Good morning church family,

Imagine that your body is a castle and your spirit the precious life within. Imagine your castle’s treasury to be so rich in peace and joy, that you must make a fortress of yourself lest the pillaging barbarians pour in. Now scan the perimeter of your castle walls. Where are its weakest points? Should you set a guard at your toes? Should ramparts be built at your elbows, marksmen positioned in turrets atop your knuckles, and a moat dug around your belly button? Could the strategy of the barbarians really be to launch their attack at your digits, bones, and joints? I suppose anything is possible but those parts of the wall are fairly impregnable. Access to the inner realm is simply not granted at those spots. Go ahead – let the enemy lay siege to your toes and amass their entire army there. Let them roll in the trebuchet and pile a mountain of stones beside. Let the archers make torches of their arrows and their cavalry ride in at a gallop. Your toes could be completely conquered, occupied, and even cut clean off and God’s image not be damaged a bit.

No – our enemy is not so benighted nor so dumb. He knows that the place to attack is at the gates.

Our castles all have three gateways; don’t you know. Of course you know this, for it’s obvious. Think of all the freight that’s daily admitted in through the large gateways at your eyes. Railway cars overflowing with images, barges carrying a hundred shipping containers all filled with words, and tractor-trailers loaded to the last bulwark with advertisements and seductions of every kind. And what of the gateways on either side of your head? In through your ears, a river of philosophy, thought, and argument – much of it set to music – flows down the canal day and night. Finally, there’s your mouth – that yawning, gaping vulnerability. There are fewer imports admitted at this gate than at the others but what the enemy is able to get past the guards there – whether it be narcotics, intoxicants, poisons, or other unhealthy things – can steal more treasure than anything else.

Eye gate, ear gate, and mouth gate; all three grant direct access to your castle’s inner realm where the heart, mind, and soul reside. You say you know this, but where is your security at these critical points? And don’t tell me about that Barney Fife character you have sitting on a stool between your two eyes; the one with the bullet in his breast pocket and the hat tipped down over sleepy eyes. And I’ve seen the mercenaries you’re counting on to keep the peace by each ear canal. They do okay when they’re getting paid a pretty penny but their heart’s not in the job. It doesn’t take an awful lot for them to be bribed into looking the other way at the importing of barrels and barrels of lies. And last of all, that new-fangled bit of technology you’ve got running the border at the back of your teeth – the one that scans bar codes and checks for government approvals – that thing does its job, I suppose. But it sure isn’t discerning. You must know it’s letting all manner of deadly things down the hatch.

No, this simply won’t do. You’re going to need to empower an entirely new security apparatus if your castle’s going to maintain its integrity and be spared a collapse at the hands of the enemy. Fire all your law enforcement. Ask for your chief’s badge and strip your commanders of their rank. Transfer all your agents to remote outposts. They’ve failed you and were never really up to the job anyway.

Turn all your security over to the Holy Spirit and allow Him, through the work of repentance and sanctification, to dispatch love, joy, peace, patience, kindness, goodness, faithfulness, gentleness, and self-control to go stand guard at the gates. These are mighty guardians indeed! They are keen-eyed, lionhearted, and fierce. No enemy is any match for these defenses.

Don’t take your castle’s security lightly. Many a once sovereign heart has grown proud and cold. I’ve seen the flag of faith lowered from the castle spire and replaced with the pirate’s Jolly Roger. Remember what the Apostle John wrote to his fellow believers: “Do not love the world, nor the things in the world. If anyone loves the world, the love of the Father is not in him. For all that is in the world, the lust of the flesh and the lust of the eyes and the boastful pride of life, is not from the Father, but is from the world. And the world is passing away, and also its lusts; but the one who does the will of God abides forever.” (1John 2:15-17)

What a wonderful blessing it is to have brothers and sisters in the Faith, to have an ordered home where the Word is loved and honored, and to have so many gatherings that stimulate us to love and good deeds. It’s grand to be a Christian! We’re looking forward to gathering together again in the morning to see what the Lord intends to do. May the Lord, mighty God, bless and continue to keep us!

  • Pastor Tate

Good morning church family,

Stu and Sidney couldn’t stand each other. Some of the disdain was really quite natural. Stu was the kind of guy who would look askance at a man who didn’t have a little dirt under his nails or who used words like “askance”. He drank beer, drove an old stoved-up pickup truck, and wore a cap everywhere except to bed. His schooling, formal and otherwise, had stopped with his graduation from high school, his career advancement had stalled with his promotion to forklift operator at the scrap yard, and the romantic in him began and ended with the purchase of a heart-shaped Whitman’s Sampler from CVS every February.

