportunity presents itself I do not want her to sit it out the dance. I want her to take hold of the adventures life offers. I want her to listen to the music that God places in her soul and dance to it! Life is not about sitting at the corner table and sipping sodas. It is about getting out on the dance floor. So get dressed for the dance girl! Extend your hands and partner with the opportunities in front of you. Let the Lord put his hand on your waist and follow His lead. Dance!

Experiencing a Tornado

Today I experienced a tornado. The air was warm and it grew still. I heard the warning siren. I watched the weather station reports. I tried to track the storm on my iphone. Indeed the storm was in the area. I put my shoes on and grabbed my wallet and keys. We considered going down the street to a neighbor who had a basement. But it seemed the skies were clearing around us. The dark sky had moved to the north of us. Then the wind picked up and I heard the roar. Hurriedly we got into the bathroom. The lights went out. The moment was scary but did not last long. When we emerged from our cover the skies were clear. But trees were down and the yard was filled with shingles and other debris. Neighbors soon filled the streets to inspect the damage. There were no bodily injuries to report, just frayed nerves. We all seemed to quickly realize that we had dodged the bullet, or rather that the bullet had dodged us. As best I can tell the tornado cut a path that followed the street in front of my house. It did not touch the earth but snapped the trees off about 12 to 15 foot above the ground. Everything that could be loosened was scattered by its breath. Every tree in the church yard and my yard was damaged and will need to be taken down. The fence around my yard is partially destroyed. The windshield on my truck is cracked and there is dent on the front fender. We had a moment of fear. We have been inconvenienced. But we are alive and we are well. The same cannot be said for other communities scattered across Illinois. Six people lost their lives due to tornados in Illinois today. Hundreds have suffered injuries, some have been seriously hurt. Whole neighborhoods have been wiped out. Many people had a house they called home this morning. This afternoon all they had was a pile of bricks. Their belongings and memorabilia are blown away or ruined beneath the heap. So tonight as a lay my head down to sleep I will say a prayer for my fellowmen who have been stricken by great loss this day. I will ask God to comfort and walk with them as they grieve and as they recover. And I will be quick to say a prayer of thanks that the folks in my house are safe and sound.

A Big Daddy

When I was growing up going on a vacation meant we went to visit family. We did not call it vacation we just went visiting. Vacations are something you pay for and visiting meant you got free lodging and free food. Not that we were free loaders because the same family would come and visit us and be treated to the same amenities. A few times we traveled to Indianapolis, Indiana to visit my uncle John and aunt Zuma and my cousins Rhonda, Richard, and Rozi. We were so excited when they moved to Shreveport, Louisiana because that meant we could travel to a part of the nation we had never seen before. So one summer we made our reservation. We loaded up the car and began the drive from Kentucky down to Memphis Tennessee crossing over the mighty Mississippi. We drove across Arkansas and marveled at the flooded rice fields. We drove south to Texarkana and crossed over into Texas just so we could say we had done it. From there we crossed into Louisiana and took note that for some odd reason what we called counties they called parishes. Finally we arrived at our destination where we enjoyed ourselves immensely sleeping on the floor, eating free food, touring Shreveport and just “visiting.” On Sunday we attended a Baptist church which gave uncle John and aunt Zuma opportunity to show off their visitors. It was Father’s day and as custom would have it the pastor recognized the youngest father present, the oldest father present and the father with the most descendants present. Then he announced that he was going to recognize the biggest father and asked all the dads over 200 pounds to stand up. Upon standing he asked them to come to the front where he proceeded to have each take a turn on the scales. My father was always a big man and he weighed in that morning at 237 pounds which made him the biggest daddy present that morning. My brothers and sisters and I thought that was the coolest thing ever and we dubbed our father “big daddy.” We could hardly wait to get home and tell this story. We told it to everyone in the family and to everyone in town and to everyone in church who would listen to us. At least I did. For years to come many of the people at our church affectionately called my father “big daddy.”

On September 5, just two months ago, my “big daddy” died. He was indeed a big man. He was big in stature growing larger than the 237 he registered on the scales in Shreveport many years ago. He required an oversized casket. But he was a “big daddy” in many other ways as well. He was big in integrity. You could trust him. He was big in generosity. Upon examining his checkbook register it was discovered that the last check he wrote was for a church building in Haiti. He was big in love. He was big in faith. He was big in hope. He was big in encouragement. He was big in helping others. It has been a long time since that trip to Shreveport. I think on vacations you are supposed to come home with a souvenir. But I came home with a “big daddy.”

