Kissing the Season

by Bob Setzer, Jr.
Christmas always comes early for me on a Friday night in December. That’s the night the Douglass Theater hosts two guitar maestros playing Christmas carols. The two musicians--Robin Bullock and Steve Baughman--play a unique blend of Celtic and Appalachian music on guitars, mandolins, and dulcimers. This dynamic duo rarely sings, offering up instead the pure, sweet sounds of acoustical music. Most years, Christmas descends for me in all of its joy and power as I hear Robin and Steve pluck and strum “Good Christian Men, Rejoice” or “Angels We Have Heard on High.”

Part of what makes this music so special is that Robin and Steve never do any sentimental, schmalzy Christmas music, just proven hymns and carols that have moved audiences for generations. As Robin Bullock asked at this year’s concert after introducing, “Good King Wenceslas”--a tune he said dated from the 13th century --“Does anyone really think people will be singing Brittany Spears tunes eight centuries from now?”

The laughter rippling through the crowd answered the question.

But this year, there was an especially magical moment at the concert. It was during intermission when the Master of Ceremonies was giving out door prizes. Among the prizes were several bags of Hershey’s Kisses, the gold-wrapped ones with an almond inside. Upon learning of this delectable offering, I sat forward in my seat. I listened in rapt attention as the winning numbers from the ticket stubs were called. My mouth watered in anticipation. I had to win those Hershey’s Kisses. What a thrill it would be to soak up the Celtic Guitar Summit while wolfing down all that chocolate laced with nuts!

One by one, the winning numbers were called. One by one, my hopes faded as the Hershey’s kisses were handed out to the winners. Finally, all the numbers were called and I was destitute, forlorn, defeated. No Hershey’s kisses for me.

The concert resumed, and I listened as best I could, distracted by my unfulfilled chocolate cravings. I was not feeling festive.

As Robin and Steve delivered up a bright, airy version of “Ding Dong Merrily on High,” the person to my left gave me a little nudge. She then handed me an open bag of Hershey’s Kisses. One of the winners, several seats away--far more overwhelmed by the Christmas spirit than I--had chosen to share his or her windfall with others. I took my two Hershey’s kisses (OK, three) and passed the bag on to the person at my right. The bag made its way on down the row, surprising and delighting one person after another.

I popped the Hershey’s kisses in my mouth and smiled at the burst of flavor. My earlier selfish, greedy grasping had been vanquished by some selfless soul’s spontaneous generosity. So there, in a darkened theater one Friday night in December, for me Christmas happened.

READ MORE

Chronos and Kairos

by Bob Setzer, Jr.
The Advent wreath that graces our sanctuary is a gift to our church and the great Church from the Lutherans of 16th century Germany. They first began the custom of twisting fir or spruce branches into a wreath graced by candles. The Advent wreath came to America by way of German immigrants. It was and is a special way to mark the passage of sacred time.

The New Testament uses two Greek words for time: Chronos and Kairos. Chronos is the ticktock time of a clock; it is the seconds and minutes of the day marching resolutely on. Our words "chronology" and “chronograph” derive from this root.

The other New Testament word for time is Kairos. Kairos time is time brimming with significance. It is the kind of time embodied in the phrase, "I had the time of my life!" Kairos time is precious. Chronos time is monotonous, forgettable, and fleeting.

The Advent wreath marks chronos time, even as it invites us to experience kairos time. On the one hand, there is the routine of lighting a candle, Sunday by Sunday. But on the other, the glittering gold stand holding the wreath, the candles' flickering flames, the singing of "O Come Let Us Adore Him," all awaken us to the holiness of the season. During Advent, the church is not just marking time or "killing" time. The church is on a pilgrimage to Bethlehem.

This Sunday, the fourth Advent candle will be lit, meaning the holiest of nights is drawing near. The fourth Advent banner, "Love," will bear its silent witness as will the poinsettias, signifying the blood red love of God. Then the congregation will erupt in singing, "Joy to the World!" The children will rush forward for the children's sermon with more than their usual anticipation. The chancel choir, still basking in the glow of last Sunday’s glorious Cantata, will offer its heartfelt Alleluias. And Jonathan Johnson will raise the roof with his stirring rendition of “O Holy Night!”

Yes, this Sunday, the Advent journey will draw near its end. Then on Christmas Eve at 5 p.m., friends and family will come to the top of Poplar one last time this Advent season. For that night, the candle of candles will be lit, the Christ candle signifying the Light of the World. And at last, all the waiting and watching will bear fruit as we hold our candles aloft and sing, "Silent Night." As twinkling light and sweet song fill the sanctuary, the faithful will feel in their hearts and souls and in the very marrow of their bones, that at last, the moment of kairos has come: "For in the fullness of time, God sent forth his Son, born of woman" (Galatians 4:4). And in the wonder of that moment, the dull monotony of ordinary time will be consumed by the glory of the Eternal One, coming to dwell among us.

