Good morning church family,

From the time I was a little boy until the day I left home for college, I fell asleep most every night listening to a recording of some kind. The first bedroom I can remember sleeping in – the one I shared with two of my brothers – had a dresser with a record player and speakers sitting on top of it. At night, my brothers and I would pull on our pajamas, brush our teeth, and pile into our little, upstairs room. I would climb in the top bunk and jaw with Joel and Josh until either Mom or Dad came in to read to us. We’d hear a chapter out of Great Expectations, The Red Badge of Courage, Island of the Blue Dolphins, or The Incredible Journey and then say “goodnight” as the chair was tucked back in under the desk and the lamp’s orange glow was clicked to black. It was then that my brothers and I would decide which record to play. We’d sometimes listen to music – Hooked on Classics was a favorite and I distinctly remember borrowing a copy of Michael Jackson’s Thriller album from our Jamaican neighbors across the street for a few weeks one autumn – but most of the time we listened to comedy records. My dad had a pile of Bill Cosby and Bob Newhart albums that he’d let us listen to. We would carefully – very, very carefully – load the record through the spindle and onto the platter, start the motor, and place the needle in the outermost groove. I can’t tell you how many times I heard Cosby tell of the time he had his tonsils taken out or Newhart do his driving instructor routine. Despite the incredible storytelling and infectious sense of humor captured on these recordings– I never made it to the end of any side. I’ve always had a knack for laying back, blinking out, and falling fast asleep.

Years later, when our parents moved the family to Vermont and rented a large house with bedrooms enough for all of us, we graduated from record players to little boombox stereos that played cassettes or CDs. It was during these years that our bedtime listening really flourished. Whether it was through gifts given at Christmas or birthdays, purchases we made with money we’d earned, or donations made from church family and friends, us kids created a sizable listening library. I remember that we had a couple of shoeboxes filled with all kinds of selections. There were several episodes of Garrison Keillor’s A Prairie Home Companion in there. There was also a condensed version of The Civil War read by Ken Burns himself. There were recordings of old radio broadcasts starring Jack Benny, Fred Allen, Edgar Bergen and Charlie McCarthy, and George Burns and Gracie Allen. We also had all kinds of fables, legends, swashbuckling tales, and sweeping epics to choose from. There was one overly theatrical production of Robin Hood that we were all particularly fond of. In addition to these studio recordings, our collection boasted a bunch of oddball stuff as well. Tape recordings of a backwoods Vermonter giving his hilarious reflections on flatlanders, lectures of a college history professor, and even some captivating presentations made by a renowned cryptozoologist. We acquired an ear for it all and ended each day by picking something out of one of the shoeboxes, crawling into bed, and pressing play.

I don’t know what impact, if any, all those twilight hours had on my spiritual formation as a young man. I’m sure it wasn’t nothing but I doubt it moved the needle very much in either direction. That said, there was one recording that I listened to dozens and dozens of times that I’m certain the Lord used mightily in my life.

I remember it being a creamy white cassette with labels affixed to either side that were peeling at the edges. Typewritten on these labels was the title of the recording: “’The Pineapple Story’ by Otto Koning”. The tape was a recording of a live presentation of a talk that Koning gave to a church somewhere. Koning and his wife were Dutch missionaries who’d committed their lives to serving a small community of native peoples in the jungles of Irian Jaya. Koning happened to be a fantastic storyteller who was blessed with an earnestness that was unsullied by pretention or affectation. He also had a wonderfully winsome sense of humor. “The Pineapple Story” tape was easy to listen to; Koning’s Dutch accent, staccato delivery, and dry wit really drew me into the story. The tale centered on a pineapple garden that Koning had planted on the little missionary compound they lived on. Mrs. Koning ran a clinic and Otto spent most of his time learning the language and working on a translation of the Bible into the tribal tongue. But the villagers that they lived among were chronic thieves who stole nearly everything the missionaries had. Koning tells funny stories of women wearing can openers as necklaces and men having fountain pens slid through holes in their noses. But over time, all this stealing and thieving began to create real resentment toward the villagers in Koning’s heart; stirring up an unhealthy anger and frustration within him. And the thing that frosted Koning the most was the brazen and unabashed pilfering of all his pineapples.

I remember Koning confessing to his audience that he had traveled all the way from the Netherlands to Papua New Guinea to share the good news of Jesus Christ but that he’d ended up spending most of his time fighting with the people over pineapples. His missionary life became one of threatening the people, bargaining with them, withholding goods and services, standing guard, and speaking all kinds of invective in an Irian Jayan tongue. It was both brutal and comical. But everything changed in both Otto’s heart and in the village, when the Lord spoke to Koning while attending a church service on furlough. The Lord used the words of the preacher to convict Koning of his having taken offense at what he saw as the violation of his right to those pineapples and to encourage him to give the pineapple garden to God.