To Brent - with Love, Mother

When I graduated from high school my mother presented me with a poem she had written about me and for me. It is a long poem composed of fifteen 4 line rhyming verses honed in perfect meter. It is a poetic synopsis written from my mother’s perspective of the first eighteen years of my life. It notes, sometimes with interpretive detail, the important events and passages of my life from the time I was born until I graduated from high school. I am sure my mother labored hard writing the poem, giving careful thought to what she wanted to say and was precise with the wording. I am equally sure it was a labor of love.

Upon completion of the poem she enlisted someone who had abilities in calligraphy to copy the poem on fine parchment and then had it encased in a nice frame and presented it to me as a gift. This kind of gift was typical of my mother. I received it with politeness and with words of thanks. But I am sure I probably thought it was a little silly and I did not show it off to many people. Over the years however I have displayed the poem in a place of prominence in my office and ever now and then I would read it. I read it again this week which is probably the first time I have read it in five or six years. I noted that the ink on the parchment is becoming faded and told myself that I needed to preserve the poem in some other format so the legacy of my mother’s thoughts would not be lost.

I preached this morning from Psalm 121 which speaks of the watch care of the Lord in our lives. It says the Lord preserves our going out and our coming in from this time forth and even for evermore. The psalm reminded me of my mother’s poem. For 18 years she had watched my going out and my coming in and she had recorded the events with remarkable accuracy. The last verse of her poem was an admonition to walk with God – to allow God to oversee my going out and my coming in. So in my sermon I showed the congregation the framed copy of my mother’s poem, told the story behind it, noted its purpose and challenge. But I did not read the poem. But some of my congregants requested that I read it tonight and so I did.

I am glad I have the poem. I appreciate the time and effort and love my mother put into it. But honestly that poem has never been especially important to me. But today the poem took on new significance. Today it became a more relevant part of my heritage. For today as I read it I could hear my mother’s voice. I could sense her love and pride and presence as if she were giving it to me all over again. I was reminded once again of who I am and where I came from. I was reminded of whose I am and the journey that I am on.

Reflections From a Cemetery Walk

I am reflecting this morning on yesterday’s walk in the cemetery. I took note of three mounds of fresh dirt (or I should soil. The agronomist in me will not allow me to call it dirt). Each mound represents a life spent. Mixed in with the mounds of soil are mounds of grief. The mounds of grief will linger. But the mounds of soil will not last long. The rains will come, the soil will settle, and the caretaker will come with his rake and level the ground. Grass will grow. I am hoping that everyone associated with the persons buried beneath the mounds of soil are at peace with that person’s passing. I am reminded of an old song written by grandfather Morgan Williams:

If you have any flowers on my grave to bestow
I would gladly receive them today
you may scatter them now while I can cherish them so
Do not wait 'til I'm laid 'neath the clay.

If you have any words that would comfort and cheer
any words that would brighten my way
you may speak them today while I am anxious to hear
do not wait 'til I'm laid 'neath the clay.

If you have any smiles that you freely would give
As an emblem of love's brightest ray
You should give them today while I am tarrying here
Do not wait 'til I'm laid 'neath the clay.

CHORUS: Do not wait 'til I'm under the clay
Let your blessings be given today
Let your kindness be shown ere my spirit has flown
Do not wait 'til I'm laid 'neath the clay.

My 1971 Volkswagen Convertible

The year was 1976. I was 19 years old and had just completed my first year of college. I was driving a 1967 Oldsmobile Delta 88. It was a big old tank with a 455 engine. It got about 10 miles to the gallon. My dad had bought it used a few years before so that my mother would have transportation back and forth to work. They gave it to me and said I could finish wearing it out. In the winter time I had to take the breather off, stick a screw driver in the carburetor to hold the choke open in order to start it. By spring I had grown tired of it and began looking for a new set of wheels. I found what I wanted in an orange 1971 Volkswagen convertible. There were a lot of VW Beetles around but there were not many convertibles and I thought they looked stylish. I reasoned that I could increase my gas mileage 3 fold and be cool all at the same time.