READ MORE

Christmas Blues

by Bob Setzer
Here’s a dirty little secret about Christmas: amid all the gala and festivities, the parties and the laughter, the back-slapping and the smiles, a lot of people are sad. Most strive to hide their heaviness of heart, not wishing to impose their grief on others. But deep inside, where only dear friends and God can see, such bereaved souls are nursing a broken heart. And at Christmas, especially, they wonder if it will ever heal.

The first Christmas after the death of a loved one is the hardest. All the familiar rituals are upset by the looming absence: the empty seat at the Christmas table; the missing hug; the aroma of a loved one’s aftershave or perfume, now gone; the poignant realization there is one less gift to give or receive. And the worst part is all this happens when gaiety is at a premium and the culture declares a moratorium on grief.

For others, the burden of grief takes a different form. Some are facing the loss of a marriage and the challenge of waking up on Christmas morning without a familiar presence at one’s side. Others are dreading trying to explain why Santa’s rounds were so skimpy this year, in light of a parent’s unemployment. Still others are hoping against hope their chronic illness will not suck the joy out of the family’s Christmas cheer.

In his moving memoir, Lament for a Son, Nicholas Wolterstorff writes, "Another's tears are salve on our wounds." There is healing power in having one’s grief acknowledged in a deeply feeling way. When Jesus show up at the tomb of our lost brother or loved one, our lost marriage or shattered dream--his face streaked by tears--it helps us feel not so hopeless and alone (John 11:33-35). Most often Jesus shows up at such times in a fellow pilgrim who is not frightened away by our tears, but who loves us enough to share them.

On Sunday night, December 20 at 6 p.m., our church will host a “Christmas Service for Grieving Persons.” This service is open to all; indeed, just about everyone is carrying around a load of grief about something. But this service is especially intended for those who have lost a loved one in the last year, or are facing another kind of crushing loss this Christmas. The service is a simple one, featuring Bible readings, quiet, reflective music, a brief meditation by the pastor, and prayers. The sanctuary is darkened and illuminated by candles, creating a private, intimate setting. There will be no pressure and no embarrassment, just a sanctuary--a safe place--where it is okay to be sad at Christmas.

The wonder of Christmas is not just the angel’s glad shout, “Good News of Great Joy for All People!” The wonder of Christmas is also that in God’s Son, our Lord Jesus Christ, we have an ever present companion and friend is who “acquainted with grief” in a deeply personal way. Some Christmases, that is the best news of all.

READ MORE

The Main Thing

by Bob Setzer, Jr.
According to a recent report, this Christmas Americans will use over 28,497,464 rolls and sheets of wrapping paper, 16,826,362 packages of tags and bows, 372,430,684 greeting cards, and 35,200,000 Christmas trees.

If as E. B White observed, “To perceive Christmas through its wrappings becomes more difficult with every year,” trying to find Christmas beneath that much stuff is going to be a problem.

Meanwhile, the little book, Scroogenomics: Why You Shouldn’t Buy Presents for the Holidays, has become quite the rage. Essentially, the author argues Christmas is the ultimate bait-and-switch in which we spend gazillions of dollars on gifts that don’t bring any lasting satisfaction.

We all know this of course. And we’ve come to expect the familiar dressing down from the pastor or some other pulpiteer or editorialist about the need to put “Christ back into Christmas.” Still, nothing much changes. The preacher says the same predictable stuff while he, she, and we keep doing what we’ve always done.

How ‘bout another approach, a savvy both/and instead of a stern and sober, either/or? If you’ve got the discretionary income, buy the people you love something special. Me? I’ve always been a sucker for Santa Claus. There are worse things than lavishing special gifts on the kids and grandkids, especially if you help them understand this kind of lavish grace is because of Jesus. Just keep the credit cards on ice, remembering the wisdom of Proverbs, “The rich rule over the poor, and the borrower is the slave of the lender” (22:7).

Further, spread some Christmas cheer by giving generously to the Salvation Army ringer and the Crisis Closet, making a gift to Global Missions, and catching up your year-end giving to the church. Make sure you spend at least as much on Christ, his church, and his causes as on everybody else. It is his birthday after all.

But amid all the festive buying and giving, do the other thing too. Bring the family to worship during Advent. Let the children sit in spell-bound wonder before the twinkling Advent wreath and Chrismon tree. Delight to the pure, sweet sounds of the Children’s Choirs singing their Alleluias! Reel with joy as a world-class church choir presents a heartfelt Cantata. Gather on Christmas Eve to form a circle in the sanctuary, raise your lighted candle, and sing, “Silent Night.” And better yet, bring an unchurched friend or neighbor with you, someone who really needs him who is the Hope of the World.

