Plowing Straight in a Crooked World

Making Good Choices: Plowing Straight Rows in a Crooked World

When my dad taught me how to mow the lawn (yes, we had lawnmowers back then), he showed me a way to make a straight cut across the yard in spite of the presence of trees, shrubs, and swing-sets that could get me off course.  Dad taught me to locate an object on the far side of the yard and keep it in view as I cut a straight path towards it.  I later learned that the high value my father placed on cutting grass in straight rows was a carryover from his own childhood experiences of growing up on a farm.  He faced the challenge of plowing straight rows across large fields with numerous visual temptations to veer off in one direction or another.  His father taught him to find a tall tree growing just beyond the field he was plowing and make his row straight by keeping that tree in sight and using it as his guide as he crossed the many rises, falls, and slopes of the land. 

My dad’s technique has served me well.  I’ve never plowed a field and the only grass I cut is my own, but the principle of guiding my path by markers that transcend the landscape in front of me has often helped me make better decisions in ministry.  We seldom serve on level ground.  The landscape of church life is fraught with demands, issues, and personalities we must work our way around or through as we pursue God’s work in the world.  Our personal preferences, prejudices, and pain can add a steep slope to our field and pull us, almost unconsciously, in one direction or another.  Many of a minister’s toughest and most impactful choices are made in the midst of crisis, as though a storm uproots a tree that falls across your path.  How, then, can we remain faithful to our calling and make the best choices in tough times?

We must guide our course by landmarks that transcend the landscape of our immediate circumstances.  I have found that asking myself two questions, my tall trees beyond the field, helps me plot my path forward and stay on it. 

First, I ask, “If I based my next step solely on my values (not my feelings, fatigue, frustration, or fantasies), what step would I take?”   Asking this question doesn’t mean that my emotions aren’t real or important.  I need to listen to what I feel and learn from it.  But choices based on emotion are usually reactive in nature, allowing the forces of the moment to dictate our response.  Consulting your values allows you to look up from the pressures of the moment and see the larger picture of how you want to live your life. 

Second, I ask, “What step can I take that will move me forward in my journey of becoming the person God has created and called me to be?”  Asked differently, “How would ‘the me I want to be’ respond to this situation?”  This question unleashes the power of Paul’s life-guiding principle, “I press on to take hold of that for which Christ Jesus took hold of me” (Philippians 3:12 NIV).  Consulting your best self is a helpful way to see beyond the stumps and slopes of your present moment and choose a path that will lead you forward in your personal and spiritual growth. 

As you work your uneven, rocky, obstacle-ridden field, may you find your tall trees beyond it and let them guide you to faithful decisions and fruitful ministry. 

 

The Blessing of Belonging

 

(Hebrews 10:25, Barclay) We must not, as some do, abandon meeting together; we must rather encourage each other to do so, and all the more because you see that it will not be long now until the great day comes. 

 My dad and I didn’t have many disagreements, at least not out loud.  But during my teenage years, he and I went round and round about church attendance.  From time to time, one of my friends would invite me to go with them to some special program or service or event being held at another church.  I would ask Dad if I could go.  His answer was usually the same, “Son, you have a church.”  I didn’t like his answer or understand why he would hold such a firm position based on what I thought was narrowminded thinking.  After all, I wasn’t asking permission to go on a riverboat gambling cruise, just go to another church with a friend.  Once in a while, he’d let me go, but most of the time he reminded me that I had a church and that I needed to be in my place. 

 I obeyed, but didn’t understand, that is until "the day" came, not the day of Christ’s return, but the day our family was struck by tragedy.  My dad was diagnosed as having an aggressive malignant brain tumor.  Forty years ago, medical science had no real help or hope to offer him.  We took him home to care for him and make the most of the short time the doctors said we had left with him.  

When we brought dad home, I began to understand his deep devotion to his church.  My dad wasn’t just a member of a church in the sense of having his name on the church roll.  He belonged to a spiritual family.  He had brothers and sisters with whom he’d shared worship and ministry, friendship and fellowship, laughter and tears for fifty years.  And because he was bound to Christ’s body with chords that could not be broken, our family never faced a step of that heartbreaking journey alone.  Friends came to encourage us, speak words of life to us, and most importantly, listen to us.  Scores of little things were done for us so we could focus on caring for dad.  Our refrigerator was filled with food, so much at times that we joked we had enough potato salad to open a deli.  Our carpet was wet in places where our tears fell together with the tears of God’s people as we embraced each other and hurt together.  And in a moment so precious to me, I bowed to pray with a group of church friends, but was so emotional I couldn't choke out a single word.  My friend, as only a close friend can do, lent me her voice and expressed what was in my heart.  When dad passed away and we gathered at the church house, our church house, to celebrate his life, those friends packed the pews so completely that we had to seat worshippers in the choir loft.  When the day came, I saw, as never before, how precious and life-giving my connection to the body of Christ truly is. 