Aside from age (they were both in their late fifties), faith (they were both members of the same church), and location (they both resided on planet earth), Sidney had nearly nothing in common with Stu. Sidney was the kind of guy who had his hair cut every two weeks – at a salon. He drank herbal tea, drove a leased Passat, and wore khakis when mowing the lawn. His home had a library, his office had a Monet, and his wife kept a scrapbook of all the love poems he’d penned for her over the years. Nature, indeed, had not made Stu and Sidney a pair.

But the white-hot dislike the two had for one another had little to do with their polar-opposite personalities. Much of the hatred stemmed instead from a dispute the two men had at a church funeral; of all places. It was a silly thing really. Five years earlier, Sidney’s mother-in-law had passed away and a funeral was to be held at the church. The funeral received the full Calvary Baptist treatment. A formal sanctuary service was prepared with both pastors on hand, a pianist and organist provided for accompaniment, audio-visual workers scheduled to handle sound and projection, and ushers dressed in formal attire had volunteered to hand out the laser-printed programs produced in the church office. A full platoon of church ladies had fanned out across the fellowship hall to ready the tables for the kitchen-full of food that had been prepared for the reception that was to follow the burial. The trustees had ensured that the grass was cut, the walkways edged, and all the hedges trimmed. The building looked a picture and Sidney couldn’t have been more pleased to find it so when he and his wife arrived early on the morning of the funeral. But his pleasure in the proceedings, along with his calm and composure, would begin to erode when, after checking on things inside the building, he ran back out to the car to fetch a framed picture they’d forgotten to bring in.

When he’d driven up to the church earlier that morning, Sidney had noticed the hearse parked along the street with a flag car in front of it. One of the workers from the funeral home, who stood in the lot attending to folks arriving, had recognized Sidney as a member of the bereaved family and kindly motioned for him to park behind the hearse in preparation for the processional to the cemetery. Sidney and his wife had nodded solemnly to the black-suited undertaker and he’d whispered his condolences with a bow as they made their way toward the church.

But now, as Sidney went out to get the framed picture, an awful sight unsettled him. Parked behind his newly washed and polished Passat was Stu’s beat-up, old pickup truck with its rusted rocker panels, its collapsed suspension on the driver’s-side rear end, its Bondo-ed and house-painted front end, and its bagful of empties laying in the back of the bed. Sidney stopped cold in his tracks and stared at the sight. He knew whose truck it was. He’d seen Stu come into the fellowship hall, carrying some kind of covered dish that Stu’s wife, Cindy, must have prepared. Sidney had hoped that Stu was just dropping off the dish and wouldn’t be staying; seeing as how he was dressed in jeans, t-shirt, and work boots – and wearing a hat, no less. But that evidently wasn’t the case. Stu wasn’t only staying for the funeral but was going to be driving over to take in the graveside service as well. Sidney stood there trying to imagine the scene when, at the conclusion of the funeral, a host of well-dressed mourners would come filing out the sanctuary doors behind white-gloved pallbearers in three-piece suits carrying the gilded coffin containing the precious remains of his wife’s beloved mother. This solemn and decorous procession would then pass astride the redneck spectacle that was Stu Beauchamp’s old dumprunner. This simply wouldn’t do – the truck would need to be moved. Sidney grabbed the framed picture and headed back into the building to find Stu.

Entering the church, Sidney went directly to the sanctuary. The room, smelling of cut flowers, was cool and quiet. The only sound was the air-conditioned air blowing softly out of the duct work above and the quiet humming of the projectors that were already filling the screens with lovely images of the deceased. Scanning the long, elegant sanctuary, Sidney spied Stu sitting all alone in the back pew with his head down and his phone propped up on his belly.

“Good morning, Stu,” Sidney said; cutting into the pew just in front of where Stu was sitting. “Thank you for coming.”

“Oh, hey there Sid,” Stu said, looking up and putting his phone face-down on the pew beside him. “I’m awful sorry about Helen.”

“Thank you,” Sidney said; leaning back against the pew behind and crossing his arms.

Stu sat back in the pew and laid his crossed arms on top of his belly. “She’ll sure be missed.”

“Yes, for sure.” Sidney looked down at his wingtips and nodded silently. He was stalling; trying to think of a way to broach the subject of Stu’s truck. But with every passing half-second, the awkward silence was making the prospect of congeniality more and more remote.