Christmas is a blessed time for celebrating God’s indescribable gift, the gift of God’s one and only Son (2 Cor. 9:15; John 3:16). Amid the festivities and the fun, just work at keeping the main thing, the Main Thing!

READ MORE

I Hope All Is Well

by Jody Long
In his book, The Hopeful Heart, John Claypool quotes Father William Inge’s definition of hope: “Hope sees that which is possible, but is not yet.” This is where we begin our Advent journey this Sunday. We begin with hope, the “Cinderella sister” of 1 Corinthians 13 according to Bishop William Frey. We spend a lot of time focusing on faith and love because they seem, at first glance, more tangible to us. We even have specific Christian holy days for both: for faith, Easter, and for love, the feast of St. Valentine (despite its American trappings!). However, there are not many days set aside for hope.

That’s why celebrating every Sunday of Advent is important. As we anticipate the coming – the advent – of the Christ Child, we are compelled to move through the web of feelings of the holiday season: hope, love, joy, and peace. Before we get to the others, though, we celebrate hope. For many of us hope is hard to come by, especially this year. Family tragedies, family struggles, job and employment issues, national and global concerns dominate our daily lives.

Who has time to “see what is possible, but is not yet”? We all do. The coming Christ Child certainly could have found a better place to make his entrance than in the poverty of a young couple, so poor that a barn would serve as a delivery room. He easily could have found a better time frame for his coming than the cruel, premodern time of the Roman Empire. He certainly could have found a “more deserving” couple – at least in the world’s eyes – than Mary and Joseph and chosen a comfortable life. But he didn’t.

In fact, his coming into that place, time, and family illustrates the beauty of hope. If hope really is seeing what is possible but is not yet, then Jesus could not have chosen a better entrance. For much of the world then – and now – finds itself in the situation of Mary and Joseph: poor, outcast, and oppressed. The Christ child came to bring hope to the multitudes then and now that long for deliverance from circumstances of their own making and those beyond their control.

A practice I began long ago was to close most correspondence with the phrase, “I hope all is well.” It is not a throwaway line. It is my sincere hope that the great vision of what could be but is not yet grounds and sustains friend and foe alike. It is in the midst of the “everyday-ness” of life that we need this vision of possibility to make through the Advent season and every day of our lives. As we begin Advent, I hope all is well with you, now and in the days until we celebrate together the coming of the Harbinger of Hope in our lives.

READ MORE

Aren't We All One?

by Bob Setzer, Jr.
In a recent Baptists Today article, I read about a nineteenth century Baptist congregation that censored a slave for dancing. The slave was a "member" of the church, though as human chattel, it was his job to sit in the slave balcony, keep his mouth shut, be subservient as the Bible required (Eph. 6:5; Col. 3:22), and count on his heavenly reward to someday make everything right.

But one Saturday night, this slave did too much drinking and too much dancing and was sanctioned by "his" church. Of course, the real irony was that the local brethren were incensed over the slave’s alleged misconduct while remaining oblivious to their own far greater evil of owning slaves.

Looking back, we wonder how good, well-meaning, God-fearing people could think owning slaves was consistent with following Jesus. They did so by cherry picking Bible passages that seemed to countenance slavery while ignoring other passages that cried out for the liberation of all people in the name of God! (Luke 4:18; Gal. 3:28; Philemon, etc.). And they read their Bibles the way they did because their economic interests, social conventions, and racial prejudice led them to do it.

Recently, the Georgia Baptist Convention (GBC) voted to exclude the First Baptist Church of Decatur for having a woman as pastor, my colleague and sister in Christ, the Rev. Julie Pennington-Russell. Julie’s a gifted preacher and pastor and I doubt the GBC action will hurt her or her church, but it will certainly hurt the witness of Baptist Christians in the eyes of an unchurched world. And maybe in 25 years, or 50, or 100, the GBC action will seem as reprehensible to all Baptists as it does to me.

On the "women’s issue," or any other, I try to read the Bible in the light of Jesus, the One who told Mary to stay put, studying with the men folk, when her big sister, Martha, ordered her back to the kitchen (Luke 10:38-42); the One who commissioned a woman, Mary Magdalene, as the first Evangelist of his Easter triumph (John 20:17-18); the One who unleashed a Spirit-breathed movement where the promise "your sons and your daughters will prophesy!" was sounded with joy and passion (Acts 2:17).

Yes, there are passages in the Bible can be read as demeaning to women, as there are passages that can be (and were!) read as condoning slavery. But I choose to read such passages as speaking to a particular place and time while the universal word of the Gospel, the really Good News, the Jesus-emblazoned truth that should guide our reading of the Bible and the living of our lives is this: "In Christ, there is no longer Jew or Gentile, slave or free, male and female; for you all are one in Christ Jesus!" (Gal. 3:28).

It took the church nineteen centuries to understand that passage applied to slavery. Maybe in the 21st century, all of God’s far flung will finally see it applies to women too.