There were many nights that I’d be lying there in bed, staring up at the ceiling, my imaginings of Koning’s tale being projected on the dimly moonlit canvas above, when I’d suddenly hear the tape to go to static and then snap to a stop. I’d quickly prop myself up on one elbow, eject the cassette, flip it over, and press play again. I many times listened to the entire, hour-long message. I so loved hearing Koning tell of how light his heart became once he gave everything to God – his life, his ministry, his time, efforts, can openers, fountain pens, and pineapples. I remember him telling of waving cheerfully to all the thieving villagers doing their grocery shopping in his garden while praying that the Lord would watch over the produce he’d given Him. The conclusion of the story is too long to be retold here, but it involves the villagers believing that Koning had become a Christian through the whole ordeal, believing that God was judging them for taking His pineapples, and the jungle coming to finally believe in the saving love of Jesus. It so blessed my heart! When the message was over, I’d sometimes have a hard time falling asleep.

The Lord was working in the garden of my own heart during those evening hours; preparing the soil for what He wanted to plant and nurture in my life. I didn’t know it then but some of the lessons that Koning was teaching would one day find powerful and needful application in my own life and ministry. There were nights back then in Vermont when I could have been little Samuel hearing the Lord calling his name at night in Eli’s house. The only difference for me, was that God’s voice came through the speakers of a Sony cassette player and not the air. But either way, I’m glad I heard it in heavenly stereo.

We’re looking forward to gathering in the morning that we might tend to the things of the Lord while having the Lord tend to matters of heart and soul. I can’t wait for the harvest supper of faith that we’re sure to enjoy! Isn’t it grand to be a Christian? May the Lord, mighty God, bless and continue to keep us!

• Pastor Tate

Good morning church family,

The crows didn’t caw as I crept near the opening in the woods. I saw them up there, high in the pine; perched like ushers at the cathedral door. But what a blessing they didn’t spy me. Had they set to squawking, earth’s finest choir might have flittered away.

I feel funny relating this tale of mine for I know you won’t believe me when I tell you what I saw. I hardly believe it myself. It was late in the spring of last year. The thawed and muddy ground was firming up under the sun’s lengthening rays. Perennials were poking their heads out through last autumn’s leaves. Ladybugs strolled across window screens, warm breezes made sails of unzipped coats, and what was left of winter’s snow was retreating deep into mountain woods. Even though I knew there were groggy bears with grumbling tummies about, I decided to leave our family bird feeder out for one more weekend. I wasn’t ready to say goodbye to the family of goldfinches that dined with us every morning or the pair of black-capped chickadees that darted in and out throughout the day. With the promise of occasional sightings of blue birds, cardinals, nuthatches, and orioles; there was more value in looking out the kitchen window than at any of the blinking screens around the house.

But on Sunday morning of that week, the feeder didn’t boast a single bird. The budding maple standing just beyond was also empty of every winged thing. Coming closer to the window and looking down to the ground that lay beneath, no mourning doves or jays were scavenging the droppings. “Where is everyone?” I wondered to myself.

Though I thought it strange, I didn’t think of it for long. It was Sunday morning after all and I needed to pour my coffee, eat my porridge, and get myself ready for church. But every once-in-a-while during breakfast the wind would sway the feeder and the sudden movement would draw my eye out the window again. But still – no birds.

“Honey,” my wife said to me as I was walking my empty bowl to the kitchen sink, “before you get all dudded up, would you mind taking the trash out? It’s got the packaging from that chicken I made last night.”

“Oh yeah,” I replied. I lifted the malodorous bag from out of the can, looked briefly about for any prospective trash to top off the sack, and cinched the red, plastic strings; tying them tight. Walking out the back door, the morning air was chilly and invigorating.

I trundled down the back steps and walked across the soft yard. Arriving behind the shed where the trash bin was kept, I lifted up the lid and swung the bag in; dropping it on top of the other garbage. Letting the lid drop, it clattered loudly back into place; interrupting morning’s prelude of quiet. As I turned to head back inside, I heard the flutter of wings and caught a glimpse of the most striking, beautiful blue feathers flying toward the back woods. “An indigo bunting,” I declared; whispering to myself. As I stood tracking the bunting flying through the budding trees, my eye caught the glint of yellows, oranges, reds, and golds shooting through as well. I was only in my pajamas, but having stepped barefoot into my snow boots – I felt sufficiently outfitted to tramp a ways into the woods to see what I could see.

