Give up "church" for Lent

Here’s something to give up for Lent: “church”.

OK, now please let me explain.  I am not telling anyone to leave church or stop attending or play hooky for 40 days.  No, I have an actual spiritual exercise in mind here, and it involves the word “church”.

I believe “church” is a word that Christians often take for granted.  It can be overused.  It can be used wrongly.  It can be unconsidered altogether.  Whether we can site ignorance, neglect, or some undefined need to oversimplify, a great term describing Christian fellowship and commission has been reduced to a stereotype.

Think about it.  What do you call that big building with the steeple where folks who’ve put forth the effort to get all dressed up manage to go and stick it out for an hour a week?  When someone has dared to become an obstacle to your Sunday morning course asking, “Where’re y’all goin’ all dressed up?” what simple answer do you offer?   What term do you use to refer to a worship service?  For that matter, what term do you use to refer to just about anything that happens in or near that big building with the steeple on top?  Whether it’s worship, Bible study, children’s choir or ceramics class, chances are good that you have referred to the place and, perhaps to your credit, the activity as “church”.

You probably have heard this as often as I have.  You might have even said it.  The church is not the building.  The church is not the program or the activity.  The church is people.

When Jesus said to Peter, “Upon this rock, I will build my church,” he did not mean that a cathedral was to be constructed on that very spot in Caesarea Philippi—though I’d like to think he might have at least chuckled at the thought of a ceramics class.    Jesus was ready to build upon what was confessed, “You are the Christ, the Son of the living God.”

The Greek word we often define as “church” is an important term in this gospel story.  It is ekklessia.  In Jesus’ day, they already had places where they gathered together, and they were called synagogues.  Ekklessia is a word that does not have much to do with how we construct Christian campuses and compounds or how we might cloister or hide inside of said buildings.  A very literal translation of ekklessia demonstrates that we are supposed to be the “called out” ones (ek + klesis).

The church is people.  It is time to stop going to church and start being the church.  Again, I don’t mean abandon the weekly worship service or cease and desist your important ministry of rocking babies in the nursery.  Based on Jesus’ definition, church is what Christian folks should be all the time, and not the box in which you might find some of them.

Here is the Lenten exercise I have in mind.  Give up “church” as your term for the building and the stuff you do there.  The exercise is not to come up with clever synonyms, but rather to really pay attention.  What do you mean when you say “church”?  What should you mean when you say “church”?  Should someone actually get in your way on Sunday morning and ask about where you are headed, that person is in that moment your congregation waiting for you “to church”.  It is your time to be one of the “called out”, and your words and actions should demonstrate who you know Jesus to be.

How will you "be the church" in the restaurant you go to following the worship service?

How will you "be the church" when you're standing in line to pay a bill on Monday morning?

How will you "be the church" in that conversation you have with that person who is always so surly?

The list of questions could go on and on, and the Christ, the Son of the living God is asking them.

A free recipe for you

Chip’s Promethean Lentil Soup

Quite often I cook by the seat of my pants—ew.  I mean I improvise as I go and can create a dish without a recipe.  Sometimes it works out.  My wife HATES this.  She might say recipes, like rules, are meant to be followed.  Therefore my managing to come up with something edible could be equated with stealing fire from the gods.

This was some really good soup, though, prompting me to take the time to write out what I did in order to share the goodness with the whole world.  Part of the credit goes to cooking it for several hours.  So, if you’ve got the time, give it a shot or adapt it to your slow cooker if you’ve got somewhere to be.

1 med. onion, chopped

3 stalks celery, chopped

4 carrots, sliced

2 Tbs. olive oil

½ tsp. salt

In a large pot, sauté onion, celery and carrots in olive oil.

Add spices…

2 tsp. garlic powder

2 tsp. coriander

2 tsp. cumin

½ tsp. white pepper

½ tsp. crushed red pepper flake

1 or 2 tsp. salt

Add liquids…

4 cups of water

4 cups of chicken broth

Bring to a boil, then simmer at least 30 minutes.  My batch was simmering for 4 hours.