“Hey, Stu,” Sidney finally lifted his head and straightened his shoulders by bracing his arms on the pew behind, “I wonder if you could do a favor for me?”

“Sure, Sid. What can I do?”

“I know it’s kind of a silly thing; but I’m wondering if you wouldn’t mind moving your truck for me.”

“My truck?” Stu asked, crossing his arms a little tighter. “What? Am I blocking somebody?”

“No,” Sidney answered, stammering a bit. “It’s just – you’re not far behind the hearse and you’d kind of be a lead car…”

“So?” Stu interjected. “That funeral guy there – he told me to park there if I was going over to Rosemont.”

“No, I get that. It’s more of a… I don’t know – it’s just an aesthetic thing. You know?”

“Ass-what?”

“’Aesthetic’. Like how things look,” Sidney said; growing less sheepish and more indignant.

“Oh,” Stu said gruffly as he reached for his ballcap and put it on low on his brow, “I see. You don’t like the way my truck looks – is that it? You’re ashamed of it?”

“Come on, Stu,” Sidney said, showing a little frustration. “There’s no reason to get upset,” Sidney continued as Stu stood up; pulling his keys out of his pocket. “Try and understand maybe where I’m coming from. Think of my wife and family. That vehicle of yours could be a little distracting, don’t you think?”

“Listen, Sid,” Stu said, sidling out into the center aisle, “you and yours don’t have to worry about a thing. I’ll just get me and my sorry, third-rate truck out of here so you can have a nice, dignified funeral. I’m sorry for the disturbance.”

“Stu,” Sidney implored, still leaning back but now raising his arms with upturned palms. “That’s not what I mean. You know that! Don’t take it like that.” Sidney just watched as Stu ambled out the back doors. “Goodness gracious,” Sidney said while shaking his head.

As the back door swung closed following Stu’s exit from the building, Sidney stood alone in the quiet sanctuary. His heart was pounding and his blood pressure was up. In the courtroom of his mind, he instantly came to his own defense. It had to be done, he argued. If he lost his cordial acquaintance with Stu – it was no tragedy. The important thing was that the eyesore was going to be removed. Sidney heard the muffled sound of the truck’s rattling engine roaring to life outside. He smiled and tried his best to shake off the whole thing.

Over the months and years that followed, this cancerous interaction would metastasize into a hardness of heart that threatened the faith and spiritual wellbeing of both men. Stu allowed the incident to prey on his insecurities by reinforcing fears he’d long held in his heart that he didn’t belong. He grew even more uncouth and more public in his criticism of the highfalutin, hypocritical foppery he saw in the church. He went from quiet to gruff and from helpful to hands-in-pockets. He had refused to speak to Sidney or even acknowledge his existence despite the fact that Sidney had, a couple of times, made feeble attempts at making amends. Stu often made a point of walking right by Sidney just to ignore him and, whenever possible, he liked to park snug against the Passat in the church parking lot. And for his part, Sidney had assuaged his sense of guilt in the matter by making Stu out to be a monster. Sidney questioned Stu’s honesty, his motivations, and even his salvation. Sidney had litigated the incident at the funeral in his mind and had judged Stu’s actions and reactions to be emblematic of the rot and decay in the church and the country. His dislike for Stu ossified into a disdain for all that was wrong with Western thought and culture. Neither man did what was necessary to remove the pebble in his shoe and now the two were a pair in their limping faith and unhappy hearts.

But everything changed one night during the week of revival meetings that were being held at the church. Every year in September, the church would have a week’s worth of special meetings concluding with a big homecoming service and banquet on Sunday. This year, the church had welcomed a big-name, powerful preacher to serve all week as the evangelist. Every night, the church was packed and the Spirit was moving mightily.

On Thursday night, Sidney got to the church late. His wife was out of town all week and so he walked into the back of the church by himself. Sidney found the sanctuary almost full. The congregation was standing and singing the final stanza of a hymn as Sidney walked up the center aisle looking for an open spot. He was nearly to the front when he saw what might have been the only spot left in the whole room – and it happened to be right on the aisle. He made a beeline for the spot just as the last notes of the last measure were fading from the grand piano. Reaching the pew, Sidney stopped short. The open spot would have him sitting right beside Stu.

