coffee with Drew

noreply@blogger.com (Drew Hill) — Fri, 26 Sep 2025 19:58:00 +0000

For immediate release:

Readers' Favorite recognizes "It Came Even to Me" by Drew Hill in its annual international book award contest, currently available at http://www.amazon.com/gp/product/B0D9SJYGDQ.

The Readers' Favorite International Book Award Contest featured thousands of contestants from over a dozen countries, ranging from new independent authors to NYT best-sellers and celebrities.

Readers' Favorite is one of the largest book review and award contest sites on the Internet. They have earned the respect of renowned publishers like Random House, Simon & Schuster, and Harper Collins, and have received the "Best Websites for Authors" and "Honoring Excellence" awards from the Association of Independent Authors. They are also fully accredited by the BBB (A+ rating), which is a rarity among Book Review and Book Award Contest companies.

We receive thousands of entries from all over the world. Because of these large submission numbers, we are able to break down our contest into 140+ genres, and each genre is judged separately, ensuring that books only compete against books of their same genre for a fairer and more accurate competition. We receive submissions from independent authors, small publishers, and publishing giants such as Random House, HarperCollins and Simon & Schuster, with contestants that range from the first-time, self-published author to New York Times bestsellers like J.A. Jance, James Rollins, and #1 best-selling author Daniel Silva, as well as celebrity authors like Jim Carrey (Bruce Almighty), Henry Winkler (Happy Days), and Eriq La Salle (E.R., Coming to America).

"When the right books are picked as winners we pay attention. We will be spreading the word about Readers' Favorite." --Karen A., Editor for Penguin Random House

Readers' Favorite is proud to announce that "It Came Even to Me" by Drew Hill won the Gold Medal in the Fiction - Religious Theme category.

You can learn more about Drew Hill and "It Came Even to Me" at

https://readersfavorite.com/book-review/it-came-even-to-me where you can read reviews and the author’s biography, as well as connect with the author directly or through their website and social media pages.

Readers' Favorite LLC

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support@readersfavorite.com https://readersfavorite.com

noreply@blogger.com (Drew Hill) — Sat, 16 Nov 2024 13:01:00 +0000

So pleased to share the news. Crossing the Tracks has been recognized by the IAN Book of the Year Awards for 2024. Any honor that highlights my grandfather's story is deeply gratifying to me.

Winner - Outstanding First Novel

Finalist - Outstanding Literary Fiction

Finalist - Outstanding Historical Fiction, 20th Century

Need a good book for your gift-giving this Yuletide season? Stuff a stocking with a good story and help support Leland's Institute for Justice Formation at the same time. Christmas comes early for everyone.

The Reviews Are In!

noreply@blogger.com (Drew Hill) — Sat, 02 Nov 2024 01:06:00 +0000

Five Stars! Reviewed by K.C. Finn for Readers' Favorite

It Came Even to Me by Drew Hill delves into the complexities of reconciling religious faith with contemporary views on sexuality. Set
in a small town in Georgia, the story follows a pastor struggling to
maintain his convictions while navigating the turmoil within his
family, as love and forgiveness clash with hatred and intolerance.
The narrative explores themes of faith, family division, and reconciliation, offering a poignant portrayal of one family's journey
through conflict and eventual healing. Hill handles the varied and
complex topics of this novel with a great sense of balance. There’s
a confident narrative control that blends sensitive social issues with
deep emotional storytelling, allowing readers to engage with
important concepts naturally as part of the story that never feels
like they’re being beaten over the head with issues just for the sake
of it.

The eloquent writing style is thought-provoking and compassionate,
with moral dilemmas portrayed in real terms of what they actually
mean to the characters so that the issues feel real, accessible, and relatable. The author’s ability to portray the raw emotions and internal conflicts of his characters feels authentic, thanks to some realistic dialogue exchanges, and I often felt I was right on the shoulders of the families caught in very painful and insightful debates. Drew Hill's exploration of grace and truth in the face of intolerance provides a powerful and inspiring message for anyone who has ever had difficult conversations with those they love.
Overall, It Came Even to Me is a highly recommended read for fans of drama and social issues.

Coming Soon . . . "It Came Even to Me"

noreply@blogger.com (Drew Hill) — Mon, 17 Jun 2024 01:31:00 +0000

A pastor is torn between grace and truth, clinging to his convictions as he struggles to salvage his family.

Set in small town Georgia in the present, this story paints a picture of the best and worst in us, of love and forgiveness doing battle with hatred and intolerance.

It Came Even to Me, my second novel, will be released this summer in eBook and paperback with the audio book to follow by the end of the year.

If you've ever struggled to reconcile your religious faith with contemporary views of sexuality, this story is for you. If your family or your church has been painfully divided over homosexuality or gay marriage, let me encourage you to consider It Came Even to Me as an inspiring case study, a deeply moving account of one family's struggle and reconciliation.

Tracking "Crossing the Tracks"

noreply@blogger.com (Drew Hill) — Sat, 09 Sep 2023 18:35:00 +0000

I have been humbled and pleased to receive such a positive response to my first novel, Crossing the Tracks. Apparently, it's worth a read:

“... author Drew Hill has given readers a story that captures an accurate and realistic portrayal of the history of labor unions, civil rights, and neighborhood racial integration. His novel reads like sifting through a shoebox full of black and white photos, like an old family collection that spans the late 1800s to post war America and through the civil rights era. ...readers cannot do without reading Crossing the Tracks... a true American novel, a work of art that values equality, dignity, and justice for all, arrived at by honest living and hard work to make ends meet.” ~ Feathered Quill, Rebecca Jane Johnson

~~~~~

“...a poignant and thought-provoking read that resonated long after the final page, not least because of Hill’s capacity for emotional depth, creating a narrative that captures the essence of a transformative era in American society with the reality of how it directly affects people. ...a highly recommended read which delves into the complexities of family dynamics, community pressure, and personal growth, presenting a compelling narrative of one man’s journey to overcome prejudice and advocate for change.” ~ Readers’ Favorite Book Reviews, K.C. Finn (5 STARS)

~~~~~

“Crossing the Tracks reminds us that simple stories about great, moral men are always worth writing about and reading... If there was a lesson to be learned from Oscar’s life, story, and legacy, for me it was this: no matter how insignificant you may feel in the grand scheme of things, it is how you treat others that will always be remembered as your greatest legacy. Oscar Hill treated and loved everyone fairly, honestly, and with great compassion. We can all learn a lot from how this man lived his life and this story is a fitting tribute to an ordinary man with an extraordinary heart.” ~ Readers’ Favorite Book Reviews, Grant Leishman (5 STARS)

~~~~~

“The story is brilliantly written and filled with humor and life lessons. The Hill family made a difference from their home in Kansas City and had a considerable impact on many lives. This story exceeded my expectations and will stay with me for a long time.” ~ Readers’ Favorite Book Reviews, Alma Boucher (5 STARS)

~~~~~

Crossing the Tracks

noreply@blogger.com (Drew Hill) — Tue, 08 Aug 2023 23:21:00 +0000

I am pleased to announce the release of my first novel, Crossing the Tracks, on July 17. Here's the publisher's description:

While dramatic history unfolds from Greensboro to Selma to Memphis, one man makes his own stand for justice and inclusion.