OK, lentil time.  Add...

1 cup of dried lentils

Simmer for 30 minutes.

Add…

2 cups of egg noodles.

Simmer 10-15 more minutes until noodles are done.  Serve garnished with parmesan cheese.

It's Powerful Cold

                It’s cold, people!  Did ya’ hear?  Of course, you did.

Is there too much focus on the cold weather?  Well, from a safety first standpoint, the answer to that has to be “no”.  People need to know the risks and take certain precautions for the sake of their health and the health of those around them.  We need to talk about staying indoors, bundling up, dressing in layers, dripping faucets and so on.  We need to bring in our pets.  We need to cover up the plants.  We need to check on our elderly neighbors and make sure everyone’s OK.

                Every warning that accompanies a “Freeze-pocalypse” must not go ignored.  It is the media’s obligation to discuss these matters ad nauseam.  They cannot control when someone will be tuned in, so for the sake of helping everyone understand what’s at stake, the coverage goes on and on.  Of course information only continues to be information unless it is accompanied by a practical demonstration.  As I’ve said before, “All lecture and no lab a science course does not make.”  Hence the need for Jim Cantore to stick his tongue on a pole.  “It’th weawy dat code! Pweathe be thafe, peopo.”

                I worry though that with all this focus on the actual temperature, the wind chill, and the “feels like” temperature, something is going to get ignored.  No one’s talking about static electricity.

                Please be prepared for this.  With much of the country dominated by cold, dry air, or the interior of our homes dry because of the heaters constantly running, the zap factor is running at an all-time high.

                Is there really a static problem?  I’m positive (see what I did there?).

                There is a tremendous risk involved with being insulated but not insulated, if you know what I mean.  Without thinking, people bundled up in layers get up off the couch (rub-rub) and shuffle off to the bathroom (rub-rub).  All they’re thinking about is how long it’s going to take to de-layer, and then their thoughts turn too quickly to how cold the seat’s going to be.  No one has any clue about the silent and invisible predator they’ve helped to create.  That is, until they touch the bathroom doorknob and...

 

After that you’ve got to go change a few layers.

                It’s cold, folks.  Please remember to stay warm, and don’t forget to stay grounded.

Stories I Can't Tell Without Crying Part 3

Well, it’s game day.  And I say this to you with all the love in my heart…

How ‘bout them Gamecocks!

And I mean that, ya’ hear?

A long, long time ago, in the fall of ’92, I packed up almost everything I owned and headed off to seminary.  Funny how everything you owned used to fit inside a car and you could still see out the rearview mirror.  I left home, and found myself 600 miles away following God’s call in Louisville, KY.  It was the farthest I had ever been from home, and there were days when I could feel that.

Fortunately, some of the first people I met were fellows from South Carolina.  The journey acquired a sense of home.  One of those young ministers had even preached at my home church as part of a BSU summer missions team.  All of that was very helpful.

We compared notes about life in the northern part of Kentucky, one river crossing away from the North.  We lamented the lack of sweet tea in restaurants (it might shock you where we found it—probably not).  We’d go out to eat together and confirm to each other, “That ain’t barbecue!”  We needed each other’s friendship.  We were Carolina boys together, but we all were still far from home.

We’d settle on couches on Saturdays to watch college football, but the selection was limited to Kentucky, Louisville and the Big Ten.  Lord, have mercy.  The saving grace was that Kentucky was in the SEC, and for my first semester away from home, the schedule brought Carolina to Lexington.

The boys got together, and we made plans to go to the game.  One fellow had a connection for tickets, and even the Clemson fan wanted to go.  We got up early that Saturday morning and headed east for Commonwealth Stadium.  We encountered more culture shock.  1) We drove less than 80 miles to get to a college football game.  2) There was no game day traffic.  We had to come to terms with a state where basketball was religion.  Forgive us, Lord.