Sidney had wanted in the worst way to move on and look for another seat but there really wasn’t one and he knew he couldn’t have kept looking without drawing unwanted attention to himself. So, he stood next to Stu and bowed his head as a prayer was offered before the message. Neither man acknowledged the other.

The sermon that evening was on 1Corinthians 13. As the preacher spoke simply and compellingly on how the Christian was able to love others because of the way God had first loved them, both men began to sweat from the heat of the burning coals being poured over their heads. They squirmed little but were careful to keep their eyes fixed on the preacher for fear that one might betray any conviction to the other. Both Stu and Sidney were glad when the preacher concluded his message with a prayer for the altar service.

As the preacher interceded on behalf of the congregation, God answered the prayer. The Spirit moved and began to soften many a hardened heart; including Stu’s and Sidney’s.

After the preacher opened the altar by making an impassioned plea for folks to come forward for prayer, the song leader stepped to the pulpit and invited the congregation to turn to hymn number fifty-eight in the hymnal. The Love of God wasn’t a familiar hymn to either man but looking down, there was only one hymnal sitting in the wooden rack in front of them. In a moment of magnanimity, Sidney lifted out the hymnal and handed it to Stu. Stu took it and looked briefly over to Sidney. As the music started, Stu fanned the pages open to number fifty-eight. Beginning to sing, Stu held the book out so that Sidney might be able to see. Sidney angled slightly toward the open hymnal and, hardly knowing what he was doing, reached out and took the right side of the hymnal. Stu slid his hand over; keeping hold of the left side. As the two men sang, tears of joy moistened the corners of their red eyes.

“O love of God, how rich and pure! How measureless and strong!

It shall forevermore endure – the saints and angels’ song.”

The Lord has planned a wonderful time for us all in His house tomorrow – I’m looking forward to sharing in it with you! May the countless intercessions for revival be answered in each of us that we might enter His gates with thanksgiving and respond to His word with conviction. May the Lord, mighty God, bless and continue to keep us!

  • Pastor Tate

Good morning church family,

What if by some inexplicable act of cosmic happenstance, the length of a day increased from twenty-four to thirty-six hours? Someone bumped the galactic game board, let’s say, and all the universe’s pieces went pell-mell; expanding solar systems and redrawing constellations. What do you imagine we’d do with all the extra time we’d suddenly have at our disposal? Would we work more? Sleep more? Throw another meal in there?

I’m sure that it would take some time for our schedules to sync up with our new circadian rhythms. But once we finally figured it out and hit our stride, we’d have to find something to fill all the empty hours in our planners. And yet I wonder – even with twelve more hours in a day – would we be able to find the time to have our daily devotions with the Lord?

Many years ago now I remember lamenting to a colleague of mine that my church salary was insufficient to my needs. He responded by first asking if I had asked the church for a raise. I informed him that I had not – the church could hardly afford a full-time pastor as it was. He then inquired if I might be able to do some moonlighting. With a cocked head and one eye squinched shut, I told him that I imagined a second job to be an impossibility. “Well,” he then said, smiling, “you can always make more money by spending less.”

Now, that wasn’t very nice of him. Sure, I spent fifty dollars a month on cable TV, but the promise of pixilated company every evening was as necessary to me as any other utility. I needed television. And let’s not talk about the forty dollars a week I’d spend on fast food. My mom lived over a thousand miles away and I needed a hot meal every now and again – man can’t live by Frosted Flakes and cold cuts alone now; can he? And don’t dare try and take the red pen to my golfing hobby. The blessed exercise and fresh air that I’d get every week or so was more than worth the twenty-five dollars I’d pay for a round. Or was it? The more I thought about it, these expenses might be perfectly defensible if I had the disposable income sufficient to afford them. But I didn’t – I was pretty strapped for cash. There were a number of vital things missing in my life that could have easily been paid for by the three-hundred-or-so dollars a month I might save from cutting the cord, the clubs, and the supersized me.

I sometimes think about that sage bit of financial advice I got years ago; especially when I get to lamenting about how little time I seem to have for prayer and personal Bible study. Now, I’d be ashamed to ask God to hold the sun still in the sky and extend the day just to suit me and I can’t cheat sleep any more than I already do without becoming part of some government sleep-deprivation study. And that, of course, only leaves one other option. I can almost picture the Spirit smiling. “You could always find more time by wasting less” He might say.

