The Lost Out-of-Towner

Note to self: when traveling through the city, keep any bags or belongings close and in plain view–this avoids, first, having any of these belongings stolen; and second, it helps you avoid forgetting your stupid lunch box under your seat in the metro on your way to work, which will inevitably cause you to curse repeatedly inside your head and tempt you to punch one of the strangers passing by.

I forgot my lunch on the metro this morning, and as a result I left the church on my lunch hour to go over to a little cafe across the street to grab a bite to eat. I had just crossed the church parking lot and was crossing a dead end alley when an expensive red Lexus pulled up beside me. The tented driver-side window opened to reveal a middle-aged woman driver wearing large expensive sunglasses. She looked wealthy and dignified, but somewhat stressed–perhaps even lost. I assumed as much since she was driving down a dead end alley, and sure enough she asked me for directions on how to get into the church parking lot. I quickly told her that she needed to use the entrance on the opposite side of the block, and without saying anything she quickly closed the window and sped off toward the proper entrance. Somewhat put off by her abruptness, I walked over to the cafe, got my lunch, and walked back to see the red Lexus parked in an authorized parking spot saved for church staff. “Good grief, ” I thought, “That lady must not be from around here.”

I thought nothing of it, but three hours later I was working on a project when Dennis, the church administrator, walked in and thanked me for helping the lady in the red car. Dennis told me that her name was Lynda and she was an old friend of his who was meeting him at the church to pick him up for a luncheon. As he told me this, he smiled slightly and said “And I think you might know of her dad.” I raised my eyebrows trying to think of some family connection–thinking that her dad was possibly a Baptist minister or a family friend from Missouri. I couldn’t think of any sort of connection off the top of my head. As I was about to ask her last name, he interjected and said, “Well, her full name is Lynda Bird Johnson Robb and her father’s name is Lyndon–President Lyndon Johnson.”

I am reminded, once again, that judging someone by appearances is risky business. I guess that lost out-of-towner driving the expensive red car wasn’t really lost and she wasn’t really from out of town. Heck, if anyone is a lost out-of-towner around here it’s me.

The Lost Memo

“Movin’ trains don’t stop for barking dogs.”
-Jerry Cain, family friend & president of Judson College

Today I’ve made up my mind to be a little controversial–I’m just going to tell you now, so you’re not surprised in a couple minutes. That being said, I should also add that I speak for myself and no one else. And also, it is perfectly alright to disagree.

This Friday I will complete my first two weeks here at First Baptist Church, D.C. It has basically been a training period–a time to learn the tasks and responsibilities which I will receive from the associate pastor, Rev. Cochran, who leaves for a long-promised summer sabbatical this weekend. However, the church has been without a senior pastor for about two months now, and as a result Rev. Cochran has been holding the position of “Acting Senior Pastor,” while still maintaining her associate pastor responsibilities.

My grandfather was a pastor. My dad is a pastor. Three of my uncles are pastors. Three of my cousins are pastors. Even I myself have some of the most basic pastoral experience serving at my church. One may rightfully conclude that I have been overly exposed (to resist the term “over-exposed”) to pastors all my life–not only from pastoral relatives, but also from pastoral friends of my family. Based on this exposure, I can confidently say that Rev. Cochran is one of the most gifted, capable pastors I have met in my life. Rev. Cochran has led and united this church during a time of great instability and insecurity. Rev. Cochran has virtually taken up the responsibilities of three pastors while being the only pastor on staff for this pivotal time of transition. Rev. Cochran has set a tremendous example of integrity, patience, and fortitude for me to take into my own future ministry.

But interestingly enough, my home church and others like it would probably never even consider Rev. Cochran as a possible candidate for senior pastor. Why? Credentials? No. Experience? No. Education? No. Age? No. Theology? No. All of those qualifications are very similar the churches’ former senior pastors over the years. So what’s the problem? Well, Rev. Cochran is a woman–a woman who apparently did not get the Southern Baptist memo that she is not supposed to lead others and serve God in this way. I, along with this church, am thankful that she missed the memo.