I mentioned that I left home with “almost” everything I owned.  The Gamecocks sweatshirt was 600 miles away in a closet in Reevesville, SC.  Guess what they didn’t sell in the mall in Louisville, KY back in 1992.  Back in the dorm, I dug through my clothes and came out of the pile with a black Evangelympics sweatshirt (God bless you, Bill Cox!).  That served as my game day gear.

Of course, we had anticipated there’d be traffic, so we got to the stadium very early.  We tailgated, and then we walked around outside the stadium.  We came across a woman all dressed in black.  Long, black skirt.  Black sweater.  Big black hat.  The entirety of the ensemble highlighted with block C’s and the “Beat Kentucky” sticker from Jewelry Warehouse.  If I had to guess, she was a football player’s mother, but she reminded me of my mother.

The only indicator of what side I was on was that black sweatshirt.  As we drew close to the woman, she locked eyes with me and said, “How ‘bout them Gamecocks!”  

She may as well have said, “I love you and everything’s going to be all right,” because that’s definitely how I heard it.  In the couple seconds it took to say it, every bit of distance disappeared.  I wasn't a visitor.  I was right at home.  And all I could do was smile and say it right back.

Stories I Can't Tell Without Crying--Part II

A long, long time ago, in 1980...

One scene of the Dukes of Hazzard had me crying my eyes out.  If you're feeling up to it, ask me to tell you the story, and we'll cry together.

Not too long ago, I checked the TV listings and the Duke boys were going to be on CMT, and what should the episode be? "The Ghost of General Lee".  I set the DVR.

Once I had the recording, I introduced Trisha to this part of my history.  "Sweetie, I am about to show you one of the most poignant moments in television."  I also told her about not being able to tell the story without crying.

If you want to watch it, "The Ghost of General Lee" is season 2, episode 6.  I don't have my DVR anymore (guess I could shed another tear), so you'll have to buy it somewhere or keep a close eye on CMT's schedule.

Here's the story.

Bo and Luke parked the General Lee by a pond and went skinny dipping.  While they were swimming, some pool hustlers in need of a getaway car stole the General Lee.  In a rare plot twist, the Hazzard County Sheriff's Department began to chase that orange race car for no apparent reason.  So while they thought they had an easy ride out of Hazzard, two white patrol cars fell in behind them.  Roscoe P. Coletrane and his deputy Enos were in "hot pursuit"!

The chase ended when the pool hustlers crashed the General Lee into the pond.  The race car with no windows sank fast.  Roscoe and Enos caught up quickly.  Enos ran straight to the water and dove in.  Roscoe radioed for help.

Enos surfaced clutching some of Bo and Luke's clothes.  In tremendous desperation he called out to Roscoe, "Sheriff, you gotta help me! Help me find 'em!"

"I can't, Enos," Roscoe replied soberly, "I can't swim."

33 years later and I cry every time.

Stories I Can't Tell Without Crying Part I

                I don’t know if I've got a good series of stories here or not.  I've got two.  There are probably more than two, but I haven’t kept up with this statistic.  A week ago, I would have told you there’s only one story I tell that makes me cry.  Once I told it to you, you would laugh.  I’m saving that one for Part II.  Stay tuned.

                Last week, I was talking with a group of preschoolers.  I consider it continuing ed.  They share a little wisdom; I teach them how to pull their thumbs off.

We were talking about simple ways to demonstrate “love one another”.  Of course, they already knew plenty of examples, the things grownups forget too quickly.  I told them that one good thing they could do for other kids who might be afraid or sad was to simply tell them everything’s going to be all right.  Without giving it one thought, I launched into “The Tornado Story”.  The following might be the long version.

When I was seven years old, I was in a tornado.  OK, I was in a building which happened to be near where a tornado was going.

I was in my dad’s grocery store, helping bag groceries.  We were right in the middle of the 4:30 rush, and the sky outside grew dark.  It got darker and darker.  I started to pay more attention to this than to how many cans of beans I could neatly stack on top of a sewing room worker’s bread and eggs.  I heard some ladies in the line talking about the weather report they’d heard on the radio.  Somebody said, “Tornado watch.”  I looked back out the window.  It had gotten really dark.  They must have meant “warning”.