Crossing the Tracks is set in the railroad yards and union halls of Kansas City during the Civil Rights Movement. It’s the surprising story of a white, working class family man confronting racism and bigotry on the railroad, in the neighborhood, and in his church.

This novel is loosely based on my grandfather's life. I hope you will give it a look. It's a remarkable story that deserves to be told. You can find Crossing the Tracks as an e-book or in paperback just about anywhere. An audio version will be coming in a few months.

As you read the book, I would welcome your thoughts and feedback. There are also book club resources included which should make for lively and enriching conversations. Check it out. Thanks.

Fundamentalism Is No Fun

noreply@blogger.com (Drew Hill) — Sat, 01 Jul 2023 20:27:00 +0000

(Originally published, June 15, 2023)

Born and bred a Southern Baptist, I was called, licensed, and ordained in SBC churches and educated in an SBC seminary. I served five Southern Baptist churches as pastor, prior to coming to Memorial.

The SBC I inherited represented thousands of diverse, autonomous congregations united by their common missionary zeal for the cause of Christ. Nothing like it had ever happened before, a marvel and a movement, sparked by the genius of a cooperative “big tent” approach.

In those days, the SBC cared about starting and supporting churches, not policing and purging churches. Those were the days before power and politics poisoned the convention’s bloodstream, undermining our mission, and quenching our cooperative spirit. Before long, the Bible we treasured and proclaimed had been weaponized, misused to politicize our gatherings, seize our institutions, discredit our professors, and purge our seminaries.

Today in the SBC, a narrow fundamentalism insists on top-down authority and a rigid doctrinal uniformity that draws the circle smaller and smaller with each passing year. We have learned the hard way that fundamentalism has no “off” button. It’s never satisfied. There must always be an “us” and a “them,” an enemy, someone to fight, heretics to kick out.

Not surprisingly, this time it’s women and the churches they lead. Even at a time when shocking patterns of sexual abuse and cover up have been exposed for all the world to see, the SBC is crusading against female pastors rather than dealing with the twisted patriarchy and bad theology that has supported such widespread abuse.

Today I stand with my sisters in ministry, knowing full well that the Spirit of God will continue to call out women to preach and pastor, regardless of ridiculous resolutions and misguided amendments. If you have a problem with that, take it up with the Big Guy.

When a Stranger Knocks

noreply@blogger.com (Drew Hill) — Sat, 01 Jul 2023 20:19:00 +0000

(Originally published, April 18, 2023)

I guess I have knocked on more than my share of front doors. When I was a kid growing up in a small town in rural Missouri, I went door to door to earn a few dollars of spending money. In the fall, I carried a little suitcase of sample Christmas cards around our end of town, knocking on doors and selling a few boxes to kind folks who liked the idea of getting their Christmas cards from a little boy, Pastor Hill’s son.

Then, in the early spring I hit the doors of every house that had a garden around back, selling seeds, all kinds of vegetable and flower seeds. Not much margin in seeds, as I recall. I never made more than twenty-five bucks all spring, but that paid for a new baseball bat or whatever caught my eye.

It must have been good training because I’ve been knocking on doors my whole life, and not just in my old neighborhood. I've done all kinds of church outreach and mission projects all the way back to bus ministry and canvasing for VBS. And I’ve done it in all kinds of places. All around Kansas City, from affluent Johnson County to the rough neighborhoods east of Troost along Forrest Avenue and the Paseo. White, Black, Latino, Vietnamese, all kinds of folks.

Come to think of it, I’ve knocked on doors in the districts of Pretoria, South Africa, in the Dalit (Untouchable) villages of rural India, and all over Eastern Europe. One thing is abundantly clear to me. Most of the world, even the most impoverished, are far better at hospitality than we affluent Americans. Always a welcome, always generosity, always grace and kindness, a real lesson for me.

Imagine my horror when I heard the news of a black sixteen-year-old boy sent to pick up his little brothers, accidentally showing up on 115th Street instead of 115th Terrace, and ringing the doorbell. No words, no greeting, no questions, no conversation. Two shots, a bullet to the head and another to the arm, fired by an elderly white man who apparently believed the boy to be a threat.

The story gets worse. Wounded and bleeding, the boy, Ralph Yarl, sought aid from other houses on that same street, but no one opened their door. No one tried to help, until finally one neighbor called 911 and came to his aid, a mother caring for another mother’s son.

I can’t stop thinking about it, pondering all those porches and doorbells in my life, and what happened to young Ralph. And I can’t help wondering how many good church-going folks may live there on 115th Street. How many of us pay more attention to the color of a boy’s skin than our calling in Christ, to love our neighbor and welcome the stranger and recognize the image of God in all people?

I am haunted by the words of Jesus. “Whatever you do for the least of these brothers of mine, you have done it to me.... Behold, I stand at the door and knock ....”

"A. I." Hill

noreply@blogger.com (Drew Hill) — Sat, 01 Jul 2023 20:13:00 +0000

(Originally published, February 28, 2023)

I kind of wish my middle name was Ichabod, instead of Joseph. You might not know that my first name is actually Andrew, shortened to Drew by my mother who needed to save a syllable whenever she could. Nothing wrong with Joseph, a good Bible name, and well-represented by the likes of Joseph Haydn, Joe Louis, Joe DiMaggio, and a local favorite, Joe Theismann. Lots of good old Joes. Even one in the White House. But if my middle name was Ichabod, my initials would be A.I. How cool would that be?

