RE: Little Drummer Boy

First a confession: I have little to no tolerance for the radio stations that play Christmas music all day starting November 1.  You could at least wait until after Thanksgiving, and why not wait a little longer?

Well there is a benefit.  In their desperate attempts to boast about the variety in their programming, we are treated to several different versions of Christmas songs.  You can hear Johnny Mathis AND Andy Williams sing all of them.

One song I've heard in diversity is "The Little Drummer Boy".  The classic version is the one done by Bing Crosby and David Bowie. You can also hear it performed by Whitney Houston.  I think I heard a Toby Keith rendition this morning.  Growing up we had a ceramic music box which played the tune.

It's safe to say that, like many of its holiday compatriots, "The Little Drummer Boy" has been done ad infinitum by multifarious artists with multifarious takes on the song.  But there's something missing.  In every version I've heard, there isn't a whole lot of drumming.  OK, some do better than others (tip 'o the cap, TK and Jars of Clay), but come on!  The song's about a little drummer boy who played his drum for Jesus and the Incarnate Word smiled at him.

I need a hero!

Here's what I want.  Immediately after the line, "I played by best for him, pa-rum-pa-pum-pum, rum-pa-pum-pum, rum-pa-pum-pum", just bring it!  Give me a Tommy Lee drum solo (you still read this, Tommy?).  How about the cast of Drumline?  Take a minute or two and throw down!

I want to see the innkeeper freak out about the noise, and Mary begin to ponder what she had done by allowing the little drummer boy to play.  It would be great foreshadowing for the entire ministry of Jesus which shook things up and turned the world upside down.  A most appropriate herald no doubt!

Then he smiled at me, and there was something about that grin.

Rev. Chip to the Rescue

I need some outlet for what I'm feeling.  I realize going public with this could elicit too much sympathy or too much ire--or both.  My first experience in the office this morning was a call to rescue damsels in distress.  Our preschool director and one of the mothers discovered a mouse in the ladies room.  OK, there wasn't any stereotypical screaming, but I did hear some female voice agreeing that they each were not going to touch it.

The director came to my door and asked if I would get the mouse out of the ladies room.  I was reassured it was a baby--what's reassuring about that?

I picked up a dish towel and was fully expecting to be removing a dead mouse.  My surprise was that he was alive and as cute as could be.  I scooped him up and headed to the door.  He weighed nothing.  He was "this big", yet I could feel his body heat through two layers of fluffy dish towel.

My heart was breaking!  I knew I had to expel this little critter from the office area, but I also knew that meant putting him out in the cold.  Where's Ellie Mae Clampett when you need her?

What Do We Call Him? Part 2

Way back in 1991, I entered the world of congregational ministry.  My first role in following my calling was as a 22 year old summer youth minister.  Yes, I led Bible studies, chaperoned youth camp and managed to live through a few lock-ins.  Much of my ministry was accomplished as a Christian older brother at best, and on some days as just another big kid (I do mean that in the best possible terms).

Then came that fateful Sunday morning.  A seventh grader came to Sunday School with some questions about the upcoming trip we were going to take.  It wasn't her fault.  She was raised right and only doing what she was supposed to do.  She began, "Mr. Chip, I have a question..."

I answered her question, and then I told her, "You don't have to call me 'mister'.  I'm not really that much older than you, and the way I like to do youth ministry is as friends, do you understand?"

She nodded and replied, "Yes, sir."

And so the curse began.  Ever since that day I have been a thousand years old.

What do we call him? Part 1
Ever since I was a couple days old, the question has been asked, "What do we call him?"  I was the first baby boy in our family.  Because of that, I inherited my given name Emory Luther Reeves, Jr.  You can call me any of those if you like--I might not answer to "Junior" unless you're my dad.

Well, there in good ol' Roper Hospital in Charleston, a friend asked my mother, "What will you call him?"  I guess the prevailing logic was that should Momma need assistance and yell, "Emory!" that neither my dad or I would come running believing she meant the other one.  A few nicknames were batted about.  I was this close to being Em.  Finally the friend suggested, "Call him Chip."

In 1969, "Chip" was the proper nickname to give a youngster in order say a little more about the boy's parents relationship to "the man".  To put this in perspective, my wife's middle name is Lalena (la-lay-nya), which is the title of a Deep Purple song, ya dig?