There was a sales rack in front of the huge storefront window.  I climbed up on the bottom shelf to look out over the top of the rack.  There was a tall antenna behind the building across the street.  I watched it begin to sway back and forth, and it didn't take long for all that steel to get really flexible.  Before I could watch it snap away, my dad picked me up off the shelf.  He set me down behind the counter and called for everyone to get down.

One second later, all the lights went out.  Less than a second after that, the windows were sucked out of their frames with an incredible blast.  The wind filled the whole building with a roar, and hell came with it (I was going to say “leaves and dirt” but please indulge me).

At that point, I did what any average, brave seven year old would, do.  I cried.  I screamed, I cried, and I left it to no one’s imagination to determine if I was scared to death.

Here’s the part where I start to get a little (a lot) weepy.  In the middle of all that terror, I felt a hand patting me on my arm.  I looked up and right in front of me was an African American boy.  He wasn't much older than I was.  I never got his name.  I don’t know who his parents are.  It certainly didn't matter that he was black and I was white.  In that moment, he was to me exactly what I needed, a friend.  He patted me and said, “Everything’s going to be all right.”

I stopped screaming and crying.  Not long after that, the sky lightened and the wind went away.

“Everything’s going to be all right.”  It’s a message from the angels.  Sure the gospel writers jazz it up a little.  “Fear not” sells more Bibles, I guess, but the message itself is one we shouldn't ignore.  What happened to us while we were growing up to cause us to forget that?  Or worse, what happened that caused us to not believe that?

Ever since that December afternoon way back in nineteen seventy something, I have had my fair share of things to worry about.  Add to that 22 years of doing ministry, and no it hasn't been all sunshine and roses.  Actually, my mantra at times has been, “ I've cleaned up the world’s worst clogged up toilet and gotten it running again and I’ll gladly take the literal task over the figurative any day.”  Calling, however, cannot be ignored, and the Lord expects nothing less than for his followers to get out there and lay down their lives.

Several of my friends are currently going through some difficult times.  Some are dealing with health issues in their families or their own lives.  Some are dealing with some Grade A pain and disappointment (forgive me, trying to keep it a family show).  To each of them, I have to say, “Everything’s going to be all right” is still true.  In the middle of a storm, an angel told me so.

Oops! I Didn't Say "Reciprocal"

Some Sunday mornings when our Bible study leaders get together, I am presented with challenges. These are outside of the “ordinary” challenges of being a pastor, and they’re actually quite fun. Sometimes I have been dared to use a certain word during the sermon.  If you’ve been wondering for a while why I said “glockenspiel”, thank yourSunday School leaders.

This brings another challenge to mind.  If you’re missing worship and Sunday morningBible study, you’re really missing out.  Not only do you miss the fellowship and spiritual growth that can take place through some of the most basic things we do as a congregation, but you’re also missing hearing the SECRET WORD!

This past Sunday the challenge was to weave “reciprocal” into the sermon.  I forgot to because I didn’t write it on my notes.  I remembered it this morning while reading the lectionary Psalm getting me ready for this coming Sunday.  Psalm 36:5-10 speaks of the steadfast love of God and the blessings we know as we seek shelter in the shadow of God’s wings.

Reciprocal: mutually corresponding; give and take.  It helps describe life together as a church and life together with God.

A meditation I read on our Psalm said this:

Each time we take a sip from the fountain of life, we are reminded of God’s faithfulness, abundance, and gracious embrace.  We are at our best as God’s gathered people, guests at God’s banquet, drinking together from the river of God’s delights…  What does it mean to you to find your home in God?  (April Berends in Daily Feast)

So here’s to the definition of reciprocal that’s way down the page.  We’re not opposites even though we’re short and tall, light and dark, young and old, Gamecocks and Bulldogs and Tigers (oh my!).  We have the steadfast love of God in common.  “In God’s light we see light” (v 9).  It’s all about the relationship we have with God and each other.