Is there a hotter topic than AI? Of course, artificial intelligence has been suggesting our shopping patterns and picking out our playlists for quite a while, but now it’s getting serious. Are we ready to trust AI in the hospital, on the battlefield, and on the open road? Not so fast.

Last week the New York Times ran an article by Shira Ovide entitled, “Why Are We So Afraid of AI?” The author compared a recent poll with a similar poll from 35 years ago. Surprisingly, more people had confidence in the positive potential of AI in 1987 (20%) than today (only 9%). That’s amazing, considering that back then, AI was science fiction and today it is a pending reality. But apparently, we’re just not ready for it.

Why do you suppose that is? It’s one thing for a student to whip out a term paper on ChatGPT and we appreciate a little help with our parallel parking. But it’s something else to put our lives in the hands of a hard drive, to trust those we love into the care of a computer. Would you hop on a plane with no pilot? How about taking a cruise with a computerized captain? Would you let a machine, however sophisticated, go after your gall bladder? And, what parent is willing to trust their child’s health, safety, and well-being to a high-powered computer that’s really good at Jeopardy, but doesn’t know their child from Adam? Hard as it may be to trust human beings, it is more unnerving to remove our humanity from the whole equation.

Don’t get me wrong. I google as much as anybody. I use every tool I can find and every option I have as I go about my life and work. But I’m not ready to resign my roles and responsibilities, and I’ll bet you feel that way, too. This life and what we do with it is up to us. You and I are the ones calling the shots, and we’re the ones who will be held accountable.

One of the things that troubles me about the whole AI movement, and why I’m not going to change my middle name after all, is how some people so eagerly pursue artificial intelligence while ignoring divine direction. Where do we ultimately place our trust? What is always reliable and eternally true? Where are the answers to the questions that matter most? AI can drive your car, but can it guide your life, help you find your way, not just to your address, but to your destiny?

Maybe, just maybe, there’s an old familiar voice, still whispering the wisdom we need to those who are listening.

“Whether you turn to the right or the left, you will hear a voice behind you, saying, ‘This is the way, walk in it.’” (Isaiah 30:21)

My Christmas Blessing

noreply@blogger.com (Drew Hill) — Sat, 01 Jul 2023 20:08:00 +0000

(Originally pub lished, December 22, 2022)

May all the happy Whos in Whoville make room at their table for the grinches and grumps.

May every depressed Charlie Brown listen to Linus rather than Lucy this Christmas.

May all the Cratchits find their goose just big enough to feed the family.

May every despairing George Bailey find his hope in friends and neighbors and an unexpected angel or two.

May every department store Santa conjure just enough miracle to make a little one believe.

May all the Griswolds make room for their unexpected relatives and RVs.

May every crusty Ebenezer remember how to dance and how to love.

May every tired pastor find the stamina to stoke one more sermon, one more candle.

May every weary shepherd keep one eye peeled on the night sky, waiting for news too good to keep.

May all the seeking, saddle sore wise men find their way, even under a starless sky.

May all of this world’s Herods get the message loud and clear – your days are numbered.

May every worried Joseph find safety and warmth for his family, in a suite or a stable.

May every exhausted Mary find a few quiet moments to ponder her most precious gift.

Finally, may the Christ of Christmas be born in us, in every heart, in a world that rarely recognizes the reason for its empty longing. “O come to us, abide with us, our Lord Immanuel.”

Knock Off the Toad Kissing

noreply@blogger.com (Drew Hill) — Sat, 01 Jul 2023 20:05:00 +0000

(Originally published, December 5, 2022)

Last month, the Washington Post carried a story by Adela Suliman with a rather bizarre headline: “Please Stop Licking the Psychedelic Toads, National Park Service Warns.” The message was issued in October to warn people about kissing, licking, or making any kind of oral contact with toads.

Apparently the Sonoran desert toad, also kn
own as the Colorado river toad, secretes a white, milky substance called bufotenin, which scientists say can act as a hallucinogenic. This prompted a series of celebrities who have talked about ingesting the substance as a way of inducing a psychedelic trip. Through misinformation and repetition, the idea has morphed into the possibility that someone could get high simply by licking one of these toads. So now it’s a thing.

In an abundance of caution, the National Park Service decided to put that myth to rest in a post on its Facebook account:

“These toads have prominent parotoid glands that secrete a potent toxin. It can make you sick if you handle the frog or get the poison in your mouth. As we say with most things you come across in a national park, whether it be a banana slug, unfamiliar mushroom, or a large toad with glowing eyes in the dead of night, please refrain from licking. Thank you.”

So, I’ve been puzzling over this story all day. The first thought that popped into my head was Three Dog Night - “Jeremiah was a bullfrog, was a good friend of mine.” I can’t get it out of my head. And the more I thought about the article, some questions came to mind:

First, how bad does one’s life have to be before one decides to get high on toad licking? I’m thinking pretty bad. Better remedies are available, God knows.

Second, how is a young woman ever going to find her Prince Charming if toad kissing turns toxic? On the other hand, maybe it’s the bufotenin that makes frogs look like princes in the first place.

Third and finally, what about the toads? There they were, just minding their own business, suddenly in the spotlight, swept up in their newfound popularity, swapping slobber with nasty humans, before being dumped beside the road, back in the wild, their fame forgotten. Oh, to have loved and lost.

Not sure how many of us can identify with the toad lickers in this story. Maybe a few. Perhaps more of us would side with the toads. Does life ever seem to use you up and then dump you out along the way? Is that your story? No fun, is it?

Real joy is never drug induced. It’s not a potion or a gimmick or the passion of the moment. True joy comes from the real Joy-Giver, the One whose coming we celebrate around the world. “Joy to the fishes in the deep blue sea. Joy to you and me.”

A Lesson in Gratitude

noreply@blogger.com (Drew Hill) — Sat, 01 Jul 2023 19:59:00 +0000

(Originally published, November 21, 2022)

Sunday evening, I was on my way back to the church after delivering and helping to serve a hot meal to hungry folks at our local homeless shelter. Every third Sunday our faithful team prepares the meal at our church and my job is to make sure it gets to the people needing to be fed. During the pandemic we could only drop off bagged meals at the shelter door, but before Covid, my helpers and I would deliver hot meals to about eighty people gathered in two local parks. As I headed my Honda back home, I thought about all those times, Novembers long past, when we tried to give a taste of Thanksgiving to our hungry friends in the park.