 The day is coming for all of us.  Yes, Christ will come again to receive His people unto Himself.  But other days are coming, too;

 ~      Days of opportunity when we’ll accomplish what one person can do alone, or what the gifts and strength of many can accomplish working together;

 ~      Days of learning when we’ll make every mistake for ourselves or share the wisdom each of us has gained on our journey with Jesus;

 ~      Days of disappointment and failure when we’ll fall and struggle to find the will and the way to get back up, or look up from our lowest places to see hands reaching down to lift us up, brush us off, and steady us as we take our first steps forward. 

 ~      Days of heart crushing grief when we can sit and suffer alone in the darkness or receive the comfort, understanding, love, and hope that can only come from belonging to a family, a body, the body of Christ. 

God has called you to me a member of Christ's body.  Countless blessings come to those who answer that calling whole-heartedly.  

Young Eyes Watching the Choir

The worship service was over.  Most of those in attendance had finished their after-church conversations and had made their way to their cars and were on their way to their next holy ritual, Sunday lunch.  Our choir gathered for a quick “right after church” rehearsal, a practice that lingers from the days of Covid restrictions.  As they began singing, the sound of their voices struck the ears of a little boy just outside the sanctuary, his family among the last to leave.  Just two years old, he is in a state of constant discovery.  He followed the sounds he heard into the sanctuary and stood very still in the aisle, transfixed by what he was seeing and hearing.  His grandmother had the presence of mind to save that moment and share it with us by taking a picture. 

 I look at this picture and wonder what my young friend is thinking and feeling as he watches a group of adults working together to praise God and proclaim the Good News.  I’d like to believe that his wide-eyed eavesdropping of choir rehearsal made a lasting spiritual impression upon him.  He doesn’t know how to read music or the meaning of many of the words the grownups sang.  But I hope he knows, in his two-year-old way, that people who love God have a song, that we combine our different voices to give that song richness and depth, and that we work together to share our song with excellence. 

Some of my earliest memories are of church.  I think those experiences shaped my heart and mind for God.  I’m glad my young friend is making church memories of his own.  I think every child deserves and needs that opportunity. 

Ways Not Wearing a Mask Will Complicate Your Church Life

 

While the Christian community revels in the joy of not needing to wear masks to church, you must, on balance, recognize that there is a downside to this development.  Prepare yourself for these ways not wearing a mask will complicate your church life.  

·       Women will need to apply makeup to the bottom half of their faces. 

·          Men who shave will need to be more thorough. 

·       You’ve lost a great excuse for not recognizing someone you’ve met several times. 

·       The music minister can see whether you’re singing the hymns.

·       The pastor knows you’re not laughing at his jokes.

·       You’ve lost this decade’s unique opportunity to accessorize with excellence.

·       You must face the sad truth that your ears do really stick out—it’s not just the elastic from the mask pulling them down.

·       You need to revise your “Do you have…?” list you recite to your spouse before you leave home (Bible, cell phone, and offering remain on the list). 

·       You’ll feel strangely frightened when you sing “Breathe on Me.” 

·       People will know you aren’t really a ventriloquist. 

·       You can no longer make an off the wall comment in your Bible study group in an altered voice and get away with it.

·       You’ll face the tough fact that some people really do mumble when they speak. 

·       You’ll no longer be able to start a hallway conversation with “Where did you get that cute mask?” or “Who is that masked man?” 

·       You’ve lost your facial billboard for supporting your favorite team. 

·       You’ll realize that some people weren’t distancing themselves from you because you forgot your mask—they really don’t like you. 

 ·       You’ll struggle with the decision of whether to donate your mask collection to the church’s yard sale. 

Winston

You'd expect a one-of-a-kind dog to come into your family in a one-of-a-kind way.  In early 2006, I received a call from a friend who had a coworker in a bind.  His wife had given him a puppy as a gift, then learned, much to her chagrin, that she was badly allergic to the dog.  My friend knew that the Vaughans are a dog loving family and wondered if we could consider giving this pup a home, thus sparing a regretful puppy-purchasing wife from a series of allergy shots.  I cheated, a little.  I put a picture of the pup on my computer screen and left it there until Linda stopped by my office.  When she saw the puppy pic, she asked about the dog.  I replied, "That little guy needs a home."  "Let's give it a home, Dee," she exclaimed. 