READ MORE

Praying the Psalms

by Bob Setzer, Jr.
Along with most Americans, I am still reeling from the Fort Hood shootings. That thirteen brave soldiers, pledged to defend my life and liberty, were struck down by a madman on our native soil, breaks my heart and turns my stomach. That the gunman was a psychiatrist pledged to help soldiers manage combat stress adds to the perversity of the carnage. That he was a Muslim who allegedly cried "Allahu Akbar" (Arabic for "God is great") as his rampage began makes my blood boil.

I know I’m not supposed to feel that way. I am a preacher and a follower of Jesus. We’re supposed to be in the forgiveness and reconciliation business, as was our Master. Pray for your enemies. Turn the other cheek. It rains on the just and the unjust. You know the drill.

But right now, I’m not feeling like much of a Christian. In fact, I’m getting reacquainted with parts of my inner life I mostly keep out of view, even from myself. Like the lust for revenge, a lingering suspicion of Muslims since 9/11, and the justified outrage at a demented individual that so easily putrefies into a simmering hatred toward a people.

Fortunately, there are better people than I offering sane and sound counsel: “Don’t rush to judgment. Get the facts straight. And remember that the deranged killer, Nidal Malik Hasan, is no more representative of Muslims than the Oklahoma City bomber, Timothy McVeigh, was representative of Christians.” Those observation are all true. What bothers me is how powerless they are to quell the rage simmering within.

So right now, I’m praying the Psalms. I’m discharging my anger on the heavens. I’m railing at God so I don’t unload my anger on others in destructive ways. There’s a reason most of the Psalms are laments, after all. There’s a lot to lament in the world. And the Psalms are a gracious God’s invitation to rail and weep through a long, dark night in the hope a new day will dawn (Psalm 30:5).

There is a little Muslim boy in my city who went to bed last night ashamed and afraid. He is ashamed of what a madman did in Texas that besmirched the name of his family’s faith. He is afraid the kids at school will make even more fun of him than before. He wonders if he is still welcome in this great land called America he loves with all his heart.

I’ve never met this little boy, but as I was praying the Psalms last night, Jesus told me about him. And Jesus said this boy is my neighbor and that I am called to love and befriend him, and others like him, who are innocent and yet so afraid. Because that’s who Christians are. And with Jesus’ help, that’s what Christians do.

READ MORE

Wonder Bread

by Bob Setzer, Jr.
The wonder of God's provision of manna in the wilderness did not quiet Israel's fears. She continued to be afraid God would leave her in the lurch, somewhere well short of the Promised Land (Exodus 16:19-21).

We read the story and wonder, "How could this be? After God marvelously delivered the Hebrews from Egypt, culminating in the crossing of the sea, how could they doubt their Lord?" And yet throughout Israel's wilderness wanderings, her anxieties, complaining, and desperation continued to mount.

Maybe the problem was Israel was only given manna one day at a time. These days, we call that living "hand to mouth." It is not generally regarded as a desirable way to live. Maybe if God could have cut Israel some slack and allowed just a little something for a rainy day, she might have lightened up.

Then again, maybe not. Turn over to Mark chapter 8. Jesus and his disciples get in a boat to retreat from the crowds. They need some down time after a busy but fruitful couple of weeks. Among other things, Jesus has fed 5,000 hungry folk in chapter 6 and 4,000 more in chapter 8. But despite such outpourings of plenty, the disciples are still worried when they discover they have but one loaf of bread between them (8:14, 17).

Jesus looks at them, at us, his face etched in astonishment: "When I broke the five loaves for the five thousand, how many baskets full of broken pieces did you collect?"

The disciples look at him dully and answer, "Twelve."

"And when I broke the seven loaves for the four thousand, how many baskets full of broken pieces did you collect?"

Again they count up in their heads and answer, "Seven."

Jesus shakes his head in wonderment and asks, "Do you not yet understand?"

No, Lord, we don't. We're trying but we don't understand, at least not for long. Our fears are large and our faith is fleeting. Even in the face of your abundant mercies, we worry and whimper and plead. It must be hard to love us sometimes. Forgive us all the ways we test your patience and break your heart.

Just don't give up on us. Maybe someday, we will understand. Maybe someday you can count on us as we can count on you. In the meantime, give us this day our daily bread. And take our worries, when that is all we have to offer, and keep turning them into faith. Amen.

READ MORE

A Rare Breed

by Bob Setzer, Jr.
Our church is one of an increasingly rare breed: a congregation that is multi-generational in makeup. More and more congregations--especially the flagship churches of the church growth movement--are focused on a particular group: twenty-somethings, baby boomers, young professionals on the rise, and so on. It has long been recognized that in churches, as elsewhere, “birds of a feather fly together.”