See you Sunday!
Rev. Chip

Room in the N?

I don't know whether I can prove this or not, but last week I invented a Chrismon.

A what?  OK, here's the quick catch up lesson for the non-liturgical types.  Chrismons came into popular use thanks to a Lutheran church in Danville, VA. You can google all this and find out lots.  In short, your church, or one near you (check with the Lutherans of you need to) probably has a Chrismon tree.  Every ornament on the tree has something to do with Jesus.

Here's my story.  I was preparing a devotion on making room in your home and heart for Jesus.  I searched for some simple clip art showing Jesus in the manger to go along with the devotion.  I finally found one that was made with simple pen strokes.

Now I can't give you all the insight into how my mind works--lest we bog down the internet. I should confess that this symbol that helps tell the story of Jesus began with a certain amount of mischief.  As I thought along the line of "no room in the in", I found out that I could make a manger by drawing baby Jesus at rest in the diagonal of the letter "N".  Oh yes there IS room in the N!

So, I changed my plan and began to work on a baby in the manger Chrismon using the letter N.  The easy way, I figured was to put an R in the N's diagonal.  That's when I stumbled onto making a Chrismon that told two stories.

A number of Chrismons are Greek letters transposed on each other. Some examples include the Chi-Rho, Alpha and Omega, and the Ichthus Wheel.  I found out that I could make my "N manger" by transposing the Latin letters INRI on top of each other.

INRI are the first letters of the Latin inscription "Jesus of Nazareth, King of the Jews" which Pilate had placed on top of Jesus' cross.  So, now I have managed in one Chrismon to tell the story of Jesus' birth (Luke 2:1-7) and the story of his death (John 19:16-22) --and it all started with me trying to be a little funny with "room in the N".

So I made a Chrismon.  On the silly side, its a picture of the question, "Is there room in the inn?"  That question, however, begets a few more.  Is there room in my heart and in your heart for Jesus?  How about in our homes?  Is there room for Jesus in every circumstance, in our highs and lows, in our delights and despairs?  Well the answer is, "Of course there is!"

O come to my heart, Lord Jesus,
There is room in my heart for thee.

Do it for Phil Coulson!

OK, so I was a couple weeks late seeing The Avengers, but as soon as school was out, my 11 year old and I hit the theater.  We saw the movie in IMAX 3D, a splurge for making the the A honor roll--him, not me.  So that made the movie even more awesomer (yeah, I know it's not a word).

There were plenty of good lines, too.  Here are a couple of my favorites:
"Target: angry!"
"You might want to clench up there, Legolas."  (With all due respect to the A honor roll types sitting near me, I think I was the only one in the theater who laughed at that one.)

Now here's the one that I had to think about for a second.  Loki has mortally wounded Agent Coulson, the Les Nessman of the Avengers Initiative.  As he lay there dying, Nick Fury gives him the "please don't go, please don't die" stuff, and Coulson, with his last breath says, "This has to happen.  Without it what will they have to..." and then he dies.

"What will they have to" what?  I thought it a second before A Honor Roll asked me.  AVENGE!  Oh! Avenge!  What will the Avengers have to avenge!!

Cool move.  If Loki had killed Nick Fury, Iron Man or even Captain America it wouldn't have united the heroes against their enemy.  But go picking in the every-man, and you're in some deep trouble, my friend.  That's what makes heroes.  It's not the suit or the powers or the multi-billion dollar flying aircraft carrier.  It's the determination to stand up and fight for the innocent, to speak up for those without a voice, to fly for all of us who seem to be stuck on the ground.

You know what, people?  We each can be a hero, and we all can work together to make a difference in our world.  It really is possible.  Make the determination that we are going to see the end of suffering--the hungry fed, oppressed set free, good news preached to the poor, and so on.  Make that determination to do something about it.  With God's help we can.  It's hero time.

@ the Graduate Luncheon

On Friday, May 4,  I was invited to speak at Charleston Southern University's graduate luncheon.  The following is what I remember saying.