I remembered one dreary November night, the Sunday before Thanksgiving. Our cooking team had prepared the traditional homemade feast with all the trimmings in one clam shell container – turkey and dressing, sweet potatoes, green beans, cranberry salad, and hot rolls, topped off with a slice of pumpkin or apple pie. I pulled my Pilot to the park side curb and started unloading the meals as a long line formed on the sidewalk. It was already dark, and a steady drizzle made the cold wind more miserable.

Many of the men were strangers, but some knew each other, a few were friends. As I handed out the meals, most of the guys headed off to find shelter, some place warm to get out of the weather and gulp their dinner. But a handful of men sat down together around one of the few all-weather tables in the park, set in concrete with no roof, no shelter from the wind or the rain.

And there they sat, in the dark, in the rain, in the cold wind, eating their Thanksgiving dinner with a few friends. To listen to them talk, one might guess they were sitting around a bright dining room table, the room made toasty with a big fireplace. Laughing and enjoying themselves, bragging about the food, savoring every bite, swapping stories, remembering Thanksgivings back home, before homelessness.

I brought them seconds, an extra meal to take with them, and one of the men gave me a soggy smile. “That was just about the best Thanksgiving dinner I ever had,” he said. “Happy Thanksgiving, Pastor, and thank your good people.”

I’ll never forget that evening, a lesson in gratitude, an example of thanksgiving like I’d never seen before. Every year when I sit down for Thanksgiving dinner at my house or my mother’s table, I think of my friends in the park celebrating together. I pray for them and I long for the day when we all sit down together at the banquet table of God, finally and forever home.

Sacred Spots

noreply@blogger.com (Drew Hill) — Sat, 01 Jul 2023 19:53:00 +0000

(Originally published, June 27, 2022)

It’s early Monday morning in Lexington, Nebraska. In a little while, Suzanne’s family will gather in a family cemetery to return to the earth the ashes of her mother and father. Donna passed in 2017 and her remains have been carefully preserved waiting for her husband, Graham, who passed in December, to join her in eternity. This morning the old cemetery becomes their last residence in this world, the rich, black soil made sacred by their lingering presence, their lives mingled in death as in life.

It's not a sad day, but strangely satisfying. To lay to rest these two who have lived so long and well, to reflect on the blessing of their lives from generation to generation, and to find grace and peace for all the wear and tear of family life through the years. It’s all good. It is well, with Graham and Donna and the rest of us, too.

Suzanne and I will hurry on back to Virginia soon, but there will always be a sacred spot, a family place for us in rural Nebraska. I’ll bet you have such a place or two. You may not visit often, perhaps flowers on Memorial Day or a birthday or anniversary. In our transient culture, we move around so much and so often, we can easily lose track of our home places where our roots touch the soil and remind us who we are and who brought us into this world, all of the loved and lost.

Nothing puts life in perspective quite like revisiting our roots. A cemetery can be a most life-affirming place for us, if we’re paying attention. A time to be born and a time to die, that’s the truth of it. We do well from time to time to take stock of our lives and to pray with the old psalm, “Teach us to number our days that we might get a heart of wisdom.” Amen to that.

Bloodshed in Buffalo

noreply@blogger.com (Drew Hill) — Sat, 01 Jul 2023 19:45:00 +0000

(Originally published, May 16, 2022)

“Racism is man's gravest threat to man - the maximum of hatred for a minimum of reason.” ― Abraham Heschel

“Until the philosophy which holds one race superior and another inferior is finally and permanently discredited and abandoned, everywhere is war. And until there are no longer first-class and second-class citizens of any nation, until the color of a man's skin is of no more significance than the color of his eyes. And until the basic human rights are equally guaranteed to all without regard to race, there is war. And until that day, the dream of lasting peace . . . will remain but a fleeting illusion to be pursued, but never attained... now everywhere is war.” ― Haile Selassie

Once again, we have witnessed an angry young white man, fearful of being “replaced” by people of color, going on another bloody rampage, this time in a grocery store in Buffalo. Among the murdered, an 86-year-old woman who stopped by the store on her way home from visiting her husband in a nearby nursing home.

As the flawed notion of white supremacy has slipped into yet another subtle disguise, the fear and hatred only deepens and there is no room for reason, for dialogue, for truth-telling. Only violence and murder and mayhem can express the rage of white dominant culture as our dominance slowly slips away.

And it’s not just the man with the gun who needs to come to Jesus. It’s all of us who stand by, knowing full well that life is not remotely the same for people of color in our society, and do nothing to level the playing field, to address the latent unfairness, to fix the systems and structures designed for our benefit over others.

Any theological gymnastics to somehow wed such views and behavior to the way of Jesus is unthinkable, impossible. There are no contortionist antics that will allow us to cling to Christ and defend white supremacy. Between the two is a chasm that cannot be bridged. The racist person who seeks to baptize his views by sitting in church on Sunday morning should think again. Such hypocrisy must sicken the God who made all humanity in His own image. “Depart from me. I never knew you.” (Matt. 7:23)

May the broken hearts in Buffalo drive us deeper into the heart of God for all people.

Running for Their Lives

noreply@blogger.com (Drew Hill) — Sat, 01 Jul 2023 19:41:00 +0000

(Originally published, March 21, 2022)

“War must be, while we defend our lives against a destroyer who would devour all; but I do not love the bright sword for its sharpness, nor the arrow for its swiftness, nor the warrior for his glory. I love only that which they defend.” – J.R.R. Tolkien, The Two Towers

“The true soldier fights not because he hates what is in front of him, but because he loves what is behind him.” – G.K. Chesterton

The necessity of war when forced upon us is no less tragic, no more humane, no less destructive than if it were fought at our own initiative. Even war ennobled by the purist of motives, the right to live in freedom and security, still wounds and maims and kills. Still, the innocent are victimized. The young and the old are not exempt. Those who are helpless and hiding cannot escape the carnage. War is all-consuming in its bloodlust.

I have tried to imagine what life is like for my many friends in Ukraine, running for their lives as refugees, taking up weapons as soldiers, saying goodbye to a husband or wife, kissing little sons and daughters and sending them away, God knows where. I think of so many huddling together in subway tunnels and bombed out buildings. I think of their churches, tiny bands of believers, moving among the rubble, offering whatever help and hope can be found. I think of people praying, crying out in the night beyond any prayers I have ever prayed. I think of the agonizing grief of lost loved ones hurriedly laid to rest in mass graves without words, without a single flower to mark their passing.