It was really a lovely morning. The wind was down, the way it often is early in the day, and the ground had that smell that seemed to say it was eager to warm up and get to growing things. Walking a few steps into the woods, I found the forest floor damp and quiet under foot. There was no path exactly, but I picked my way through the brush and trees, stepping over fallen limbs and around patches of brambles. With timers going off in my head, reminding me of suits and ties and responsibilities, I suspended my progress and stood looking up into the canopy above. Again, there were fleeting glimpses of brightly colored feathers flapping through the branches and boughs above. And then, quite out of nowhere, I heard a rambunctious chorus of chirping coming from deeper into the forest. The sound was something like the fellowshipping of many birds.

My curiosity kindled, I carried on in the general direction of the chatter. As I grew closer, the tweeting suddenly hushed and my steps turned stealthy. Drawing near to a sunny clearing, I looked up into the limbs of the encircling trees. Hundreds and hundreds of birds were fidgeting on branches, facing the center of the opening. It’s then that I noticed the crows – dozens of them – with their backs to the clearing; perhaps standing guard as they looked out into the wood. I leaned out of sight against an oak tree and stood still. Looking more carefully now, I saw birds of every feather gathered together. There were warblers, wrens, rusty blackbirds, veeries, and thrush. I spied juncos, gold and purple finches, flycatchers, flickers, redstarts, and woodpeckers. I also counted pewees, chickadees, robins, jays, cardinals, and grackles. Everyone was there. I even saw a pair of owls perched on a sturdy branch; the very picture of perfect composure. “What in the world is going on?” I wondered.

Despite the presence of all these birds, the forest was still and silent. I stood there in quiet wonder and anticipation. Suddenly a cooing came from a single dove perched gracefully atop the uttermost twig of a spice bush located at the center of the clearing. The cooing was rhythmic and staccato. The birds ceased their fidgeting as the congregation grew even quieter. And then it happened. All the birds laid aside their own songs to sing a single song together. I’m not enough of a musician to describe it adequately but they were clearly singing parts and keeping time. There was a pleasant trilling and toodle-dooing to the melody. The song was more sweet than grand; a lovely little chorus sung with a most attractive lightness of heart. I can’t say for how long they sang – probably just a minute or two. Whatever the length, it was too short for me.

With the last note still hanging in the air, the dove fluttered off of the spice bush and up through the opening in the trees. Hundreds of birds took to flight right behind her; darting off in every direction. Turning and heading for home myself, I shook my head and pondered on what I’d just witnessed. “Were they just singing together? Were they singing to God?” I wondered. “Did I just stumble upon a woodland worship service and did I just hear a songbird choir sing a song unique to none of them and conducted by some Spirit-filled dove?”

My pace quickened as I walked back through the woods. I was more eager now than I had been before to get to church myself and join the throng in singing a new song. My heart had a new “hallelujah!”

As I walked back up my back steps, I saw the finches at the feeder. “Thank you for sharing this morning,” I said, calling after them as they flew off to light on one of the branches of the maple. “You really blessed my heart.”

“Poh-day-doh-twip, poh-day-doh-twip,” came the finch’s excited reply.

Whatever your feather and song, we’re looking forward to gathering together to worship and sing along. It’s a communion Sunday and I can’t wait to sit at our Father’s table with all my brothers and sisters around. It will be grand being about Heaven’s business! May the Lord, mighty God, continue to bless and keep us!

• Pastor Tate

Good morning church family,

“Why is it,” Jeremy wondered to himself; stepping into the shower, “that I only seem to remember the frightening dreams?”

Jeremy had, moments earlier, woken with a start just minutes before his alarm was set to go off. He’d laid still in his bed, listening for sounds of trouble in the dark house; not yet sure what was real and what was imagined. But all had seemed well. The only thing he’d heard was the rumbling of the furnace firing to life in the basement and the whisper of his wife’s breathing as she lay beside him in bed. With covers drawn under his chin, Jeremy relived the dream that had just finished playing out in his subconscious. In the dream’s opening scene, he’d walked up to the front door of his house and found it ajar. His steps arrested by the unexpected sight; he was suddenly filled with dread. Stepping cautiously inside the house, Jeremy found the refrigerator, which for some reason was located just inside the door, wide open with its contents strewn about the living room. There were other signs of burglary and mayhem within his field of vision. Sensing that the vandal was still in the house, Jeremy halfheartedly shouted “Hey! Anyone here?” Immediately, a man wearing overalls and a straw hat strode casually into the room, moving debris aside with his foot. He carried an old Springfield rifle in his hand and looked like something out of a Depression-era migrant camp. “What’d you think was going to happen?” the vandal said to Jeremy before spitting tobacco juice on the carpet. “Didn’t you know I’d shim your back door and wait till you weren’t watching to have my way with your house?”

