Do you remember the first time you ever saw the ocean? I am not sure how old I was, but I will never forget standing on the edge of the shore staring drop-jawed at the endless Atlantic before me. With absolute awe I looked out amazed at the vastness before me and for the first time in my life caught a glimpse of eternity here on earth. The ocean is still a pretty amazing sight, but I no longer have that boyish veneration when I stare off into the ocean’s horizon.

Several years before the death of Rabbi Abraham Joshua Heschel he suffered a near-fatal heart attack. His closest friend was at his bedside. Heschel was so weak he was only able to whisper: “Sam, I only feel gratitude for my life, for every moment I have lived. I am ready to go. I have seen so many miracles during my lifetime.” The old rabbi was exhausted and after a long pause, he said, “Sam, never once in my life did I ask God for success or wisdom or power or fame. I asked for wonder, and he gave it to me.”

Indeed, a life lived well is one that is filled with wonder. Each day we stand at the precipice of wonder, but so often turn around to more immediate concerns. The wonder of an “eternal ocean” gives way to the knowledge that it has fixed boundaries found in continents on the other side. The wonder of an evening thunderstorm is reduced to the prosaic analysis that it is just warm air running against cold air creating static electricity. Good theology, good worship and good faith, I believe, leads us to discover or rediscover the wonder around us and among us.

Brennan Manning, author of The Ragamuffin Gospel, writes: “Our world is saturated with grace, and the lurking presence of God is revealed not only in spirit but in matter – in a deer leaping across a meadow, in the flight of the eagle, in fire and water, in a rainbow after a summer…in a child licking a chocolate ice cream cone…God intended for us to discover his loving presence in the world around us.”

No doubt this summer will find you busy with the events of summer – some routine and others spontaneous. I hope you take time to smell the metallic air when a storm approaches; or listen to the evening chorus of tree frogs singing the compline while lightning bugs flicker in the woods; or just linger at the ocean listening to waves.

One of my favorite writers, the late Thomas Merton, opens his book Seeds of Contemplation, with the following, “Every moment and every event of every man’s [sic] life on earth plants something in his soul…we must learn to realize that the love of God seeks us in every situation, and seeks our good.”

Peace,

Greg

As if life is not confusing enough with all of our choices, I want to extend to you one more choice: considering signing up for a new blog our church will be publishing: “2020 Vision” and you can find it at www.2020vision.faithlabserver.com/. Once you enter the blog, look to the sidebar and subscribe.

What is the blog about? In the very near future our Deacon leadership will appoint a team of members to work with the congregation in articulating a vision for the church as it lives into the Missio Dei (the Mission of God). This website is designed to facilitate our conversations toward this goal.

We you sign up you become part of the conversation. After all, any good vision is a vision worth sharing!

Very soon I will be changing the title and look of this blog – same random content, but hopefully a better look and reach.

Blessings!

Johnny Cash; I still miss him. He passed away in 2003. Most any kid in the rural South for the last sixty years was raised at least in part on Johnny Cash. From an early age our children were introduced to his music, sometimes against their will, when we would take car rides to visit family, the cemetery or just to go run some errands. And even though I have never been in prison, shot a man in Reno, or hopped a train bound for Texas, I feel as though I understood him.

Perhaps more so than any other entertainer Johnny Cash was the most consistent in his authenticity. What you saw was what you got – voice and all. Of course he was far from perfect. He had a bad first marriage and struggled with drugs, alcohol, fame and his own beliefs. With all of that and more, his struggles were not filtered through the spin of a publicist. We heard him “warts and all.”

I am glad as a child I had the experience of rifling through my father’s LPs and listening to that voice of pure gravel voice that is distinctive of Cash. He sung of his pain and of his joys. He sung of things he understood, but also of things that were a mystery. And for better of for worse he lived life with very little pretense.