Peace has become a precious word these past few weeks, an ideal so easily taken for granted, so commonplace in our part of the world. I pray for peace, for the names and faces so fresh in my mind, for the beautiful country my friends call home. How long can this go on? How long can this be allowed to continue? How long, O Lord?

“How long will you defend the unjust

and show partiality to the wicked?

Defend the weak and the fatherless;

uphold the cause of the poor and the oppressed.

Rescue the weak and the needy;

deliver them from the hand of the wicked.

(Psalm 82:2-4 NIV)

Let us be faithful to pray and give as we are able in support of our mission partners in L’viv and the good people of Ukraine.

Thirteen Seconds

noreply@blogger.com (Drew Hill) — Sat, 01 Jul 2023 19:30:00 +0000

(Originally published, Jan. 24, 2022)

Thirteen seconds. After a long, back and forth battle, the Bills were up three over the Chiefs with just thirteen seconds remaining in regulation. From his own 25-yard line, quarterback Patrick Mahomes still liked his chances. Two brilliant plays later and after a hurried timeout, Harrison Butker, who had missed twice earlier in the game, sailed a 48-yard field goal through the uprights to send the game into overtime and eventually the Chiefs on to a most unlikely victory.

Thirteen seconds to recharge, to rally, to resurrect. Thirteen seconds to seize the moment, to flip the script, to shock the world. Thirteen seconds from heartbreaking defeat to stunning victory.

I was lying awake after the game, too pumped up to sleep, replaying those precious few seconds in my mind. They call it the “two-minute drill,” not the “thirteen-second drill.” Nobody does that, nobody comes through, nobody pulls that off. It’s never been done before, and yet it happened. Unbelievable.

I wondered, what have I ever accomplished in thirteen seconds? I’m not sure I can tie my shoes in thirteen seconds. Life rushes by so fast that we are always hustling to keep up. Who measures time in seconds anyway? Track stars? Olympic swimmers? We tend to think in hours and days and weeks, not just seconds, tiny instants, flickering moments ticking by.

Thirteen seconds. Maybe Mahomes is right after all. Maybe there’s always time to act, to try, to play, to respond, to do what couldn’t be done. Every breath and beat of our heart is a chance, an opportunity, a golden moment in time, brimming with potential.

The truth is, like it or not, we are all on the clock. We’re all in the game, but our time is limited. It doesn’t last forever. Our chances to make a difference in this world tick by and we can’t stop the clock. As Benjamin Franklin said, “You may delay, but time will not.”

So, whether you are just kicking off or you’re watching the clock wind down, get your head in the game. Now’s the time to play ball. Even if you are playing from behind, don’t quit, don’t give up. Make every second count. Play hard to the final gun.

One day this old broken world of ours will be changed in a flash, in the twinkling of an eye, transformed by the One who makes all things new. You see, Mahomes isn’t the only game changer who can shock the world. Come, Lord Jesus.

Before

noreply@blogger.com (Drew Hill) — Fri, 16 Apr 2021 12:07:00 +0000

Before he was a black man, he was just a man, some mother's son.

Before she was a suspect, she was getting groceries on her way home from work.

Before he was a "thug," he was just a kid in a hoodie.

Before she was a victim, she was eating ice cream in her apartment.

Before he was a hater, he was Daddy's little fishing buddy.

Before she was a bigot, she was in Mrs. Chaney's Sunday School class.

Before he was a Proud Boy, he was a volunteer firefighter.

Before she was a white supremacist, she was a soccer mom.

Before she profiled the driver, she was keeping an eye on her own kids.

Before he roughed up the suspect, he was fixing his neighbor's toilet.

Before she fired the shot, she was training new officers to use restraint.

Before he coerced a confession, he was playing hoops with the guys in the park.

Before we judge or condemn, before we imprison or execute,

Before we forget that there is guilt enough to go around and no one's hands are clean,

Before we give up this world to hatred and let the blood flow in the streets,

Before we watch hope die and wash what's left of love down the sewer drain...

Can we ever get back to before? What's done is done, we know. Nothing can undo it.

Too much tragedy, too little justice. The wounds are deep.

But can we not remember before, what was true before, who we were before?

Can you and I reclaim some piece of who we used to be, some fragment of innocence lost?

The after is so awful. Such wreckage and ruin, anger and despair. Before fades into darkness.

And yet, grace stands in the shadows, grace for the turning, if we would, to begin again, to return to the way we were ... before.

A Not So Good Friday

noreply@blogger.com (Drew Hill) — Thu, 01 Apr 2021 13:59:00 +0000

Many years ago on Good Friday I led my congregation in the Service of Shadows, a Baptist version of Tenebrae, a new experience for most of our folks. As people arrived, the lights were low, only the altar area illuminated. Between the scripture and prayers we sang the old hymns, "Were You There When They Crucified My Lord?" and "When I Survey the Wondrous Cross." Our worship focused on the seven sayings of Jesus from the cross symbolized with seven white candles on the communion table draped in black. With each reading, a candle was extinguished until finally the remaining lights came down and just one small candle held back the darkness in our cavernous sanctuary.

"Jesus called out with a loud voice, 'Father, into your hands I commit my spirit.' When he had said this, he breathed his last." - Luke 23:46 NIV

In the silence the last flicker of light was extinguished. I had prepared our people to leave in the silence finding their way by the exit signs, departing quietly, praying and pondering, in preparation for Easter dawn. I walked out to the foyer and thought it best to step outside so that people wouldn't feel like they needed to shake my hand or speak to me.

I was standing outside in the darkness when I overheard the voices of an older couple heading to the parking lot. He said, "I don't like that sort of thing, so somber and sad. It's like somebody died or something."

What a confused lot we are when it comes to death, shunning the reality, avoiding the subject, even as we are awash in violence and bloodshed, disease and disaster, death on every corner, death dropping by almost daily. Yet, we put on a happy face as best we can and pretend it's not our problem, at least not today.

I guess our mortality is not a cheery subject, I get that. Most of us would agree with Woody Allen - "It's not that I'm afraid to die. I just don't want to be there when it happens."

Well, there's a reason why we call it "Good" Friday. The cross we remember and embrace takes our mortality seriously. The cross of Christ is strong medicine, God's method of extracting our sin and shame, our failure and futility, and infusing these mortal lives with an indestructible spirit, an unquenchable light that can stand against the darkness within us and around us. That's good news, isn't it? Maybe the best news of all.