Every Sunday morning while I’m getting ready for church, the same notification lights up the home screen on my iPhone. The message isn’t from a family member or friend; some news site or any of the apps I’ve downloaded. No – the message actually comes from my phone itself. On this past Sunday morning at 9:17am I received a message with a little hourglass icon at the left side of the message box. “Weekly Report Available” read the headline. “Your screen time was up 6% last week for an average of … hours, and … minutes a day,” read the subtext (with the latter figures mercifully omitted by the author). Now, I have no idea why Apple created such a feature – perhaps it’s the work of some ethicist they keep on staff to assuage the company’s sense of guilt at making us all bent-necked, lobotomized, automatons. Maybe it’s the work of some liability lawyer they keep on retainer – some kind of preemptive Surgeon General’s warning. I don’t know – but reading this report each week horrifies me. Now, I do a lot of noble things on my phone. I correspond, research, navigate, and I sometimes even use it to talk to someone. But the report isn’t vague and unspecific in its presentation of the data – it brings the receipts. It tells me how much time I spend here, there, and everywhere. Sadly, it’s a pretty faithful chronicler of my week’s wasted hours.

The world is awfully good at creating dependencies in us for things that are utterly unnecessary for our fulfillment as human beings. Were aliens to observe us from outer space, they’d certainly think that staring into backlit screens was somehow necessary to the survival of the species, that the efforts of grown men chasing balls of all shapes and sizes in arenas packed with cheering people must be vital to the interests of national security, and that a chicken sandwich that takes forty-five minutes of waiting in a drive-thru to be able to eat must rapture a human being to transcendent heights of fulfillment. Well… maybe if you get the waffle fries to go with it. But seriously, a lot of what we’re slavishly attending to every day need not master over us. We have to follow this team, finish that show, scroll through our newsfeed, and listen to the breathless analysis of the latest poll. Or do we? So many of the things that we become emotionally invested in, care deeply about, and wring our hands over don’t actually warrant the burning of a single brain cell. Our heart’s passion and our mind’s focus should be devoted to much more important and ennobling pursuits. Wonderful and amazing opportunities are open to us every day! God has gone to great lengths to make Himself known through the gift of His word. Let us read all about Him! He has paid the greatest of prices to make it possible for us to approach His throne and to fellowship with Him in the temple of our hearts. Let us befriend Him!

While I’m fairly confident that we’re not being observed by any aliens today – I know for a fact that God is watching over us. What must He think when He sees that our Bibles lay dusty while our screens are Windex-clean? Or when He sees that our dens are lively and jolly while our prayer closets are silent and lonesome? He must think He’s not all that important to us. O Lord, may we love you more by loving the world less!

We’re looking forward to gathering together in the morning to check in with Heaven and one another, compare notes on what we’ve seen and heard throughout the week, and to look our Creator in the eye and tell Him we love Him! It’s going to be good to blend our voices, lean into the load shoulder to shoulder, and walk the narrow way as a family. What a blessing! May the Lord, mighty God, bless and continue to keep us!

  • Pastor Tate

Good afternoon church family,

Why is small talk so much easier to make than big talk? I don’t know exactly but it’s probably for much the same reasons that we find sharing an elevator with someone to be easier than sharing an apartment or why giving money to the needy to be easier than giving them your cell phone number. One requires little to no sacrifice, has zero strings attached, and won’t burden your heart and mind. The other, however, may require large draws on your time, comfort, and treasure; expose you to any number of binding commitments and can cause much heartache and disquiet. I’m afraid we often make small talk for fear that big talk will make too much work for ourselves.

A hail storm passed through Rochester on Monday. A bunch of low-lying, malevolent clouds, likely coming off a rager the night before, moved into the area and dumped out their ice chests over us. This, of course, gave us all something to talk about with each other in those awkward moments when silence is impolite or just too uncomfortable to endure. Like when the TV is turned off in the tiny waiting room at the oil change place and it’s just you and one other person sitting on sad pleather chairs, staring aimlessly at the filthy Keurig sitting on the end table beside the bathroom. Or during those times when your neighbor happens to be working in the yard or watering the garden at the same time you happen to be; or when you’re sitting up in the cab of the wrecker with the guy who’s driving you and your dead car to the garage; or when the hair stylist throws the cape over you at the salon and starts teasing out your do with a comb. I mean, we can only stare aimlessly at our shoelaces, the wall, or our little screens for so long. Eventually, we have to say something and what safer topic could we possibly find for conversation than a little hailstorm?

“Nothing like seeing a little white stuff in the summer, huh?”

“Yeah. Wild.”