And that was it – the whole dream. The little nightmare only ran some thirty seconds but Jeremy was having a hard time getting it out of his head as he took his shower. Lathering up under the steamy hot water, Jeremy tried reflecting on the story, but given the disquieting nature of the thing, he opted to dwell on baseball instead.

The problem was, Jeremy would have very nearly the exact same dream about a week later. Working late at the office, he’d rushed home to find the kids all in bed, a plate of dinner in the microwave, and his wife in the shower. He’d covered the dinner and put it in the fridge; opting for a beer and a bag of chips instead. Coming out of the bathroom and finding Jeremy snacking and watching something with squealing tires and shooting guns, his wife had frowned and asked him to come to bed. “Let me decompress for a minute or two,” Jeremy had said, one eye on the blinking screen and the other peering inside the chip bag.

Next thing he knew, Jeremy was launching himself out of a fitful sleep and rising to a sitting position on the couch. His heart was racing and his hands were reflexively drawn into fists. The sound of the beer bottle falling over on the coffee table jogged his memory and set him back to reality. As he turned off the television and looked up at the clock on the wall, the image of the nefarious Okie in overalls holding the Springfield, flashed across his mind. The same short dream and the same eerie question: “What’d you think was going to happen?” played over and over again in his mind.

But weeks went by; allowing time’s crashing surf to smooth away the memory of the rerun nightmare. The nagging thought that the dream might perhaps have been more of a vision, omen, or warning had faded into the recesses; deadened in the pile-up of days. But then came the night in the hotel.

Jeremy had traveled to Las Vegas to attend a junket for company salesmen. The pretext for the trip was to gain familiarity with new product, become acquainted with the service personnel, and have an in-person Q&A session. But the whole thing was really a holiday; an expense account blowout for the company’s highest earners. The junket ended on Friday morning but Jeremy had booked his return flight for Saturday. “What’s the rush in getting back?” he’d reasoned to himself. “I owe it to myself to enjoy an extra night in Vegas.”

Jeremy wasn’t the best version of himself that Friday night. He wasn’t exactly unfaithful to his wife or anything and he was largely safe against charges someone might make that he’d violated the laws written in that leather-bound Bible he’d left back on his desk at work. But he wouldn’t have wanted his wife, kids, parents, pastor, or men’s group friends to have seen all that he’d done and said that night. In truth, he’d drank too much, flirted with the devil, and imagined himself Mr. Hyde most of the night. Tired and tipsy, he’d fallen asleep in his hotel while watching some trashy, titillating thing.

Waking up to a bright, blearing sun streaming into his room and the sound of housekeeping knocking on the door, Jeremy jumped out of bed and fumbled for his phone. “9:32” was the readout on the home screen. His flight was supposed to leave just after 11am. As he stood there, trying to get his bearings, he suddenly jumped. There in the corner stood the dusty old man with the Springfield smiling wryly at him and spitting tobacco. The awful dream came flooding back to him. Jeremy’s heart raced as, out from under the straw hat, came the awful words again: “Didn’t you know I’d shim your back door and wait till you weren’t watching to have my way with your house?”

Later that day, as he stared at himself in the tiny mirror in the airplane bathroom, Jeremy became settled in the conviction that the dream was from Heaven and that the prophecy was most assuredly an unfavorable one. As he tried to wash his face and freshen up from the night before, his head and heart began to sober to the sad state of things. He was in desperate need of change.

Arriving home a little after six that evening, Jeremy felt sheepish as he approached the front door. He wished he’d kept in better touch while he was away. He wished he hadn’t stayed the extra day in Las Vegas. He wished he hadn’t gone at all.

Walking in the front door, he looked around. Looking through the living room and into the dining room, he could see his wife clearing the table and carrying dishes to the sink. On the couch against the far wall, his eldest daughter was huddled under a blanket, the hood of her sweatshirt pulled over her head. Her face illuminated by the blue light of her tablet, Jeremy briefly caught her indifferent eye. His two boys were arguing and fighting about something as they stormed, heavy-footed up the stairs. “Hey, everyone,” Jeremy said; feigning a shout, “I’m home.”

The boys continued their climb unabated, his daughter turned further into the couch cushions, and with her back turned while facing the sink, his wife offered an unenthusiastic “Hey, honey.”

Standing there, the only one to greet him was the dusty, old vandal with the rifle. Spitting tobacco juice, the old man nodded derisively at the debris caused by Jeremy’s selfish neglect. “What did you think was going to happen?”

“Lord,” Jeremy whispered as he looked around, “help me. Help me secure my home.”

We’re looking forward to gathering together later this afternoon to worship the Lord and to commit ourselves again to Christ’s lordship in our lives and to be blessed by the loving reassurances of our Heavenly Father. Never forsake His invitations to grace and peace! May the Lord, mighty God, bless and continue to keep us!

• Pastor Tate