I used to be pretty apathetic when came to the discussion of women in ministry, but now when someone comes along thumping their 42 pound Bible saying that a woman cannot minister like a man can minister, it makes my heart rate rise, my palms clammy, and my tongue sharp. What gives a theologian, preacher, or church member the audacity to claim that the all-powerful God can only use a certain gender to minister to the lost? I don’t know. I could be wrong, but I don’t think the Almighty is limited by anything–including gender–and I don’t think that the true heart and character of God would condemn a female for preaching the Gospel or for leading a community of believers.

Again, I could be wrong, but it seems to me that much Biblical interpretation today is influenced by the context of age old cultures–including the secular culture of New Testament times–that idolized men and objectified women. Thankfully our western society has pulled out of that mode of thinking–it’s a shame that not all churches have done the same.

Fortunately for the members here at First Baptist in D.C., the church has allowed Rev. Cochran to come in and use her gifts and capabilities, and through her ministry the Lord is doing wonderful things.

Rambunctious Boys

Now the hardness of this world slowly grinds your dreams away
Makin’ a fool’s joke out of the promises we make.
And what once seemed black and white turns to so many shades of gray;
We lose ourselves in work to do and bills to pay.
But the stars are burnin’ bright like some mystery uncovered;
I’ll keep movin’ through the dark with you in my heart,
My blood brother.

-Bruce Springsteen

Here in D.C. I get asked all kinds of questions by members of the church. So where are you from? Are you in college? What do you study? Do you have siblings? Where are you staying? Anyway, every once in awhile some observant person will ask me the random question–why do you wear a green rubber band on your wrist?

It’s a good question–I always wear one and every once in awhile someone will ask me why. My answer seems a little ridiculous: “Well, the green rubber band actually helps me remember where I came from–it reminds me of home.” If you live in Sedalia, you would recognize the green rubber band as what keeps the daily Sedalia Democrat rolled up on your front porch each morning. It’s a curious thing, but for some reason the green rubber band helps me remember my home and my family.

Last week I met two boys here at the church: Adam and Caleb. They are brothers in elementary school and they are two or three years apart in school. I met them before Sunday school and sat with them during Children’s church. This may be hard to imagine, but as we sat in a little classroom I watched as they started tp bicker. Eventually the bickering turned into arguing. The arguing quickly turned into shoving. And the shoving turned into Caleb throwing a tennis ball at Adam, missing, and hitting the Sunday school teacher in the back. I hurried across the room and escorted one of them back to his chair, trying not to smile.

This little incident, like my green rubber band, helped me to remember where I have come from in my own life–causing me to ponder, with some enjoyment, my relationship with my brother, Jake. That pair of rambunctious brothers helped me remember the bond shared between another pair of rambunctious brothers–the bond between my brother and me that I have taken for granted day after day growing up through high school. Of course we fought and argued a lot and we still struggle with getting along at times, but I guess being away from Jake for so long over the past year has given me new perspective on our relationship–past, present, and future. We all need to be sure that we are not taking those closest to us for granted.

I talked to him yesterday, and I must reluctantly admit that I do miss that crazy kid, and I am glad to call him my brother.

A Time to Remember

I had a great Memorial Day weekend. On Saturday I went on a walk around the sunny, but crowded Mall where I revisited many of the monuments and memorials that I had not seen up close in several years. Yesterday, I spent the afternoon with my mom’s sister and her family at the ballpark, going to a Washington Nationals game in their new stadium and watching the home team choke badly enough in the 7^th inning to bring back painful memories of my Kansas City Royals back home.

However, one thing I learned this weekend: our nation’s capital takes Memorial Day seriously. It’s not really that I had ever taken Memorial Day lightly, but after witnessing some veterans crying as they read the names of their comrades at the Vietnam Memorial; after watching families flock to the World War II Memorial and lay down flowers while explaining to their children the sacrifice of their grandfather; and after listening to a Navy chaplain preach after telling me that in the five days prior he had performed almost thirty veteran funerals at Arlington Cemetery—I have since come to look at Memorial Day differently.