I bought it from a sassy little beautician who was a friend of mine but who would not negotiate very much on the price. She would not budge below $1300. I am sure she could tell that I wanted it. So I wrote her a check and off I drove in my orange Volkswagen convertible. I now had a vehicle I wanted to show off. It was a fun car to drive. You did not want to lug it, so in order to drive it right you had to wind it all the way out before changing gears. Those cars had a distinctive purr to them so people who knew you could always tell when you were coming. The cars were noisy. A friend of mine described it this way: “When I ride with you I feel like I have the motor to my grandmother’s wringer washer in my hip pocket”. There was no comfort to be found in a Volkswagen Beetle. You felt everything on the road. I drove it 750 miles one day and believe me when the day was over I knew I had been on a journey.

I am not sure what really attracted me to the car. Maybe it was the fact that it was a convertible. I did utilize that facet of the car quite a bit, especially when I was in college. My friends and I were even known to put the top down on a winter day and drive around campus in it. The car was quite a novelty. It was sometimes a little temperamental and had to be tuned up often but by and large owning and driving it was an enjoyable experience.

I owned the car for seven years. I drove it the rest of the way through college. I drove it to Kansas City, MO when I went to seminary. During that time I made several 600 mile trips between Kansas City and Georgetown, KY. Many of those trips were made at night after I had already gone to class and driven a school bus for 4 hours that day. I drove it back and forth to the places I was preaching in my seminary churches. During the course of the seven years I put well over 100,000 miles on the car in addition to the 45-50,000 that was on it when I got it. As most any VW Beetle driver would tell you, over that much time and that many miles you are going to have to overhaul the engine which I did. I also overhauled the transmission and had a new cover put on the top. I took my wife out on our first date in that car. Even though she was not a lover of VW Beetles she agreed to marry me anyway. It might be worth noting that she now drives a 2010 VW Jetta and likes that just fine.

By 1983 I was growing tired of the car. I began to think about selling it. It was around that time that my wife and I drove it to Northern Missouri (yes Northern should be capitalized) where I was preaching during the last year of seminary. It was Memorial Day weekend and it was late, close to midnight. I am driving south on I-35 when the light comes on telling me the car is overheating. It is an air cooled engine and when the light comes on you need to stop soon. You cannot limp along to the next exit because by that time you will have generated enough heat to warp the aluminum heads and perhaps do some serious damage to the engine. I pull over and stop not knowing what I am going to do. I have a flash light so I open up the engine compartment at the back of the car and I inspect and discover the problem. The pulley which turns the only belt and of course turns the fan which cools the engine is loose.  My memory is not real clear here but as I recall the pulley is made in two pieces, slips over a shaft, and is held tight and together with a nut and washer. The threads have striped on the shaft and thus there is not enough tension to keep the pulley together and tight so that it can move the belt. I am thinking that if I had another nut, the original nut could serve as a lock nut and I might get it tight enough so that I can limp home. But I do not have another nut and the only tools I have with me are a screwdriver and an 8 inch adjustable wrench. It is two miles to the next exit and there is nothing there and I know that it is 20 miles to an exit that has a station but it is Sunday night on a holiday weekend. And how do I get there? These thoughts are racing through my mind when a van pulls over. They ask if they can help, we discuss the problem and they offer to give us a ride to the station and back. The folks in the van are a little bit strange and I am not sure I trust them. But we are stuck on the side of the road at midnight and we decide to take them up on the offer. They give us a ride to the station where a kid is working who knows very little about mechanics but does help me find a nut that might work. The folks give us a ride back and in the middle of the night and with the light of their headlights I put the old nut and the new nut on the shaft tighten them down with an 8 inch adjustable wrench and hope. I thank the good folks in the van and by their help and the grace of God make it home. I learned a valuable lesson that night that I have pondered for almost 30 years. I learned that there are a lot of strange people in the world. Most of them are probably good people who are willing to help. If we can learn to look past their strangeness they can be a blessing to our lives.

I took the car to a mechanic the next day who fixed the problem correctly. But I decided after that experience that it was time that the orange Volkswagen convertible and I part ways. Within a week or so I placed an ad in the paper – FOR SALE: 1971 Volkswagen convertible. I got a few calls and within a few days along came a guy who was buying his daughter her first car. I could tell in her eyes it was just what she wanted. We haggled a little bit on the price. He offered me $2,000 and I said OK. He pays me and his daughter drives off in the car proud and smiling. I watch her drive away and I think to myself I hope she enjoys that car as much as I have.