Yep. Somebody died or something. Praise God.

Getting Unstuck

noreply@blogger.com (Drew Hill) — Mon, 29 Mar 2021 16:14:00 +0000

Have you ever been stuck? I mean really stuck. Stuck in the back of the line, stuck in traffic, stuck in TSA, stuck at the bottom of the list? How about running out of gas in a car wash or breaking down in your favorite drive thru lane? How embarrassing.

Or, how about being stuck in the Suez Canal, wedged in there sideways, blown around by the wind even though you weigh 220,000 tons and you're nearly a quarter mile long? That' pretty bad when you can't manage to navigate a straight line in a canal that is nearly a thousand feet wide at it's narrowest point. Imagine being stuck and causing such a backup on the Beltway, with 20,000 containers of groceries in your car and 367 truck drivers calling down curses and questioning your family heritage. Can you imagine being stuck for the whole weekend? Unthinkable.

As you've probably heard, the Ever Given has been set free from her near catastrophe, checked for damage, and will likely continue her voyage soon. And the costly bottleneck on the Suez will clear in a few days perhaps, and the investigations will be conducted. Someone, perhaps the captain or pilot, will have to face the music for this whole episode, unless the authorities chalk the whole thing up to "an act of God," a curious phrase in this largely unbelieving world.

We don't envy the captain of the Ever Given. We wouldn't want to be in his shoes right now, but the truth is, we've all been there and done that. We've been stuck a time or two in our lives, sometimes because of our own bonehead moves, sometimes through no real fault of ours, but when the horns are blaring and our fiasco is there for all to see and other people are paying a price for our mistake, it's a bad feeling, one of the worst.

Setting the enormous Ever Given free took some serious digging. Heavy equipment was brought in to dig out the bow and stern on opposite sides of the canal. A mere 706,000 cubic feet of sand had to be removed. Ten tugboats were standing by but still helpless to move the behemoth. Then nature intervened. What finally did the trick was the rising tide, a spring tide, sometimes called a King tide, that swept in and hoisted the massive ship on to the waves once more. Amazing really. Nature, unimpressed by the Ever Given's colossal dimensions, swept it away like a sandcastle.

When you and I get stuck in life, publicly or privately, we can do our best to dig ourselves out. We can call in favors and friends to help, but what sets us free is almost always the tide, the rising tide, the irresistible tide of grace that seeps down to the depths and lifts us from the muck and the mire. We rise with the tide, thank God. For it is by grace we have been saved, unstuck, and set free.

Keeping the Lion Away

noreply@blogger.com (Drew Hill) — Sun, 13 Dec 2020 16:14:00 +0000

Yesterday, I noticed that Dolly Parton tweeted her sadness over the death of her friend, Charley Pride, who died of Covid 19 at the age of 86. A snarky stranger quickly responded saying, "If he really was a close friend, you'd know how to spell his name. And, he died 'with Covid,' not 'of Covid.'"

First off, it is "Charley" just as Dolly spelled it. But what really troubled me was the implication that people like Charley Pride die of all sorts of things and Covid 19 just happens to be standing around like an innocent bystander.

Imagine a huge dazzle of zebras running wild and free on the plains of the Serengeti. All kinds of zebras - the young and strong that can run all day, the nearly newborn, still wobbly and vulnerable. The old zebras who wheeze and stumble as they strain to keep up. The partially lame, the blind in one eye, the sick and infirm. Don't forget the foolish, strong-headed zebras that wander off and stumble into precarious circumstances.

All kinds of zebras roaming free. Free, but not always safe. You don't have to watch too many National Geographic videos to know that like most animals, zebras are prey, somebody's supper. Ask the zebras for a cause of death and what will they say? "It was the effing lions!" But you may say, "Well, they actually died 'with lions,' not 'of lions.' Those zebras had other health issues. They would have died eventually anyway."

I'm guessing the zebras would find small comfort in our ridiculous distinction. The one gnawing on your bones is the responsible party.

Covid 19 is a predator, a killer that cuts down the most vulnerable and occasionally brings down a prime specimen or two. So maybe instead of trying to come up with rationales for taking this virus less seriously, we should keep the most vulnerable as safe as possible, surrounding them with our love and care, all of us doing our part to keep the lion away.

Walking in Old Town

noreply@blogger.com (Drew Hill) — Sun, 20 Sep 2020 13:23:00 +0000

I welcomed the first crisp, cool Saturday morning with a walk around Old Town Alexandria. I wasn't alone, invited to join a walking tour by our Presbyterian friends at the Reformed Institute. As much fun as it is to shop and dine in Old Town, we didn't hit a single restaurant or store. We ignored the art galleries and walked right past the pastry shops and the smell of fresh-brewed coffee. This was a very different kind of walk.

"A Reflective Experience in Power and Social Justice." Presbyterians and Baptists exploring together the racial history of Alexandria from colonial days to the present. We began our tour among the dead in segregated cemeteries where wealthy slaveholders were just as dead and forgotten as the slaves that they bought and sold. The passing of time has weathered away most of the names and dates. Only our guide could fill in the details, stories of accumulated riches and downtown mansions, wartime losses and postwar litigation. Sagas of field hands becoming freedmen and contraband becoming citizens, the history of dignity bought with blood and the price demanded over and over again.

Having paid our respects to the dead, we hiked a few blocks along Duke Street to the Freedom House Museum, a three story building used as a holding pen for hundreds of slaves, bartered in Virginia and shipped off to Mississippi. Two business partners making a fortune from human bondage. Then, it was down to Washington Street where the Confederate Appomattox statue stood defiantly in the median until it was removed three months ago.

Our trek across Old Town was highlighted by three remarkable churches. Alfred Street Baptist Church has always been a powerhouse in the struggle for human rights and racial justice. Beulah Baptist Church, founded by Rev. Clem Robinson, established the first theological school for former slaves during Reconstruction. What a contribution! Then, we arrived at the Old Presbyterian Meeting House, a colonial church founded by city fathers, with prominent slaveholders, some slave resisters, and some black congregants. I was fascinated to hear their early struggle to reconcile their culture with their theology.

Our last stop was the Freedmen's Cemetery and Memorial. This burial ground established by the federal government in 1864, had been neglected, forgotten, and desecrated for generations and was finally reclaimed by historians and archaeologists beginning in 1987. Five hundred and forty graves were found, more than half were children under the age of sixteen. In 2013, the cemetery was rededicated and the memorial was completed soon afterwards. The looming sculpture speaks with raw emotion, a voice for the voiceless.