The next day, I went to the allergic owner's home to meet the dog and consider the adoption.  The puppy was, of course, adorable.  I'm the kind of guy who shouldn't pick up puppies or guitars unless I'm very serious about taking them home with me.  The owner repeated the story about his wife's allergic reaction to the puppy and asked me if I thought we could add him to our family's pack of pooches.  Holding Winston, as I learned the dog had been named, how could I refuse.  Then came a bit of a surprise.  Rather than giving me some kind of humanitarian award for rescuing this dog and his allergic wife, the owner said, "I think $300 would cover the cost of the dog and the toys and food we'll send with him."  I thought I was on a rescue mission, not a shopping trip.  Still, having actually held the puppy, I coughed up the money and took Winston home.  

Winston entered the Vaughan household to a very mixed reception.  Linda, who loves all dogs and is loved by them, took to Winston in an instant.  The children loved him, too.  But Minnie, our Pomeranian, wanted nothing to do with this puppy-come-lately.  Linda put the two of them in her lap to get acquainted, but Minnie turned away and refused to even look at the new dog.  She finally crawled up on Linda's shoulder to get away from Winston.  The cold reception didn't last very long.  Minnie became Winston's canine step-mother.  She kept him in line and often stepped in between Winston and Dixie, our 65-pound retriever who loved to toy with the easily intimidated Winston.  

Winston was quirky.  He experienced the world in a unique way, compared to the many other dogs we've welcomed into our family.  He never liked to play.  He was too serious for that.  Winston didn't tolerate too much physical contact.  He did not enjoy being held and petted.  He did like to sit up next to you as long as he initiated the contact.  Winston was stubborn as a mule.  When we introduced him to a metal dog crate as his bedroom, he protested, long and loud.  He barked for hours and became so frustrated he chewed on the bars of the crate.  He bent several of them and actually broke one of them loose.  Winston was a dropout from housebreaking school.  No matter what reward, punishment, schedule or other training method we tried, he never lost his appreciation for marking the inside of our house as his territory.  An an expression of his delusion of dominance, Winston loved to lie on top of the back of our couch, a lofty perch from which he could survey his "kingdom."  

The couch is one of the first places I noticed life was changing for our Winston.  He was nearly fifteen years old when I noticed he stopped leaping to the top of the sofa.  Several times, I saw him jump up on the seat of the couch, look up to measure the next leap, and stop, his back legs trembling.  He reminded me of my last days as a basketball player, when the floor became like fly paper that wouldn't let me jump.  Sadly, that wasn't the only change in Winston's life.  He developed pancreatitis, which required us to give him prescription dog food that cost as much as steak and wasn't nearly as appetizing.  He would begin some days with an almost insatiable thirst, lapping up most of a bowl of water.  His bad habit of marking the inside of our home became a chronic problem of leaving big puddles on the floor.  Then, a few days before Christmas, I awoke to realize my Yorkie alarm clock had not gone off.  Winston always barked to go outside about 5 a.m.  This morning, the silence was deafening and frightening.  I went to the crate he shares with Basil, our latest Pomeranian, and found him staring at me, seeming to say, "You're not going to make me move, are you?"  I carried him outside and watched him closely.  He was uncomfortable, to say the least.  I asked Linda to make an appointment for Winston with his vet.  

Visiting the vet, like everything else, has been changed drastically by Covid precautions.  I drove Winston to the vet's office, then waited in the car for an aide to come to my window, review Winston's symptoms, and take him in to see the doctor.  I sat in the car, listened to music, and played with my iPhone, trying not to think about how sick Winston might be.  After a while, the doctor called me to say she suspected Winston had some kind of mass on his liver, but would need an x-ray to be confident of the diagnosis.  A few minutes later, the nice vet walked to my car and showed me her cell phone.  On it was a picture of Winston's abdomen, at least half of it whited-out by a monster of a mass.  The vet had no effective treatment to offer.  Linda and I had already had "the talk" so I told the vet we wanted to bring Winston's struggle to an end.  

"Do you want to be with him?" she asked.  "Yes," I said without a second thought.  Any living thing deserves to come to the end of life in the presence of family love.  "Then pull your car around to the back of our building and we'll bring him out to you soon."  In a little while, the good doctor came out the back door, carrying Winston with an IVP in his leg.  I held that little dog in my big old hands as medicine flowed into his body and the life flowed out of it.  

I probably startled the vet with my first words after Winston died, "I've changed my mind."  I quickly added, "We want him to be cremated."  

I'm in the presence of death fairly often as a pastor and have learned to process my own emotions in that situation.  But, as I drove out of the parking lot toward home, I wept uncontrollably  Dogs are so loving and loyal, even curmudgeon-like Winston.  They make so much more sense than people do.  Why is their time to walk this earth so brief?  That's on my list of questions to ask the boss when I see Him.  

Don't Envy Those Who Wear the Whistle

 One of the ways I earned money to finance my seminary education was by refereeing city league basketball games in the town of Wake Forest.  If you ever played basketball with me, this might strike you as ironic or even some form of cosmic payback.  I'd never treated referees very well.  I was quick to criticize and protest what I saw as unjust calls, most of which, of course, were against me.  So, putting on the stripes and whistle felt, in one sense, like heaven saying to me, "OK Dee, if every ref you've ever met has done such a poor job, here's your chance to show Me how it's done."  