I have had fun all my life being Chip.  The good thing about having the nickname is that I have enjoyed getting to define who Chip is without a lot of worry about being Emory.  Of course, as a teenager, he would always remind me, "Remember whose son you are."  Wasn't hard to forget.  It's on my driver's license and Social Security card.

There was that short period of time when I contemplated a name change.  I had reached one of those rites of passage moments in life and I felt that as a more mature individual I wanted to go by a name that would welcome people to take me more seriously.  "Call me Emory," I requested--the day I graduated from kindergarten.

I probably don't have to tell you that "Chip" quite often finds too many prefixes and suffixes easily attached.  I don't mind.  There are listeners who don't hear and they call me Skip or Jim, and there are readers who don't look closely and they call me Chris.  I have devious plans for these folks.  I even hope for the opportunity to butcher their names over a loudspeaker one day.  "It's a pleasure to introduce you to Mr. Juh-hon Su-mitt-huh!"  Oh yeah, John Smith, you're on my list.

A Basket Case
In the summer of 2000 I spent 6 weeks on mission in Moldova.  There are a lot of stories I can tell about that trip, but one of them actually happened today.

One of the presents I brought back for my wife was a bread basket.  It was one of those rare occasions when a husband actually gets ir right.  Trisha loved the basket and we used it at many meals, especially when we would have company over.  Then, I could tell mission trip stories, and we could both talk about being apart for 6 weeks and how good it is to be together.  Anyways, the bread basket became one of those go-to symbols of hospitality in our home.

A few years ago, we were about to have friends over for lunch and Trisha asked, "Where's The Basket?"  We own plenty of baskets, but I knew which one she was talking about. We searched all over the house and couldn't find it.  We gave up, resigning that this basket had been lost in transit over a few years.  It was somewhere between Maryland, Savannah, Atlanta and Allendale, SC.

This week, Trisha and I are apart for a few days, while I start working at First Baptist Church of Evans, GA, and she oversees packing and moving. We won't have lots of stories to tell, but there will be a few.  For instance, the refrigerator in the parsonage in Allendale died two nights ago.  Trisha woke up to puddles of water in the kitchen and the chore of throwing away the food in the refrigerator and freezer.  She let the church know about the broken appliance, and a repairman was dispatched.  He arrived on Wednesday and gave the bad news about the passing of the compressor.  I think a new refrigerator is in the works for the next pastor in Allendale--you're welcome, buddy!

Here's the story.  The repairman had to pull the refrigerator out from the wall to work on it.  Behind the refrigerator was a red cup and some magnetic letters perhaps belonging to the previous family.  Also back there, probably for our whole term in Allendale, was The Basket.  Poor thing was caked in dust.  It was lost, but now it's found, dare I say.

Moving and starting a new job comes with a fair amount of stress I hear.  Transition can be a word that scares people.  In the middle of some anxiety, are stories about lost treasure being found: God's consistency even when life is in flux, my wife's phone call with a joyful story to share, and even the basket we'll use again to welcome friends old and new.

Don't Knock It...
Last summer I had one of the most harrowing experiences of my lifetime.  If you're new here, you need to know I'm exaggerating.  I could have written the same words about the blood drive band aid I just peeled off my gotta-be-kin-to-Chewbacca elbow joint.

Now back to the situation at hand (thank you Snoop), last summer, the boys and I were at the produce market where I set out to choose a watermelon.  I thumped and knocked a few of them.  I settled on the winner, and we headed home.  We set this baby in the refrigerator for a cooling (colding?) spell.  When the time came to carve it up, we discovered the watermelon was nowhere close to being ripe.  I mean the inside was more white than pink and nowhere close to being red--ooh! I believe I have also just aptly described my pre-sunburn complexion!

I was immediately dismayed.  Growing up in my daddy's grocery store and making a part-time college career out of running a roadside produce stand, I was ashamed of myself.  I felt bad.  I worried.  Had I lost my "ear"?  The rest of the summer, when we wanted watermelon, my mantra was, "Quit being so prideful and trust the pros."  I asked for help, and I would ask, "Can I eat this one today?"

This Saturday, we brought home the first watermelon of the summer.  The previous watermelon does not count since it was the last watermelon of late, late spring, and, yes, it was an unripened disaster, thank you very much.  The former was also selected without professional help, but it only made it to the car after lots (LOTS!) of thumping and knocking.  I still don't trust myself.  To prove a point, I made the command  decision once we got home to let it sit on the porch for one more day.  This proved an effective strategy, and good things did come to those who waited.  Sunday afternoon gave us a sweet, mid-afternoon snack well worth the wait.  24 more hours would have proven even nicer, but who's got that kind of patience!