As some of you know, I have been considering very seriously joining the Navy with the intention of joining the Chaplaincy Corp after graduation. I have talked with and met Navy recruiters on a number of occasions, and I have been overwhelmed with the enormity of a decision that will virtually set the course for the next ten or twelve years of my life—all of which would be away from “home.” Sometimes I feel that it is just too great a decision for a naïve nineteen year old kid to make all at once.

As I stood upon the place dedicated to the memory of over 16 million Americans who served during WWII, I could not help but be astounded by the sacrifice of all those–many my age–who made the difficult decision to serve when duty called. I stood there with the sun shining down, the wind gently brushing my face, with the soft murmuring of the people in the background, and I looked up and read the engraved words above of my fellow Missourian. For me, from now on Memorial Day will be less about a day off work, a chance to see friends, or a time to hit the lake—before all else, it will be a time to simply remember and say “thank you.”

Walking Man

Well, the leaves have come to turning
And the goose has gone to fly
And bridges are for burning
So don’t you let that yearning
Pass you by.
Walking man, walking man walks;
Well, any other man stops and talks
But the walking man walks.
-James Taylor

Another part of living in the city that’s taking some getting used to is the walking. I suppose it’s a little ironic that we do a heck of a lot more driving in the smaller rural towns than in huge urban cities. Living in mid-Missouri, I put nearly 12,000 miles on my car in less than a year just as a nineteen year old college student–my Mazda was an absolute necessity. But here in the city–I don’t even have a car, and in a way it’s nice.

During the time of Jesus virtually everyone walked everywhere–I guess the gasoline was just as expensive back then as it is now. It strikes me, though, how much Jesus illustrates his teaching through the simplest experience life– experiences that perhaps we wouldn’t even notice rushing through our schedules, accelerating through to work, and buying countless products described with the simple word: “instant.” Jesus, though, talked about the appearance of wild flowers. He talked about the stature of trees. He tells us to look at birds if we need an attitude adjustment. He compared his opposition to the offspring of snakes. He compared his followers to good soil. It’s pretty evident that Jesus took time to examine the small, seemingly meaningless beauties of life that exist in nature and within our daily routines. That makes sense, knowing that he had plenty of time to look around and soak in his surroundings as he walked from town to town.

I seem to follow his example more closely when having to walk to the store, to the coffee shop, or to the church. I notice the expressions of peoples’ faces. I notice the sky, the trees, the wind, the temperature, and the aromas of each passing restaurant. To tell you the truth, it’s plain relaxing–and when I go back home in August I’m going to make an effort to at least slow down enough to appreciate the small beauties around me.

The Giants and the Dwarf

I wrote to a very good friend of mine today. His name is Norman and he is a deacon at the church which I serve—High Point Baptist Church. Norman was dedicated as an infant in the church and has never been a member of another church throughout his entire life. Norman is, I believe, eighty-three years old. Norman, to me, is a spiritual giant.

Almost nine hundred years ago, John of Salisbury—an English author—wrote in one of his great writings Metelogicon of his contemporary, philosopher Bernard of Chartres:

“Bernard of Chartres used to say that we are like dwarfs on the shoulders of giants, so that we can see more than they, and things at a greater distance, not by virtue of any sharpness of sight on our part, or any physical distinction, but because we are carried high and raised up by their giant size.“

High Point Baptist Church typically runs about twelve each Sunday morning, with virtually all the members having joined many decades ago. It is located in the rolling farmland of mid-Missouri that is dotted with cows and hay bails, striped with narrow tree lines and gravel roads, and vacant of any residents except the occasional farming family. It is the absolute epitome of the term “country church,” where the families are large, the traditions are old, and the food incredible.

I have now been here in D.C.—taking a summerlong leave of absence from High Point Baptist Church—for six days. And I have realized amidst the towering buildings, busy subways, and worldwide influence that no matter where I may go or what I may do, at this point in my ministry, I am a dwarf standing on the shoulders of Norman, Jim, Carol, Clyde, Clif, and all my other friends at High Point Baptist Church. Through their love, support, and generosity, they have truly raised me up to new heights of opportunity and experience. To them I am forever grateful.