When I asked my wife for a some advice on what to say to folks who were about to graduate from college, she said, "Tell them not to do it. The economy's a wreck.   There's no jobs.  They might do better to go to graduate school."  Well, you could defer your loans for a few years I guess.

20 years from now I hope you have a handfull of friends from your college days on the Alumni board and they want to hear you speak at this event.  I do mean that as a blessing, but today I also blame Facebook.

I wondered what sort of speech to give today.  You don't need a commencement address.  You'll get one of those tomorrow.  My challege to you is to remember something the speaker says.

I have daydreamed about being a commencement speaker.  That daydream started 20 years ago about 5 minutes after I graduated.  Generally there are two criteria for being a commencement speaker.  A) You can be famous for something.  B) You could have accomplished something.  Oh, well.

I'm a pastor, but I'm not here to preach, though I probably will.  Having attended this Baptist univeristy for a while, you have probably already heard a lot of preaching.  On top of that, I am a BAPTIST pastor, so hearing from the likes of me is about as rare as seeing a mallard duck out there on the reflection pond.

I did read that there was a rare bird spotted on the reflection pond, a greater white fronted goose.  OK, it was more unusual than rare.  A little bit lost and off-course.  Today, I hope to be that kind of rare bird for you.

I'm not here to preach.  I'm not here to offer a commecement address.  The reason I'm here is because I am a Buccaneer.

For my junior and senior years in college I was THE Buccaneer (the college mascot, the man in the suit), so I might know a thing or two about being a Buccaneer.  First, being the mascot was great!  Being the mascot gives you access to cheerleaders, and that's great!  It certainly helped me retire my previous pick-up line, "Hey who wants to hug the editor of the campus newspaper?"

Mascots, especially if they've got imaginations, don't really need to practice.  I'd go to cheerleading practice, and spot the cheerleaders as they practiced partner stunts.  So, not only did I have access to cheerleaders, but they were literally falling out of the sky.

Yes, it was fun, too.  After a basketball game, the cheerleading team went out to eat.  The referees from the game came to the same restaurant.  They recognized the cheerleaders and came over to introduce themselves.  They got to me, and one referee inquired, "Who are you?"  I smiled and said, "I'm the Buccaneer."  Karl Hess told me, "I hate your guts!" Proof I was doing my job well.

I was also in great shape.  I remember being at the counter at the business office.  I was leaning on the counter writing a check.  I overheard two women across the room behind me.  One of them caught her breath and said, "That guy's the Buccaneer."  The other woman asked, "How do you know?"  OK, to keep this a family show, let's just say that she explained that from her vantage point she could identify me anywhere.  Seems those pants for the Buc costume were a little tight--but I guess not in a bad way.

Are you a Buccaneer?  It's from the French root word boucan which had to do with cooking over a fire.  The first pirates called buccaneers were hold up on uncharted Carribbean islands catching and cooking wild hogs over a pit.  If you can cook on the grill, you're a Buccaneer!

Are you a Buccaneer?  Do you know your history?  Do you know the story behind why we're called Buccaneers (bad news here, no one knew the story)?  In 1964, the school's first basketball game was played downtown against Anderson College.  The rumor going around was that Baptist College's sports teams were going to be referred to as the Christian Knights or Crusaders.  Well, the students showed up at that first basketball game wearing bandanas, eye patches, ear rings and sashes, brandishing swords, and they unrolled a banner that said BUCCANEERS.  The nickname stuck.

Being a Buccaneer is about boldness, standing up and being heard. Being a Buccaneer is about daring to be different, about not being satisfied with the status quo, and if going against the status quo should cost you, at least you can stll cook on your grill!

Are you a Buccaneer?  The most important characteristic about being a Buccaneer is about seeking treasure.  I would say that was a great lesson I learned at Charleston Southern.  I didn't even know I was looking for treasure.