“My sister lives up on Chesley Hill – says she lost half her tomatoes.”

“You don’t say. That’s a shame. I was lucky – my wife happened to take the new Silverado to work with her that day – can you imagine getting that thing all pitted?”

“No kidding. Where’s she work?”

“Over in Wells. She said it didn’t do anything over there.”

“Weird weather for sure this summer but it’s awful nice today.”

“Sure is. Sure is.”

Voila! Just like that, you’ve successfully navigated a New England interaction while fulfilling your base obligation to the societal contract we’ve all agreed to live by. You were winsome, neighborly, and confident – even building a little rapport to boot. Good for you! After the exchange, everyone feels more comfortable and a little better about himself. There was some more awkward silence before it was all over but the parting was friendly enough with an “Alright now – we’ll see you later” or a “You have a good one” accompanied by a nod and a wave. Cue Louis Armstrong and the strings – what a wonderful world, indeed!

But it’s not a wonderful world and every one of us who believes in Jesus Christ and His gospel knows it. Norman Rockwell isn’t getting anyone to Heaven. We are charged by our Savior Himself to step boldly into these awkward moments and make lots of uncomfortable big talk with the lost and dying of this world.

I don’t like it when people try and get somebody to commit to something by convincing him that it won’t cost him anything. “What do you think about running for Vice President of the Association?” someone might say. “It’s super easy – you hardly even have to show up most of the time.” Or how about, “We really need someone to work the polls down at the middle school this fall – what do you think? It’s a piece of cake.” Or, “We need one more chaperone for the senior class trip to Montreal this spring. You should tag along – it takes nothing. It’s like a free vacation!” Of course, any of us not born yesterday know that these sorts of appeals come booby-trapped with all sorts of sacrifices, frustrations, and hard work and that we accept any such invitation at our own risk. But the real reason I don’t like it when this type of offer is made to me is that it assumes that all I’m interested in are opportunities that honor or enrich me at little to no personal cost. But that’s not true. In fact, I think most of us are longing to give of ourselves in support of some significant project or important undertaking. Blood, sweat, and tears shed for a good cause is no sacrifice at all. As Isaiah said, “The noble man devises noble plans; and on noble plans he stands.” (32:8)

Now, what greater or more noble cause could we pledge our lives to than rescuing people from eternal damnation in the fires of Hell? None. And this rescue effort won’t require us to run into any burning buildings or parachute into enemy territory or dive into swollen rivers made raging by flood rains. No – this rescue will require us stepping courageously into conversation.

Starting conversations about sin and death with family, friends, co-workers, and acquaintances is not an easy, low-hurdle affair. If you’re not immediately shut down and shown the quills, you’ll likely enter into a weighty and sometimes difficult discussion. In the context of a talk about God, people often bring up their life’s tragedies and unhealed hurts. The inexplicable agonies, inconsistencies, and complexities of life are dumped in our laps and left for us to piece together and make sense of. We’ll be asked impossible questions, told of awful abuses, and invited to wade into very muddy waters. Biblical consistency, compassion, and patience will be required of us and we will need to be willing to build relationships of sincerity and depth. For those of us who are saved; who have already been rescued and are now secure in our inheritance in Canaan, what better end could there possibly be for whatever breath we have left?

One Saturday, long ago, while I was pastoring in Georgia, I drove across town to visit with Don Tunnell. Don was a tall, slender, ten-years-retired older gentleman in the church. He hailed from War, West Virginia but had lived most of his adult life there in Augusta. Even though he was in his seventies, he still had a full head of wavy, black hair and his big belt buckle sat flat on his trim waist. Don had a sweet, Jimmy Stewart-like manner and an earnest Henry Fonda-like constitution. He was the closest thing to a cowboy that I’d ever seen. If he’d ambled into some saloon I was in and announced that he was looking for some hands to help him drive ten-thousand head of cattle across the Red River to Missouri, I think I would have dropped whatever I was doing to join him. But anyway, while I was sitting with him in his living room that Saturday, looking around at a room that hadn’t been remodeled since the seventies; his wife Mary puttering in the kitchen, Don told me something I’ve never forgotten. Glancing over at his television set, he said, “You know, Pastor, it’s the funniest thing. When I was a young man, all I wanted to do after a long, hard week at work was to sit back on a Saturday and watch college football. But back then I hardly ever got to. Saturday would come and the yard would need mowing, some faucet would be leaking, or the kids had this thing or that for me to carry them to. There was always something and I’d be grumpy and resentful as all get out. And now, Saturday after Saturday comes and even though I’m free as a bird, I never even turn on the durn thing. I’d give anything to be back with a houseful and a million burdens on my back.”