Problem is, that’s not what the Kingdom of God is supposed to look like. According to Jesus, the Kingdom of God is like a tiny seed that grows into a tree with strong, welcoming branches where all the birds of the air make their nests (Luke 13:19).

So I celebrate the diversity of ages and stations in life represented in our church. I love the spontaneity of the children, the vitality of the youth, the social conscience of the young adults, the moral earnestness of the mid-lifers, and the wisdom of the mature. I like seeing races and nationalities different from my own in worship. I like being in a church where thoughtful Democrats and Republicans can move beyond the predicable ideological posturing to ask, “What does that have to do with the Gospel?” I like being in a church where people are defined not so much by how they are alike, but how they are different and yet bound together by the Christ who forms the heart of our fellowship.

Well, okay, to be honest, most of the time I like those things, because diversity does bring with it certain tensions. People of varying generations and traditions have differing values, preferences, and expectations.

Take Sunday’s Processional of Commitment. For the past half-century or so on the first Sunday in November--All Saints’ Sunday--members of our congregation have marched forward, one-by-one, to place a commitment card in the little church on the altar. Most older, long-time members of our church deeply value this time of celebration and commitment. It’s one of the few times First Baptist folk leave their pews to process down the aisles, joyously proclaiming their love for Jesus and the church!

But to some newer members of the congregation--and younger people in general--the Processional of Commitment feels showy and ostentatious. This newer generation didn’t have a hand in creating this tradition and doesn’t always understand or appreciate it. A good number of these folk choose to skip Processional Sunday altogether.

In the spirit of a better Kingdom ethic, let me suggest an alternative: if the Processional of Commitment doesn’t appeal to you, feel free to sit quietly in your pew and silently enjoy the pageantry and joy erupting around you. And those who march must promise not to raise an eyebrow at those who don’t! We’re in this together after all. We belong to one another. And we belong to Jesus.

READ MORE

The Frosty Fool

by Bob Setzer, Jr.
Millionaire David Pizer has made arrangements to freeze his body after death. He believes medical science will someday be sufficiently advanced to restore his frozen remains to life.

To insure he has ample funds for his next life, Mr. Pizer has set aside 10 million dollars in a “personal revival trust.” Given the miracle of compound interest, Mr. Pizer figures when he wakes up in a couple hundred years, he will be one of the richest men in the world!

This seems the ultimate expression of Jesus’ parable of the rich fool (Luke 12:16-21). In that story, another self-absorbed business tycoon can think of nothing better to do with his wealth than to build bigger and bigger barns to secure it. Just as he is poised to “eat, drink, and be merry,” the man dies unexpectedly, leaving his vast fortune for others to enjoy. God declares this man a “fool” for storing up treasures for himself but not being “rich toward God.”

Of course, it’s easy to see others’ folly but not so easy to recognize our own. Most of us think neither Mr. Pizer’s story nor Jesus’ story of the rich fool has much to do with us. But Jesus didn’t tell his story to the Mr. Pizers of the world. Jesus told this story to regular folk struggling to find work, pay their bills, and keep hungry mouths fed. In other words, Jesus told this story to people like us.

We are in the Stewardship Season at church, that time of year when the calendar, if not Jesus, forces us to face an uncomfortable subject: money. How much (or little!) we have and how much (or little!) we can afford to give away. This year more than most, this is a difficult conversation because so many folks are struggling financially. In our anxiety, we are apt to think first about how little we can do.

Jesus would shift the conversation from one of our scarcity to God’s abundance. In fact, his remedy to our financial worries is to “Seek first the Kingdom of God and God’s righteousness and the other things you need will be provided as well” (Matthew 6:33; Luke 12:31). For Jesus’ people, the first question is no longer how much can I stuff into my barns, but how much can I invest in God’s Kingdom, Christ’s church, and the Good News, proclaimed and lived, that changes everything.

This year, amid all the anxieties swirling about us, try to decide what you can and will give first to the God Movement at the top of Poplar. We are the First Baptist Church of Christ, after all. Our priorities and our calling are right there in our name.

READ MORE

Second Street Angels

by Bob Setzer, Jr.
Atop three buildings on Second Street in downtown Macon, six angels keep silent vigil. They are First Baptist angels. I call them our “Second Street Angels.”

Those angels have kept watch from their present posts since 1884, or thereabouts. Before that, they were fixtures in the First Baptist sanctuary that once stood where the Crest Finance and EZ Finance buildings stand today. That sanctuary burned down after smoldering embers from a defective flue took hold in the organ, then blazed throughout the building. A lovely gothic sanctuary, said to be “second to none in the state,” was reduced to a smoking ruin.

Which begs the question, Where were our our Second Street Angels when our sanctuary burned down? Were they asleep on the job? Did they let us down?

According to the frequent emails I receive featuring angels, angels are the private security force of the faithful. So long as the angels are on your side, you have nothing to fear. No harm can come your way.