The City Basketball League in Wake Forest was a challenging venue in which to cut your teeth in officiating.  The area Referee Association, or whatever the organizing group of basketball officials called themselves, refused to supply refs for these games.  Threats had been made among players and toward officials.  Fights had broken out during and after games.  The Wake Forest Police Department always assigned armed officers to patrol these games.  They had made a few arrests.  One of their basketball prisoners, a hulking mass of muscle, escaped from their police car in handcuffs by kicking the back door off of the car from the inside and running away.  I arrived for my first game feeling like a roadie for Johnny Cash playing a concert in Folsom Prison.  

What my short career in officiating taught me is that making the tough calls is much easier from the comfort of a recliner in front of a television set or in the safe anonymity of a crowd than it is on the floor in the moment with everyone watching your every decision and appraising your existential worth and moral character on the flimsy flighty basis of whether they agree with your choice.  I was questioned a number of times by the city league basketball players.  I was mocked and ridiculed a few times.  I'm grateful to say that no fights broke out either with me or about me.  No police officers were called for backup.  I worked hard for those few dollars I was paid to keep law and order on the court.  

My officiating days changed my perspective.  No, I didn't suddenly agree with every call made, especially when my children were involved.  But I did gain some hard-earned empathy for those who blow the whistle and a much greater sense of respect for those we saddle with the thankless job of making the tough calls.  Now, at least, I say, "He missed the call!  But I bet he has a good heart."  

Right now, in our Covid-complicated world, making decisions is much more difficult and demanding than usual.  Leaders must make tough calls in a "game" none of us has played before and, for which, few widely-accepted rules have been established.  Added to that, the conditions under which we play are constantly changing in literally life-threatening ways.  Church leaders, myself included, face choices that affect the health and lives of our congregations, choices about which we've had virtually no preparation or experience. 

Church leaders will miss some calls.  We will make some decisions you, from the comfort of your pew and the anonymity of the crowd, would make differently.  But, as you deal with the daily tension of struggling to live a winning life in a biologically hostile world, don't take out your frustrations on those you've asked to wear the stripes.  When you don't like the call and want to boo the ref, first ask the question Christian love must always ask before passing judgment, "What's it like to be you?"  Neither your ticket to a ball game nor your membership in a church purchase the right to treat others, especially leaders, with a lack of respect.  Don't forget that the ref you're yelling at has feelings and family.  

Take it from a short-careered referee--no one sets out to make a wrong decision.  But when they do, don't envy the ones who wear the whistle. And don't lose sight of the truth that they're human beings, made in God's image, probably doing the best they can, and always deserving of your empathy and respect.  

Have You Always Been Baptist?

 Funny things happen at most weddings.  This story from my new book, Laughing with the Saints, describes one such moment.   

I visited our local bank to deposit a check when the teller, a friend and member of another church, asked me an unusual question, “Dee, have you always been Baptist?”  I answered that I’d been in a Baptist church as a member or minister since my earliest days. I returned the favor by making an inquiry of my own, “What raised that question in your mind?”  She told me that she had attended a wedding I had recently officiated at the church I served. She said she enjoyed the ceremony and thought the service was beautiful, but she was confused by a gesture I had made over the couple while I pronounced the benediction. Seeing my hand move up and down and back and forth during that closing moment led her to believe I had made the sign of the cross or some other symbolic gesture from a faith tradition more liturgical than most Baptists. In my mind, I replayed the end of that wedding and realized what she had witnessed.

A pesky fly had harassed the groom through much of the wedding. This obnoxious insect had buzzed around the groom’s head and actually landed on his face at one point during the ceremony. I was concerned by how this uninvited guest might alter the service. What if the groom became so frustrated that he yelled out, in the middle of his wedding, “I can’t stand this anymore!”  What if the groom sucked that fly into his mouth while reciting his vows? How could he graciously get it out?  Would the bride let her groom kiss her at the end of the service if she knew a fly had been in his mouth? Fortunately, none of these disasters unfolded. When we neared the end of the service, I looked for an opportunity to shoo that fly away from the couple or, if possible, commit insect-icide. As I began the benediction, believing that most Baptist eyes in the building would be closed, I took a few appropriately dignified swipes at the fly. Sure enough, he forgot about the couple and decided that I was a more interesting human to harass. As the couple walked up the aisle, freed from a pestilence by my pastoral pest control, now bound in the covenant of holy matrimony, a pesky fly crawled around on the left lens of my glasses. I hope that fly didn’t land on a camera lens and appear in the wedding pictures.