Now far be it from me to extol him as a man of pure virtue and say, “Go and live like Johnny Cash.” Can you imagine what the choir would sound like; look like? And don’t you think you would get tired of seeing a congregation bedecked in black all the time? But we could all use a dose of authenticity in our professions and practice. As my friend Steve Davis, pastor of FBC Carrollton put it, “Perhaps we should all adopt the unforgettable opening line from his song “I Walk the Line”…and sing “I keep a close watch on this heart of mine.”

I hope that you find at FBC a place for authenticity. Thank you for allowing me the opportunity to be authentically yours as pastor.

Grace be with you,

Greg

Let love be without any pretence. Avoid what is evil; stick to what is good.
(NJB Romans 12:9)

When I was a teenager and in the middle of self-absorbed angst I counted the days until I could move out of the house and live on my own. Within weeks of my high school graduation I fulfilled part of that plan by moving to Atlanta to begin a fresh journey as an art student. I quickly discovered there really is no such thing as living on my own. Money was always tight, so I needed others to employ me; I knew no one in Atlanta and so I needed to make new friends; and my family, doggone it, was not so bad after all. I found myself coming home most weekends and waiting until the last minute to head back to my lonely studio apartment in Atlanta. Each week my grandmother would fry a chicken and bake a loaf of bread for me to take back with me. It was for me a striking reminder of how our lives are bound together in this life together.

Those are two very simple words that bespeak volumes – life together.

Sometimes life together is a fragile collection of relationships, loosely held and easily broken. In other seasons life together is about tight bonds, loyally woven together in a tapestry of lifelong love.

German theologian Dietrich Bonhoeffer wrote a little book by the title Life Together while he taught an underground seminary during the dark days of Nazi Germany. In it he describes that the church should be a community of love where forgiveness, acceptance and charity to all is lived and practiced.

Life together. That is what we are seeking too when we speak of the local church – to be a community where we grow in our beliefs because we have found a place to belong centered on life with Jesus and are practicing how to behave as Jesus would.

Church is an imperfect place, fragile and more often than I care to admit, is often misguided towards self-serving tendencies. Yet it is the only place where we can best engage together the matters of life that really matter. Life is too big to be experienced on one’s own. We need each other. Martin Luther King, Jr. put it this way: “We are tied up in an inescapable network of mutuality, tied in a single garment of destiny. Whatever affects one directly, affects all indirectly.”

Grateful to walk this part of life with you,

Greg

The urge wells up within me whenever the days are warm and the skies are sunny. It simply is not much fun riding around in a car with the windows rolled up, the air-conditioner humming, and NPR broadcasting. To allay this desire for asphalt freedom I will play U2 or Bruce Springsteen on the radio, but the effect is only temporary.

When I owned a MINI I enjoyed the luxury of a “panoramic sunroof” which was probably as close to a convertible as I will ever come to possess. I would slide the roof back and let the wind blow through my thinning hairline and feel some measure of freedom. That is, until I pulled into the church parking lot, straitened my tie, patted down my hair, and returned to respectability.

Yep, I want a motorcycle. Or a convertible. Or at least a hula doll for my dashboard. But in the meantime I think I will just enjoy this life as it comes day by day regardless of what I am driving, riding, or surfing. If I can find a Jimmy Buffett tune to accompany me along part of that journey, all the better.

One of my favorite texts of scriptures that quite often makes its way in my funeral homilies comes from Ecclesiastes 3:12-13 – “I know that there is nothing better for them than to rejoice and to do good in one’s lifetime; moreover, that every one who eats and drinks sees good in all their labor – it is the gift of God.”

Listen to those verbs again: “rejoice…do good…eat…drink…sees good…” This is not just another day, or another meal to quickly eat, or the same old work to keep you occupied. This is life and it is the only one we have on this earth, so we best get to living it fully and gratefully.

I hope you are finding joy, meaning and purpose in the daily things in your world. It is God’s gift. It is also much cheaper and safer than a motorcycle.