That wasn’t so for Jesus. In fact, the Devil tempted him with just such a half-truth about angels: “Throw yourself from the pinnacle of the temple and the angels will protect you!” Not so, said Jesus. You shall not test the Lord your God.

When the time came for Jesus to lay down his life for the sins of the world, the Bible says he could have called 72,000 angels. He didn’t. Because sometimes, the path of suffering and loss is the one that bests serve the mysterious purpose of God.

So where were our Second Street angels the night our Second Street sanctuary burned down? Weeping in attentive anguish I would imagine. And plotting the revolution that would plant our witness atop Poplar--in an even more magnificent sanctuary--where we worship today.

Our Second Street Angels each has a sickle in hand. Jesus said he would send his angels at the end of the age to reap a great harvest. That’s when it will become clear, if it is not clear already: the beautiful sanctuary on Second Street--and the lovely Sanctuary atop Poplar’s Hill--never were the wheat. The buildings were the chaff; the wheat was and is the people that by God’s grace, yet bear witness to the “love that wilt not let us go.”

READ MORE

With God, There Is No "Them"

by Bob Setzer, Jr.
Those searing images of devastation in Indonesia and the Samoan Islands are hard to watch. They pop up on our television and computer screens, or in our newspapers, and we recoil in shock. Seeing so many people devastated by nature’s fury, leaves us shaking our heads in disbelief and sadness. Perhaps we breathe a prayer for the victims and their families. Perhaps we feel gratitude for the Christian service agencies, international organizations, and our own government working to aid in the recovery. But in very short order, most of us are back to wondering if our alma mater will win this Saturday and what’s for dinner.

While it may sound callous to admit, this is not altogether surprising. When we do not know the victims of a disaster personally, especially a disaster on the other side of the world, our capacity to feel the anguish of the victims is somewhat limited. Our most deeply felt sadness is reserved for people we know whose suffering is tangible, and touchable, and painfully close to home.

I wonder, though, what it must be like for the One to whom there is no “other side” of the world; the One for whom not even the sparrow’s fall escapes divine notice; the One whose tears we see on the face of Jesus; the One for whom the Samoan fisherman, whose family and home perished in a Tsunami, is not a statistic, but the intimately known and dearly treasured child of God?

After the earthquakes that spawned a tsunami in the Samoan Islands and brought death and ruin to Indonesia, my wife, Bambi, introduced me to a web app called “Google Earth.” One of the views this application provides is a series of red dots showing all the earthquakes presently occurring. It’s unbelievable. There are red dots everywhere. Of course, most of these seismic disturbances are not large enough to cause a problem, or shake the world in remote places or under the sea where nobody lives, so they escape notice. But when Jesus said 2,000 years before Google, “there will be earthquakes in various places” as the “birth pangs” of the new creation (Mark 13:8), he surely knew what he was talking about.

What if in heaven, there is a cosmic monitor with little red dots that shows all the earthquakes, metaphorically speaking, presently occurring upon the earth: joblessness, sickness, bereavement, divorce, depression, and all the rest? And what if the One looking at the red dots, does not look with detachment, but with anguish and with tears? Because this One has lived our life, walked our earth, plumbed our darkness and died our death, that he might live at the epicenter of the world’s pain and need? In other words, where you live. Where I live. And where that bereft and bewildered Samoan fisherman lives too.

That would be and is the Good News, that our God is Immanuel: God with us and with “them” too.

READ MORE

Falling Into Seasons

by Bob Setzer
The other evening while going on a run, I felt something not felt in a long time: I felt cool. Not air conditioned, pretend cool but wet, clammy T-shirt, chest-tingling cool. I couldn’t believe it: still September in Macon, Georgia and the crisp, cool embrace of fall was in the air.

The last couple of years, we didn’t get much fall. Punishing hot summers extended well into the “winter” months and then suddenly, the blooms were back. In February, as I recall. The autumn leaves went from green to brown to dead with hardly a moment’s burst of autumn glory to mark their passing.

I’m hoping for better this year. I’m hoping for a fall where jackets and cardigans are essential rambling around gear. I’m looking for a fall where hot apple cider drives the chill from your bones. I’m aching for a fall where a bright, colorful canopy of leaves lifts the eyes and the heart to the Artist behind the masterpiece.

For much of my life, fall was the season of new beginnings because that’s when I, or my daughter, or the kids in the neighborhood went back to school. Fall meant new notebooks with fresh, unmarked pages, new pencils with sharp, unbroken points, new classes, new friends, new challenges. Now that school starts in early August, the elegance of starting school when the world around us beckons change, is lost.

But in the church, at least in our church, fall has long been the ingathering season, the regrouping time, the time for reconnecting and starting again. We return from our summer travels hoping to see --and be seen by-- our fellow worshiper a little more often. Come October, our brain trust of talent--also known as “committees”--is turning over a new leaf and the family budget is being reworked and hopefully, funded. The long, dawdling season of Pentecost--from June to December--is almost over. Soon Advent, the restart of everything will be here complete with the Chrismon tree, and Cherub choirs singing.