I'm holding off on crowing about success with an "I'm back, baby!"  The jury is still out.  Maybe I was going through something of a rough patch last summer.  Maybe I was distracted.  I did feel like someone from the South Carolina Department of Agriculture was going to show up and have me exiled as a sous chef on the set of March of the Penguins 2.

What I do know is this:  I have found a good illustration for the next time the lectionary deals me "Whoever has ears to hear, let them hear."  No, it will not replace my reference to White Men Can't Jump's "You can't hear Jimi!" And shame on you, spellcheck, for highlighting "Jimi".  Really??

That's In The Bible???
(more than likely a title you will see here again)

Last week I had one of those encounters with the real, live Bible.  I was reading a familiar passage in Luke 1, Mary's visit to Elizabeth.  There, I read a verse which I had never seen or heard in my life--of course, I'm exaggerating...  I think...

Every time I read this passage before, the story stopped with Elizabeth telling Mary she was special and qualifying that quality in her by saying, "Even the baby in my womb jumped for joy" (Yes, I'm paraphrasing).  This has always been the cue for the soloist to start singing the Magnificat.  In my latest reading, however, Someone had inserted a new verse for me to read before we could commence with all the magnifying.  It said...
     And blessed is she who believed that there would
     be a fulfilment of what was spoken to her by the Lord.

Yes, it really is there.  Luke 1:45.  Really, I'm not kidding!

All "not kidding" aside, this verse turned out to be a word that I really needed to hear.  For me, it spoke to me about the reason I was reading the Bible that day in the first place.  I read the Bible a lot, but as a pastor, there are many times when I do so for the sake of Sunday's sermon or Wednesday night's study.  This time, I was reading for me, and I got a blessing that tells me God is going to do what God promised.  Was Paul paraphrasing Elizabeth when he said:
    I am confident of this, that the one who began a good work among you will bring it to completion by the day of Jesus Christ. (Philippians 1:6)?

That good work has been started in all of us.  Hail, friend, you are blessed, and it makes us all jump for joy!

People Who Pray

Have you ever underestimated the power of prayer? Here’s a shocker: I have! I imagine I have too many such occasions to name. I realize that part of my testimony now has to include many people, both known and unknown, who have prayed for me.

20 years ago when I finally got up the courage to talk with my dad about my calling to ministry, it was another moment to discover the prayers offered up by the children of God. After asking several questions about what I was feeling and understanding about being called, Daddy told me, "Son, you don’t know this, but this is something I have been praying about for you for a long time." Today, I am still finding out what that means.

Recently, at the KAIROS weekend at Allendale Correctional Institution, I was blessed again to pray for others and pray with others. While the KAIROS ministry was happening inside the prison, countless volunteers on the outside were lifting us up in prayer. People signed up to pray around the clock to cover every moment of our ministry with prayer.

On Friday morning of KAIROS, I was on the program to give a talk about this very subject, a word of encouragement to the residents that they were not alone–people were praying for them. To make this matter a little intriguing, I had forgotten that I was on the schedule. Fellow KAIROS team members greeting me first thing that morning offering to assist with the talk, to which I replied, "What talk?" Once we got that settled, I had plenty of time to get ready, and still plenty of willing helpers in my colleagues.

The time for the talk came around, and I walked toward the community room. Just before I got to the door, a friend named John caught me and asked, "You wanna pray?" I thought he said, "You gonna pray?" I replied, "Yeah, the talk outline says I’m supposed to lead the group in the prayer on page 11 in the prayer book." John was confused for a couple seconds, then he replied, "That’s good, and would you like to pray with me before you go in and do the talk?"

John and I prayed together before the talk. I am glad we did. It was a spiritual help to me. While I was speaking, I could feel the presence of the Holy Spirit in the room with us. I was able to see the faces of a number of prisoners who were being blessed by what I had to say. When I finished the talk, guess what? John and I prayed together again. We offered up a lot of thanksgivings and prayed for more of the outpouring of God’s spirit while we ministered together with our fellow team members and the residents at the prison.

I am certain that I will have more stories to tell about being surprised by answered prayers and the hearts of the people who have offered them. Some very powerful words of ministry which we can give each other are, "May I pray with you?" and "Will you pray for me?". Amen.

Peace to you,
Chip