Peace be with you,

Greg

Do you remember when you first discovered that the world, the earth is a beautiful place? Perhaps you were on a family vacation and you were gripped by exploding autumn colors in the Great Smoky Mountains. Or you hiked with your parents to a waterfall and for the first time were overwhelmed as the mist enfolded you and the water thundered down. When was it that you discovered the beauty of creation? Staring at Orion galloping across the evening sky or peering through the telescope to see the craters of the moon?

Early in college I took an interest in ecology and the environment and found myself accused of being a tree-hugger. Well I must confess I am. I love trees. Many mornings you might see me walking around this campus admiring the stately live oaks, redbuds, and Japanese Maples that mark our church grounds. With great affection I remember the first tree I fell in love with when I was a boy. It was a giant sycamore that to this day still looms over a creek through the pasture bottoms where the dairy cows graze before the afternoon milking. When we were small children my daddy and grandparents would take us to that spot to play in the sand alongside that sycamore whose roots reached beneath the creek itself and the massive limbs shaded us from the scorching summer sun.

This time of year trees around us are shaking off winter’s sleep and opening up delicate new leaves for the year. I have a maple tree in our front yard given to me as a seedling six or so years ago by Jack Thompson, a church member who loved beauty through nature and architecture. He died four years ago about this time of year but his gift to me lives on. It is growing a fine canopy of leaves and the limbs may be sturdy enough to hold a bird house this year. Jack gave me the gift of a tree whose shade he would not live to see.

I wonder what gifts I am leaving behind that will give shade to the weary and inspiration to the seeker? Will it be words spoken or written? Will it be laughter or integrity or a hopeful attitude? What gifts will live on when I am gone? Surely, hopefully, prayerfully it will be something more than just “stuff.” What about you?

Gifts that live on are part of the larger narrative of Easter. Easter is not simply a celebration of a particular Sunday once a year. Liturgists remind us that Easter is a season that carries us into the year. Even now God is offering new life to all who are willing to receive it. There are more gifts to behold and accept and so life can begin anew today, right now. And not only are there gifts of grace that are waiting for you, you too have the chance to bless, to care, to love, and to show mercy. These are the gifts that truly live on when we are no more on this earth.

The silence of Holy Saturday is broken by the Alleluia of the One who makes all things new. May this be for you a promise realized.

Shaded by peace,

Greg

Preachers love stories – hearing them; telling them; sharing them; and even – if necessary and it is good for the kingdom’s sake – making them up! From this preacher, you will not likely hear me tell a golf story. I have never played the game and outside of knowing that the little white ball is supposed to go in the little hole conveniently marked by a flag, I know very little about it. I know that even if I were to try to tell a golf story I would invariably get the facts wrong, or mess up the punch line, or say something that would leave the better-informed among you thinking less of me.

Amy was mildly embarrassed of me and a bit indignant during my first golf outing here in Augusta. Someone was very generous and thoughtful by providing an opportunity for us to attend The Masters – perhaps you have heard of it? Anyway, at hole 13 (at least I think that was the hole; I remember there were lots of beautiful azaleas and some water, yet for some reason no one was fishing) a golfer was preparing to “tee off” and I politely asked the question, in an appropriate hushed tone because everyone else was whispering, “is that where they whack the ball?” Amy told me to be quiet and eat my pimento cheese sandwich. Now when I attend I just keep my thoughts to myself and make small talk about all the lovely shrubs, flowers and trees.

Even though I know very little about golf and have no intention to take up the game, I look forward to this annual event when the entire world seems to be focused on Augusta. This will be my ninth year for Masters Week and I actually can say I appreciate the game and hope to make it out on the course for at least one of those days. For some The Masters is the celebration of a pastime, a hobby, a sport, a game, or the pinnacle of the year.

You do not have to like golf to get swept up in the excitement. The city readies itself for the legends of the game and for the thousands upon thousands of visitors that will descend up us. Even though it comes at a great inconvenience and we avoid Washington Road at all costs unless we are actually going to one of the rounds, it is a thrill to get caught up with the crowd; to feel the euphoria building and breathe in the spring air of Masters Week. It is as if we could almost believe God sends this sunshine for our special week.