Yes, I love the fall and the beauty about to debut all around us. But we are formed not just by the sights we see but by the stories we tell: the story of Abraham and Sarah, Moses and Miriam, Peter and Mary Magdalene, and supremely, the story of Jesus. We are also formed by the stories of the brother or sister at our side, behind and before us, in the family of faith. So this fall, bring your summer stories, your fall hopes, and your best and brightest dreams to the top of Poplar. Because for many of us, like the tired, summer trees aching for autumn glory, it’s time for a new beginning formed by a Spirit-breathed, Story-fed hope.

READ MORE

A Second Home

by Julie Long
In May, our church’s Family Life Committee sponsored a survey of families in our congregation. The Church Census, developed and analyzed by the Center for Family and Community Ministries at Baylor University, was made available for us at no cost thanks to a grant through the Cooperative Baptist Fellowship.

The survey asked questions about the makeup, stresses, strengths, and challenges of our families and our congregation. Our answers not only told us more about who we are as a congregation but gave us insight into how the church can help meet the needs of our families and our community.

Many in our congregation were unable to attend the census report given on September 2. Here are some of the highlights:

- Our congregation is extremely well-educated, with nearly 75 percent with college or graduate degrees. Of those ages 40-59, the percentage is as high as 92 percent.

- A significant number of respondents (19) have attended our church 1-4 years, with 35 percent attending 11-22 years and 14 percent more than 30 years. This indicates a committed core group serving alongside newer members.

- The most prominent stressors for families include health concerns (illness, disability, depression/emotional problems and death of family/friends) and financial concerns (prioritizing money use and financial strain).

- In terms of living our faith, we are strong in worship, Bible study, prayer and giving. Challenges include sharing our faith and promoting social justice.

When asked “how the church can help,” the most common responses were consistent with most common stressors. Families want the church to help them know what they can do to make a difference in the world through working for justice and community service. Families also need the church’s support in caring sick or aging family members and managing their finances.

If you would like to learn more about the census results, a copy of the full report is available in the church library for your review. (A shorter 3-page summary is available here.) Our church leaders and pertinent committees will be having further discussions about how to apply the results to our current ministries and future planning.

Our children did not complete the full survey but offered their own insights into our church through drawings and writings. When asked, “How does our church help your family?,” one child answered, “by giving us a second home.” My prayer is that these results will help our church continue to be family to one another so that each that comes here will find a place of belonging, nurture, and love.

READ MORE

People of the Wednesday Night

by Bob Setzer, Jr.
In an article entitled "A Catholic Looks at Baptist Spirituality," the author--Dr. Samuel Weber--calls Baptists "People of the Wednesday night." He implores Baptists to cherish and protect this part of their common life: "I urge you to preserve the Wednesday night. Guard it faithfully and keep it continually. Do not allow the pressures of modern living to take over. You do the world a great favor and bring many blessings on all of us when . . . you gather together to hear the word of God, to pray, and to break bread in . . . the ‘company of those who believe.’”

In imploring Baptists to remain, “People of the Wednesday night,” Dr. Weber is taking a page out of the book of Acts. There we read of a vital early church that "Day by day, as they spent much time together in the temple, they broke bread and ate their food with glad and generous hearts" (2:46). This "breaking of bread" continued Jesus' own emphasis on shared meals and shared fellowship. Not coincidentally, he put a meal--the Lord's Supper--at the center of his kingdom.

Gathering with fellow believers to rub shoulders, pass the potatoes, and say our prayers continues to be a vital part of the Christian life. However, finding time for shared meals at home--and at church--is a growing challenge. On the way to the computer revolution, everyone got busier than ever. So much for the “paperless” office or the 40 hour work week! Plus the competition for the time and energies of students and their families continues to intensify. Who would have believed 15-20 years ago there would be sports practices and ball games on Wednesday evenings and even Sunday mornings in the heart of the Bible belt?

Despite such challenges, our staff and lay leaders continue to tweak our Wednesday night offerings in an effort to keep “church family night” alive and well at the top of Poplar. Our menus are being revamped and the top choices of the congregation will be served starting October 1. And while the supper line opens at 5:15 p.m, you can get served as late as 6:00 p.m. Children and youth events begin at 5:50 p.m. Adults continue in the Fellowship Hall (a revealing name, don’t you think?) for prayer and praise at 6:00 p.m. Adult studies and programs, along with Chancel Choir practice, begin at 6:30 p.m.

The enclosed insert details upcoming Wednesday night adult offerings. In addition to the Fellowship Hall topics, a fascinating Walter Brueggemann study will be offered along with a new Bible Study for Internationals. We’re hoping these offerings will add numbers, depth, and diversity to our Wednesday night experience.