What are all the things we keep ourselves in isolation for? What is all our small talk preserving for us? A little more time with our TV? Empty evenings inside our moated castles with the drawbridge up? Taking our meals alone with only YouTube keeping us company? That’s not the life God is calling us to. That’s not what we’re going to look back on with joy as the light of our setting sun fades to black. What will make our hearts full when we’re full of years, are those conversations that led someone to life without end.

We’re looking forward to gathering into the Lord’s house in the morning to worship our Creator, King, and Counselor and to enjoy communion with Him through the shed blood of Jesus our Savior. It’s a joy and blessing that no depth finder could ever get to the bottom of! Come prepared to give and receive of the good things the Lord has made available to us all. May the Lord, mighty God, bless and continue to keep us!

  • Pastor Tate

Good morning church family,

In the summer of 1996, between my junior and senior years in college, I bought my first car. Mrs. Sue Rich, a good friend of my grandmother’s, was selling her 1983 Chevrolet Citation for seven-hundred-dollars. I hadn’t planned on buying a car before I graduated. I needed nearly every penny of the wages I earned working my summer job for ServiceMaster in order to pay the minimum registration fee required to begin classes in the fall. Also, I didn’t really need a car. I bummed rides off my parents or borrowed their car to get to and from work all summer. And when it came time to go back to college, I’d get from Rutland, Vermont to Toccoa, Georgia by taking a bus to Penn Station in New York where I’d then hop on Amtrak’s Crescent Line that happened to stop just long enough in Toccoa to jerk water on its way to New Orleans. Once at college, there wasn’t much need for me to drive off campus. I was employed by the school’s custodial department, spent most of my free time in the library, and never took a single girl on a single date. As for my weekly drive down to Dearing to preach at the Iron Hill Advent Christian Church, I was able to sign a car out from the college’s fleet of Aries K cars. Overall, I’d say I managed pretty well without wheels.

But at my parent’s wise urging, I went down to the Fair Haven National Bank and asked the teller for seven one-hundred-dollar bills. Even though I had no reason to act guilty as I made the withdrawal; I couldn’t help but appear a little squirrely in my embarrassment at asking for such a large amount in cash. But I weathered the twelve-to-six side-eye I got from the woman behind the counter, folded the sleeve-full of Benjamins into my front pocket, hopped into the getaway car driven by my mom, and took off for Mrs. Rich’s house.

When I bought the Chevrolet it had fifty-two-thousand miles on it and over the next four years I would add a hundred-thousand more. What a blessing that sweet little ride proved to be to me; representing much more than just a mode of transportation. Not yet having a place of my own, that hatchback sedan was a private little bungalow – fifty square-feet of living space that I could keep however I wanted, furnish in whatever style suited me, and to which I could escape whenever needed and lock up behind me when life’s call beckoned me back. A team of horses under the hood meant freedom for me and the wonderful ability to disappear. If Jesus liked to steal away to lonely mountaintops, I liked to wheel away to lonely parking lots. It’s funny; I used to imagine the front two seats of that car to be like a park bench on wheels that I could move and position wherever I liked.

I would pack a snack and a newspaper, drive about looking for a quiet spot with a view, and back my park bench into place before killing the engine. I wasn’t looking for million-dollar views or anything. I was perfectly content to look out over a highway or study the doings at a truck stop from the far side of the lot. I liked watching folks going in and coming out of grocery stores or strolling up and down lazy Main Streets. All I really needed was a few empty spaces on either side of me and some shade. It was during these brief interludes that I learned how much I enjoyed studying people, towns, and the simple rhythms of everyday life. I eventually ditched the snacks and newspapers; finding feast enough in all the humanity on display. But what I didn’t foresee was the place my rolling park bench would end up having in my weekly sermon writing.

Out of college and into full-time ministry, it took me a number of years to find my voice as a preacher and to develop a sound routine for writing a weekly sermon. In college, I’d received an excellent education in the art of sermon preparation and delivery or “homiletics” as my professors referred to it. But not long after my tassel was turned, I had to stand behind real pulpits on real Sundays and deliver the Word to real people. Summa cum laude quickly turned into help me Lordy. Like a cowboy might break a wild horse, the Lord wrangled with me week after week until I stopped bucking at the saddle on my back, rearing at the halter over my head, and spitting the bit out of my proud mouth. Over time, I learned to listen for the passage He’d have me preach, carve quiet, disciplined time out of my week for careful study, do the rigorous work of arranging my thoughts into a tidy nomenclature, and draft the notes that would serve as the basis of my remarks. It’s been a strenuous but joyous part of my life ever since.