I must conclude this post with a confession. I don't recall much of what our excellent docents described for us at each stop this morning. The problem wasn't the noise on the streets or competing conversations among my colleagues. What distracted me were the whispered voices from the past, the echoing cries of children, the strident speeches of abolitionists, the courageous calls for justice, pastors pleading for human dignity. As I walked among the headstones and shuffled down the streets, I could hear their voices and I wasn't sure how to answer, stammering out, "I hear you. I hear you."

Before we departed, we prayed together in the words of Martin Luther King, Jr.:

"Ever present God, you called us to be in relationship with one another and promised to dwell wherever two or three are gathered. In our community, we are many different people; we come from different places, have many different cultures. Open our hearts that we may be bold in finding the riches of inclusion and the treasures of diversity among us. We pray in faith."

If you are still wondering what all the fuss is about and what all this history has to do with today and why people would take to the streets and what's so bad about the status quo, let me make a suggestion, my friend. Take a walk. Take a walk and listen and learn. As William Faulkner put it, "The past is never dead. It's not even past."

Trash or Treasure

noreply@blogger.com (Drew Hill) — Mon, 10 Aug 2020 21:02:00 +0000

In recent months I have become a fan of the History Channel's show, American Pickers. Not sure why I never noticed it before since it's been on for years. I enjoy following Mike and Frank and friends trekking across the country to visit collectors of all sorts and more than a few just plain hoarders. Huge stashes of old stuff, from rare and valuable collectibles to barns full of junk. Either way, Mike and Frank always seem to find something of worth and then the bargaining begins. I've noticed if the original collector is still around, he or she usually drives a hard bargain. But in many cases, the older generation has died fairly recently, and their kids are left with huge quantities of stuff that they just want to clear out. I've noticed a thing or two about this next generation of sellers.

First, they have no idea what they have. Most have never paid much attention to Dad's old barn full of junk or his basement collection or the stuff stored in the attic. As Mike and Frank pull items out of the pile, these sons and daughters often have no clue, never seen it before. What is it?

Second, these guys have no idea what Dad's old junk is worth. I love the stunned look on their faces when Mike offers $3500 for an old gas station sign or when Frank offers $800 for a little antique toy. That rusty old truck on blocks behind the barn is worth $12,000. Suddenly, their enthusiasm grows by leaps and bounds. Their eyes ring up dollar signs.

What interest me most about American Pickers is this changing sense of worth from one generation to the next. I guess kids will always tend to devalue their parent's old stuff, much preferring the latest thing, the new technology. It's hard to pass on to our children what they don't want or appreciate. And that goes for a lot more than our antiques and collectibles.

How do we as moms and dads, grandmas and grandpas, pass down to our children the things that matter most? How do we convince our kids that faith is not a relic of bygone days, but something vital and precious in the here and now? How do we communicate the practical necessity of life in Christ, the Bible, and the fellowship of the church? No easy task, is it?

Someday we'll be gone, and our children will be left to sort through what's left of our lives. I pray they will find more treasure than trash, something vital and real that they have watched us put to good use day in and day out, year after year. I hope they decide to keep it for themselves.

Swapping Skins

noreply@blogger.com (Drew Hill) — Sat, 30 May 2020 23:27:00 +0000

"Imagination is more important than knowledge. Knowledge is limited. Imagination encircles the world." - Albert Einstein

Sitting here in my white, middle-class living room watching cities across the country convulse and burn, I wonder what will come of such ugly confrontations. The brutal death of George Floyd has reignited racial tensions and fanned the flames of protest from coast to coast. Sometimes white folks like me get more upset about the violence and looting in our cities than the lethal behavior of racist cops.

Social scientists tell us that it is nearly impossible for people who are part of the dominant culture to understand what life is like from the underside. But white folks like me think we do. We would argue that as educated and informed adults we can identify the needs and feelings of people unlike ourselves. After all, we watch the news, our own brand of it, and we have our own backlog of experiences and influences. So don't tell us that we don't understand. We're certain that we know the score, but the plain reality hasn't changed. When you are on top, it's difficult to see the bottom side of life.

So, our conversations turn into debates and morph into arguments. Temperatures rise to a boiling point. "Don't tell me I just don't know. Always playing the race card, always whining for special treatment, always playing the victim. Get over it."

Debating the issue never gets us anywhere. Maybe what we need to make sense of all this is imagination. Let's try this little experiment. I'll lay out the case studies and you imagine the scene and how you would feel to witness such things. Here we go.

Imagine the boy's body lying next to a bag of Skittles and a can of iced tea was white, shot by a black vigilante.

Imagine a white man birdwatching in the park asking a black woman to keep her dog on a leash. Imagine her calling the police, "There's a white man here threatening my life. Send the police right away."

Imagine the twelve-year-old boy bleeding out in the snow with a replica toy Airsoft gun in his pocket was white, shot by a black police officer.

Imagine the man who was sitting on his couch eating ice cream was white, and the off duty police officer who entered the wrong apartment and shot him in the heart was black.

Imagine two black men with guns chasing down a white jogger, confronting and killing him in the street.

Imagine forty heavily-armed black men in military fatigues entering a state capitol building to protest, carrying "Black Power" banners instead of Confederate flags.

Imagine a black police officer with his knee crushing the neck of a white man begging for his breath as his neighbors look on in horror.

A little imagination can be a frightening thing, can't it? How did you feel as you imagined the tables turned and the roles reversed? Suddenly you are identifying with the victims rather than the offenders. A sense of anger, even outrage, simmers up as we think of people like us being victimized.

Though we try to imagine these scenarios, we have to admit how unlikely they are. And even if these reversed confrontations ever did take place, our society would never stand for it. Such actions would never be tolerated. Justice would be swift and certain. There would be no looking the other way, no stalling, no rationalizing. The guilty would be charged, and justice would be done.

And that's just the point, isn't it? The moment we swap skins with our black brothers, the world looks different. We see things more clearly, life from the underside. We feel their angst, we hear their cries, we find the source of their rage. We may just find ourselves demanding justice rather than defending the unconscionable.

Imagine a place and time not so far from here and now, where we can celebrate our common humanity as children of God, where peace and justice are not empty dreams but a present reality. Not sure where it is or when we will get there, but I am going. I want to be there with all my brothers and sisters. How about you?