This week we will read in the Gospels of getting “swept up” in the euphoria of Palm Sunday, anticipating Easter. Of course it is those days between parades, between the crowds that are really telling. That is when the living is no longer easy, and the euphoria has dissipated giving way to denials and betrayals and shame and rejection. We want to stay in the parade or rush to the New Day of Easter, but the real living comes when the parade stops, the “world” returns home and we are left with our fickle convictions and disappointments.

You see, we need one another, we really do. We are not just “event people,” stringing together emotional and spiritual highs and hoping to fashion for ourselves a whole life. We need each other in the seasons and out. The church is the “tent of meeting”, that is, the place of coming together, but it is all too easy to be just another face in the crowd attending yet another event. Church is not so much a place where we gather or an event in which we attend. Church is about people, connected with one another following the Christ.

As we get ready for Easter I encourage you to seek ways of better belonging and engagement through the community of faith. What is important, even essential, is to get connected, to belong, because in time the parade will stop, the cameras will turn away and focus on someplace else and the crowds will have dispersed. The questions we then will face are: who am I? Whose am I? where do I stand; where will I go?

Peace be with you,

Greg

Years ago when I was just a fledgling young adult I stumbled upon a stack of old candy bar wrappers that my grandmother had carefully saved through the years. A dozen or so “Mr. Goodbar” wrappers had been devotedly pressed like wildflowers on exhibit and preserved as a mute testimony to my grandfather’s attempt at romance.

My grandfather, Papa, attended Rockville Academy, in rural Putnam County. The school is still standing with a historical marker designating it as the oldest consolidated rural school in Georgia and is listed on the National Register of Historic Places. His memories of his years attending that farm school live on in the stories he shared with us. He laughed about the recollection of a school holiday when as boys they led a cow (or was it a mule?) up the stairs of the schoolhouse and locked her in for the duration of the break. Then there was the time when, along with some accomplices, he took a mason jar, placed it over the hole of a nest of yellow-jackets and filled it to the brim. Later in the afternoon someone rolled the jar down the aisle of the classroom releasing the now very angry yellow-jackets and affectively releasing class for the day. Corporal punishment was in use and was no doubt used frequently.

For reasons I am not clear, by the time Papa was a teenager he began attending Eatonton Academy – the school in town which was also the same school house attended by my daddy, and later my sister, brothers and me. It was there he moved from pranks with cows and yellow-jackets to taking notice of girls. If a girl sat in front of him and her pigtails got just close enough to his desktop, the chances were good he would take the opportunity to dip one in the ink well. Many times he talked about the time he took a sewing needle and stuck it through the callous of his big toe and then proceeded to prod the backsides of unsuspecting ladies seated nearby. Yes, Papa was real ladies’ man.

One lady, however, caught his eye and kept him. He traded pranks for generous tokens of affection. In the 1930s a Mr. Goodbar candy bar was a luxury that could be secured with a nickel. He bought several, slipping them to Mabel Dennis during study hall. The rest, as they say, is history. I have some of those wrappers as a nod to nostalgia, family history and young love. Boys and girls grown up, hard work wears you down, and life soon catches up with you. My grandparents are buried in the church cemetery of Philadelphia United Methodist Church, bordered by hay fields and cow pastures. One day all that is left of me will go out there too, unless my progeny think otherwise.

Has love ever pushed you to act foolish or wasteful or careless? I hope so. “Love is patient; love is kind; love is not envious or boastful or arrogant…” so says the Apostle Paul. Love is also messy and risky. Love can cause you to do things and say things you thought not possible.

May you and I be known for that kind of love – patient, kind, not envious or boastful or arrogant…foolish, wasteful, careless and messy. May we fall in love with those who need to be loved the most, which, when you think about it, doesn’t really leave anybody out. May we love the work of God, the mission of God, already at work in our world and through others. And may we attempt to do that which we did not think possible.