Over the years, I’ve found that church offices and pastor’s studies are excellent places to do most of the week’s-worth of sermon writing. After all, those were the places where I shelved my library, kept my desk, and could expect a fair amount of peace and quiet. In those hallowed spaces I could read through the Bible prayerfully, leave books spread out on my table like open windows on a computer screen, take notes and jot down thoughts and threads, and assemble outlines for the messages. For me, the church office proved an excellent place to quarry and saw the raw material, hammer together the frame, and assemble all the floors, walls, and rooftops. But I found that while most of my sermons were solid, sturdy constructions – plumb from header to floor joist – they could be stuffy, inaccessible compositions. My buildings needed many more windows, doors, and skylights. And this is where my little Chevrolet came in.

It began somewhat accidentally. I had driven downtown to University Hospital to visit with a parishioner who was a patient there. It was late in the week and I was glad to quit my office, so frustrating was the work I was trying to do putting the finishing touches on my message. The substance of the sermon was there; all the points, contexts, and explanations squared away. But for all that the message boasted by way of order and academia, it was desperately wanting for life and lightning. But instead of leaving my Bible and notepad on my desk as I normally would have when heading out to minister, I decided to take them with me to the hospital instead.

After my visit was over, I went back out to where I’d parked my car on the ground level of the hospital’s large parking garage. Where I’d parked happened to have a fine view of the front of the hospital where nearly everyone entered and exited the building. It was a fairly nice day and the car was cool enough in the shade of the garage. I sat behind the wheel, rolled down both front windows, and paused to take in a little people-watching. There was so much to see and I was moved by all the different stories being told by the wheelchairs, car seats, IVs, and bouquets I saw. All the tears, quick-steps, anxious smoke breaks, and clerical collars told still more tales. The more I watched the more I felt I wanted to say to those I saw through the windshield, to others in the lost city around me – to everyone really. In this mood, I picked up my sermon and went back to work on it. As I continued to look out over the scene in front of me, the Lord wrote new life and insight into nearly every line. That sermon ended up being so very different from every other that I’d ever written.

After that I began including into my weekly routine, these times on the “park bench”. I would park and write outside a McDonalds, beside the county courthouse, along the riverfront, at the bank, the golf course, or the gas station – anywhere that I’d have a front row seat to people. What a profound inspiration these environments would prove to be. My little box at the church, in which I was surrounded by bookcases full of commentaries and works of theology, was the ideal place to study the meaning of the Word but the highways and byways proved the better place for my pen to find purpose for that wonderful Word.

Preaching is a small but important part of a pastor’s life. I’m so glad the Lord led me to allow the crowd at Dunkin Donuts to alter my vernacular, the harried mother of four coming out of the grocery store to quicken my pace, and the homeless knocking on my window to bring the whole thing down to earth. And I’m still keeping the practice today. Some of my favorite spots here in Rochester are at the eastern end of the Lowe’s parking lot where I can look down on the traffic going up and down the Spaulding Turnpike, the little parking area across from the Lilac Grille that affords a good view of the downtown sidewalk, and the Milton Road Market Basket has proved an absolute treasure. I parked my bench over at the Franklin Street Cemetery for a while but eventually found that the dead aren’t nearly as interesting as the living. I’ll also sit and write in coffee shops, libraries, and on actual park benches. Everywhere that there’s a little bit of the everyday.

It’s not just preachers that are writing sermons every week. Each and every one of us is delivering a message by our lives, conversation, patronage, and relationships. Our manner of speech, our manner of listening, our engagement in the marketplace of ideas – it’s all preaching a sermon. If you really care about people then you’ll really care about ideas and if you really care about ideas then you’ll really care about people. As we continue to grow in our boldness and proclamation of the gospel during these important days, we’d do well to do a little people-watching this week. It might just break your heart, soften your tongue, and season your sermon with grace.

We’re looking forward to gathering in the morning for worship – it will be so good to sing out loud, share with one another, and listen to what the Lord might want to say to each of us and all of us. It’s grand to be a Christian! May the Lord, mighty God, bless and continue to keep us!

  • Pastor Tate