Seeking treasure is a lesson about friendship.  I am grateful for the many friends I made while I was a student here.  I know in my heart that I have friends who love me and care about me.  A lot of those are folks I haven't seen in 20 years, but I bet if we got together we could pick up where we left off--in either doing good or a little mayhem.

Seeking treasure is about fellowship.  We each have talents to share.  We each have gifts to bring to the table that we can use to work together and accomplish great things.

Seeking treasure is about faith.  Jesus said, "Ask and you shall receive.  Seek and you will find.  Knock and the door will be opened to you."  Seek is a word that implies an earnestness about your search.  It's about not being satisfied until you have found what you're looking for.  Apply what we know about seeking to somehting Jesus said earlier in the Sermon on the Mount, "Seek first the kingdom of God and his righteousness, and all these things will be added unto you."

The greatest thing about seeking the treasure of the kingdom of God is that when you do that the treasure finds you.

Was it Something I Ate?

OK, so here’s the dream.  One reason I’m sharing this is because I usually don’t remember dreams.   Sometimes in the middle of a dream I’ll remind myself to try and remember it, but once I begin to wake up, I can feel it slipping away and out of reach.  When it’s gone, it’s gone.

Another reason to share the dream is that you might have some insight about what this dream means, if it has any meaning at all.  Probably a better reason is that it was kind of funny. 

Some dreams are just flat out weird and have more basis in Doritos Locos Tacos consumed after a certain hour.  The older you get, the earlier this deadline arrives each night.

Every now and then, I have a dream that stays with me.  Usually they fall into one of two categories: weird or scary.  Wednesday night/early Thursday morning, it was a weird one that stuck with me.  The one contributing factor I know of is that I watched the South Carolina v. Wofford baseball game which went 11 innings.

That saturation was present.  I was at a baseball game in my dream.  Quickly, the coach told me I could play left field (I’m already out there in my mind, so what’s new).  Well I jumped at the chance to move from spectator to participant, but instead of playing left field, I began to walk around the field and talk to other players.

I was over by the visitors’ dugout.  A player from the other team informed me that he had brought a softball to leave inside the statue of Jesus.  I said, “Huh?”  He explained that there was a statue of Jesus nearby that had a hole at the base where folks passing by would leave softballs (some kind of pilgrimage, I guess).  I took all this information as matter of fact.

Well, I began to walk back over toward left while enjoying a pack of Lance crackers (Malt) and a Sprite in a clear Solo cup.  Of course, my repast and stroll across the outfield grass would be interrupted by a batter who rudely hit a fly ball to left field.  I fumbled to put the crackers in my back pocket, noting to myself that this was not good for the crackers, and stashed my soda behind a bush by the outfield wall.  There were two outs, and this would end the inning.  I hustled into position to catch the ball.  I settled under the ball, but there were some tree branches in my way. 

I need to add here that this baseball field was the narrow strip of yard next to Reevesville Baptist Church—before the fellowship hall was built.  I was standing where that little wall used to be, about where the covered walkway is now.  The cemetery fence was the outfield wall.  My guess is that this detail might lend more insight than others—maybe not.

The ball cleared the branches, but I had come forward one too many steps.  The ball cleared my glove and tipped the bill of my cap before hitting the ground behind me and rolling toward the wall.  I ran back to retrieve it, and the center fielder was running over to back me up.  Before we could get there the ball rolled into an open 4” drain pipe in the ground.  I held up two hands to signal to the umpire that the ball was lost and the situation merited a ground rule double.

The coach started yelling at us and marched out to left field to confront us.  I explained that the ball went in the pipe.   The coach hollered, “Yeah, well that’s a drain pipe!  It goes out of the stadium!  That ball’s halfway to Miami.  It’s a home run, and there were two runners on.  We’re down by three!”

To make matters worse, my Sprite had tipped over.  The coach walked past me on his way to the locker room.  “Don’t worry about it,” he said, “It’s halftime, and all those guys from the other team want to put a ball in the Jesus statue.”