Because God loves, we love too. There will be tokens in eternity that will tell the story.

It is a rather foolish thought I know. But I have Mr. Goodbar wrappers to remind me it’s possible.

Love you,

Greg

This is me a few years from now

I dream’d in a dream I saw a city invincible,
to the attacks of the whole of the rest of the earth,
I dream’d that was the new city of Friends.

I keep a copy of Whitman’s Leaves of Grass on the end table by my reading chair. I read snatches of his lines in the early morning before digging into whatever book I am working through at the time. There is just something about those 19th century American Romantics that have me returning to their waters time and again to drink. You have heard me cite the following quote by Henry David Thoreau – another American Romantic – before, but it is worth repeating:

I went to the woods because I wished to live deliberately; to front only the essentials in life and see what it had to teach me. And not, when I came to die, discover that I had never lived.

Those few words make me want to grab my walking stick parked in a corner in our house and head out to the wooded hills with my wife in hand to see what there is to see. The words of Whitman and Thoreau have lasted so long because they speak to the heart of the human condition – the desire to live faithfully and deliberately. It is also a reminder of the importance of abiding together.

It is part of the church’s responsibility to bear upon our consciences that God created us to live not in isolation but in community, and to do so with a holy intentionality. So many – too many – trudge through life going through the mechanics of work, family, responsibilities and other routines and fail to actually live. The Bible reminds us that we each play an important and significant role:
As it is, there are many members, yet one body … [25] that there may be no dissension within the body, but the members may have the same care for one another. [26] If one member suffers, all suffer together with it; if one member is honored, all rejoice together with it. (1 Corinthians 12:20, 25-26)

My prayer for the church (and all her members) is two-fold: 1) that each of us discover how indispensable we are in this community of faith, and 2) that we may live our lives fully, abundantly and faithfully. And when we falter, may we live in the generosity of God’s grace for another day.

This Dude abides,

Greg

Okay, the stump was not that big

It took four weeks of intermittent, hard labor but I have taken care of a stump in our front yard…mostly. It all started with the ice storm – ICE2K14, or icepocalypse, or whatever you want to call that event one month ago. We had several trees come down during the storm including one right in front of the house. It was one of those tall yellow pines that bless our community with its electric-yellow dusty pollen every year. Unlike all of the other trees that fell on and around our place, this one fell right at the roots, creating a modest size root ball of Georgia red clay and knotted, spidery roots still clenching to the earth from which it came.

As of last night I finally dug, clawed and hacked my way down the hole to sever the remaining roots including the infamous tap root. When I emerged from the hole gripping the tap root I looked as though I had just caught an 80 pound channel cat. This stump is only about 24 inches in diameter but the hole I dug to get to it is about 20 feet deep. Well, maybe not twenty feet, but it was deep. Combined with the depth of the hole and the weight of the now severed stump I am looking for back up (two young men who happen to share my last name as well as part of my DNA) to help me lift the tangled mass of pine and mud out.

I plan to keep my day job if you good folks will permit. Preaching is much easier.

Of course whatever it is we do in life, if we do it well, takes effort and strength. Ask a parent. Or a teacher. Or a utility lineman. Or…well, you get the point.

What is it in your life that has you digging, clawing, working and struggling? What inspires you to see it through, whatever “it” is? The truth is most of what we confront in life is much more complex and difficult than removing a stump.

The Apostle Paul closes out his letter to the church of Corinth with these words: “Keep alert, stand firm in your faith, be courageous, be strong. Let all that you do be done in love.” (16:13-14) I especially like those last words: Let all that you do be done in love.

There are plenty of stumps out there, and this one of mine is not the first or the last. Sometimes I am strong enough and other times I am not. Sometimes I have courage to face the obstacles and other times my heart melts with doubt and fear. One thing I can do and will do and that is to love. In the end it will root anything out.

Paul did not say it, but he could have – love is knotted, love is messy, love is difficult, and love tough. And love is worth it.