Being a Pastor in a Pandemic

noreply@blogger.com (Drew Hill) — Thu, 30 Apr 2020 15:46:00 +0000

I was asked to share a few thoughts about what it is like to be a pastor during these days of pandemic. Whatever insights I may possess, they have all come to me in the course of the last six weeks. We are all learning as we go and learning it the hard way. So here goes. (Though I am using male pronouns, my thoughts certainly include the many women who serve so well as pastors.)

First off, you need to know that your pastor was never trained or prepared for a pandemic. There is no class or curriculum, no workshop or seminar that prepares a pastor for such circumstances. So, if your pastor seems a little dazed and confused at times, it's because he is dazed and confused. These are unprecedented times in modern history. None of us have been there and done that, so you may need to cut your pastor some slack. Give him a little time to adapt to this new reality.

Remember this, the number one job of a shepherd is to keep the flock safe, not to expose them to needless risks. Pastors must weigh their decisions not based on what is familiar or traditional, but on what is wise and prudent. The welfare of the many must outweigh the preferences of the few. Trust your pastor to care for the flock.

You may not realize that your pastor misses you deeply. Sharing life with you and your family is a source of great joy and to be separated from all of you for so long is a painful experience. You may be close to a number of friends at church, but your pastor builds relationships with everyone. The more you love, the more you miss.

And here's a sad reality. In this crisis, your pastor feels helpless to care for his people. Following all the protocols of social distancing, your pastor is unable to visit the hurting, the hospitalized, the homebound, the bereaved. Limited to calls, texts, and emails, the ministry of presence that is so vital to pastoral ministry is not available. Though it is frustrating to be unable to do what we have always done, pastors must trust the ever-present Spirit of God to minister where they cannot go.

Please know that your pastor never quits praying for you in your need, even at a distance. Your pastor believes in the power of prayer, and in these days of distancing he must once again trust the Holy Spirit to intercede and intervene in every situation.

What about online church? In these days of virtual worship, your pastor is struggling to communicate the Gospel in new ways and means that may seem strange or distant or impersonal to you. Hearing you complain that "It's just not the same," is not helpful or encouraging. Of course, it's not the same. It is less than ideal, we all know that. But right now, it's the only game in town. So, be a cheerleader, not a critic. Pray for your pastor week by week and watch him grow and improve.

Here's another truth to keep in mind. Your pastor is calling his people to a deeper level of faithfulness and a greater spiritual autonomy as parents assume responsibility for the spiritual well-being of their families in ways previously delegated to the church. Many parents operate on the premise, "If I get my kids to church, I've done my part in their spiritual development." Actually, that never was true, and it is even less true now. Moms and dads need to step up and fill the gap that their absence from church activities leaves. Pastors and parents must be partners in raising up our little ones in the faith, especially these days.

Finally, as an uncertain future unfolds, your pastor will need your trust and support as he leads the church to make difficult decisions and adjustments. As you may have guessed, things will not be returning to "normal" any time soon. When we are all able to resume onsite worship services, things will be different as we adjust to the continuing protocols of this pandemic until a vaccine is found. Be patient with the required changes, unwilling to put anyone at risk, and be supportive of your pastor. We are off the map, moving into uncharted territory, trusting in Jesus to lead the way. Together, we will get where we are going.

When I was a young pastor many years ago, my mother-in-law, Donna Jones, was a wonderful and thoughtful encourager to me. One day at the kitchen table she was asking about my work and I was filling her in on my week. She listened intently and said, "Your job is not for sissies, is it?"

"No, I guess not," I responded. I've thought about her words many times through the years, usually when times were hard and burdens were heavy. Her words were true then and they are certainly true in these strange, troubled times. So I say to all my pastoring brothers and sisters, "Your job is not for sissies, is it?" Be strong, be brave, and know that the people of God are following close behind.

The Word We Need

noreply@blogger.com (Drew Hill) — Mon, 06 Apr 2020 19:50:00 +0000

I'm not much for wearing jewelry. Somewhere in a box is my class ring from Grandview High School which only fits my pinkie these days. Suzanne gave me a ring with a blue sapphire when I graduated from seminary, and I wear it when I dress up which isn't so often anymore. And, of course, my wedding band is still in place, a constant for 38 years. That's about it, except for a couple of watches and a few pair of cuff links if you count those as jewelry.

So I'm not sure what possessed me last summer to buy a chain, a necklace with one word engraved in brass. I saw it online and decided if I was ever going to wear a chain around my neck, this would be the one. Since then, it's become almost an attachment.

I didn't know what was coming, no idea what 2020 was going to bring our way, none of us did. But, now that we're in the middle of this pandemic, the word I need is right here around my neck - STEADFAST. Maybe it's the word we all need.

I think about the nurses and doctors in our cities, in overcrowded ICUs, laying aside their fear, putting themselves and their own families at risk to care for the critically ill. Many nurses have provided comfort and care as surrogate pastors and family members for the dying who were isolated from their own loved ones. Steadfast indeed.

The source of much of our anxiety these days is our uncertainty about what lies ahead. How long will this go on? How bad will it get? Will it touch my family, my aging parent? When can I go back to work? Will I still have a job? With so many unanswered questions our faith is put to the test. In the pressure of a pandemic will we wilt and despair? Will we take out our stress and frustration on our own family? Will we fall into a chasm of depression and hopelessness as weeks turn into months?

"You will keep in perfect peace him whose mind is steadfast, because he trusts in you." (Isaiah 26:3) There's that word again, the word we need. Steadfast.

In Hebrew the word for God's love is "hesed," and it means more than our language can easily translate, more than simply love. It's love with a tenacity, love with depth, an enduring love. Some translators call it "lovingkindness," but I like the NRSV the best. God's "hesed" is His "steadfast love." That's God's faithful, covenant love, His sacrificial love for us. Brennan Manning calls it God's "relentless tenderness" toward us. I like that. God loves us with the tenacity of a bulldog.

The steadfast love of the Lord will not let you go and will not let you fall. The steadfast love of the Lord never changes, never fails, and endures forever. That's the encouragement I need, that's all I need to know. In fact I've made it my nightly mantra, before I fall asleep I remind myself of that glorious reality in a world of unknowns - The steadfast love of the Lord endures forever.

If that doesn't do it for you, carve it in brass and wear it around your neck. Works for me.