An open letter to the Family Y

Dear Family Y of Greater Augusta,
I am so glad that my family has a membership the Y.  My sons have enjoyed playing basketball this season--boy, it sure is crowded on Saturdays!  They have also done very well in their swimming lessons.  We do have a good time at the pool.

I was happy to see the Y represented at the Riverhawks game this past Saturday night.  Thanks for being there on Scout Safety Night and providing good information about swimming and sports safety.

My sons were excited to see "Y Guy".  I thought he was pretty cool, too, but there was one problem.  "Y Guy" accompanied the Riverhawks mascots onto the ice for the second intermission.  Music began to play, and the mascots began to dance to the Village People's "YMCA".  When they reached the chorus and performed the iconic motions that go along with it, "Y Guy" DID THE "C" WRONG!

I do realize I am being picky about this.  It might be one of those things I am unable to let go.  From youth camp dances to wedding receptions, I've been helping folks turn in the right direction.  I have even taught my own children to make the "C" so other people can read it.

Please understand.  It's not just you.  I also have a problem with male cheerleaders running with flags that spell out their school's initials.  Unless they run from right to left as the audience reads it, the letters are presented in opposite order--please pay attention, CSU and USC.  Watch how the letters scroll across the bottom of the TV and copy that.

So, I'm a little heartbroken that an ambassador for the Y misses an opportunity to shine.  "Y Guy", I only want to help.  Please get better.

What Do We Call Him? Part 3: The Rise of Rev. Chip

Let's see now, where were we?  Oh, yeah, I was 22 and my hair fell out because a 7th grader called me "mister" and then she said "yes sir" to me.

Eight years later, I was ordained at Briarcliff Baptist Church in Atlanta.  At the end of the service, I was presented with a certificate of ordination and a Bible.  It was a huge, leather bound, New Oxford Annotated, New Revised Standard Version with Apocrypha, and was imprinted with REV. CHIP REEVES in gold foil on the bottom right corner.  Goliath offered to let me borrow his shield bearer when I needed to carry it anywhere.

On August 1, 1999, I became an official reverend.  There was also a reception following the service.  How much more official did things need to get?

Shortly after my being ordained, Trisha and I packed everything up and I headed to Maryland for my first "real" ministry job after seminary.  I was Baptist Campus Minister at the University of Maryland-College Park.  I enjoyed a ministry with students which was still collegial like youth ministry, but in this case everyone was in college (trying real hard not to say "literally" here).  My point here is that I was in a ministry position where it was still cool for parishoners to call me Chip.  If the voice on the office phone referred to me as Reverend Reeves, I knew it was the Dean of Students' secretary.

The college students didn't have a problem calling me Chip, neither did my fellow ministers and lots of folks who worked at Maryland.  But there was one student who changed my name.

Hieu was from Vietnam.  She came to me one day with a problem.  "I don't know what to call you," she told me.  I replied, "You can call me Chip."
"No, I can't"
"Yes, you can.  It's OK with me."
"No, I can't.  It would be embarrassing."
"Look, I have had this nickname all my life.  It's really is OK to call me Chip."

The point my new friend was trying to make with me was that in her culture it was impolite to be on a first name--nay, nickname basis with your minister.  She then emphasized this truth in a way that a boy from down South would completely understand, "My mother won't let me."  We set the differences in our cultural mores aside and walked on common ground.  I knew what she was talking about.  Some manners and the way we learn our manners are universal.  I knew my Momma would be disappointed in me if I allowed anyone to be embarrassed because of me.

I still felt like I wasn't old enough to be referred to as Reverend Reeves.  I'd only been ordained a few weeks; it might not have "took".  Besides, if everyone started calling me that, how was I supposed to filter the calls from the dean's office?

So it was that over lunch at a Vietnamese restaurant somewhere in the greater College Park/Langley Park/Silver Spring area, I acquired one of my favorite appellations.  It was a merger of the realm of formal titles and the world of striving to be yourself, "Reverend Chip".  Thanks to Hieu I have really enjoyed finding out who this guy is.

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!