I hope we will always be the “People of the Wednesday night” because it’s hard to be family without eating together at least once a week!

READ MORE

Standard Roach Letter

by Bob Setzer, Jr.
Warning: Do not read the following column while consuming your dinner salad.

When a prepackaged airline lunch was served on an international flight, a passenger opened her salad container and discovered a cockroach. Her yelp of disgust and outrage brought the head stewardess running who did her best to calm the passenger and contain the damage.

Immediately upon arriving home, the still fuming passenger fired off an angry letter to the President of the airline. In very short order, she received a reply by special courier rather than regular mail.

The President of the airline was most remorseful and responsive. His letter read, “Dear Ms. Smith, This was very unusual, but don't worry. I want to assure you that particular plane has been completely fumigated. In fact all the seats and the upholstery have been stripped out. We've taken disciplinary action against the steward who served you and he may even be fired. It's highly probable that this aircraft will be taken out of service. I can assure you that it will never happen again. And I trust, Ms. Smith, that you will continue to fly with our airline.”

Just as Ms. Smith was feeling somewhat vindicated, she noticed her original letter had inadvertently been enclosed with the President’s response. On the back of her letter was scrawled his note: “Please reply with the standard roach letter”!

I’m guessing she did not fly with that airline again.

In a world where computers spit out “form letters” pretending to be personal, a truly personal letter is an increasingly rare treasure. From time-to-time I hope you receive such a letter. From time-to-time I hope you write such a letter.

Write a card or note of encouragement to friend going through a hard time. Write a letter of thanks to a beloved teacher from your childhood. Write a thoughtful personal letter to your Congressional Representative. Write a family member a special letter celebrating his or her birthday. Write a letter to God and tuck it in the back of your Bible. In a world of relentless yet fleeting email, a personal letter--especially one that is hand-written--conveys a depth of caring and substance cyber-communications lack.

Fully 20 of the 27 books of the New Testament consist of personal letters. Granted, those letters are written to people in another place and time, but the pastoral concern and spiritual passion of the writers yet bleed through the pages. And in the power and presence of the Holy Spirit, breathing upon those old, old words, they can yet become God’s very personal word to You, second personal singular (Luke 24:32; John 14:26).

Surely it is no accident God sent his Son into the world--and the New Testament witness was penned--long before email put personal letters on the endangered species list.

READ MORE

Jesus the Carpenter

by Bob Setzer, Jr.
With the Labor Day holiday upon us, I find myself reflecting on the fact Jesus spent far more of his life in ordinary labor than in certifiably religious work. Depending on how one reads the Gospels and does the math, Jesus spent 1-3 years in a ministry that began at the age of thirty. Thus, for most of his adult, Jesus lived and worked in a blue-collar world as a carpenter.

Today, a “carpenter” can mean anything from a day laborer to a skilled craftsman and small businessman. Jesus was more like the latter. Recent scholarship has concluded the Greek word tekton, translated in English Bibles as “carpenter” (Mark 6:3), would better be rendered “builder” or “contractor.” For one thing, wood suitable for construction was rare and very expensive in the Palestine of Jesus’ day. Most building was done with stone and brick. And most such work was found not in the tiny mountain village of Nazareth, but in the nearby metropolis of Sepphoris. In that bustling city, King Herod was always throwing up a new Roman theater or other government building.

In all events, Jesus spent most of his life as a “working man.” (Everyone knows teaching and preaching are not “real work,” so that doesn’t count!).

I believe much of the earthiness in Jesus’ teaching--the grounding of his truth in everyday life and pressing human need--came from his real world work experience. As he walked to and from work projects in Sephorris, he observed the farmers, shepherds, and landscapes that would populate his parables. On the construction site, he learned the importance of properly bidding a job (Luke 14:28-29) and how much more savvy good business people could be than the religious types holed up in Jerusalem (Luke 16:1-9).

During my teen and college years, I delivered newspapers, sacked groceries, mowed grass, mopped floors, and worked in a convenience store. But I’ve had this cushy one-day-a-week job in the Temple for a long, long time.

Fortunately, my dad spent his working life as a tool-and-die-maker. Though he died last year, he is with me still. Usually, when I am working on a sermon or lesson, I hear him whisper, “Do you really need that big word?” “Does the guy working at the plant need to hear that?” “In the real world where real people live, who cares?” The dad who shows up in the back of my mind to say such things, doesn’t always win the debate, but I can count on him to ask the hard questions.

Most persons serving in religious vocations come from working-class families. Whatever the reason, it’s a plus. The temptation is strong in religious work to keep one’s head in the clouds. It helps to have a dad and Jesus keeping one’s feet firmly planted on the ground.

READ MORE

Health Care? Jesus Complicates It

by Bob Setzer, Jr.
Like most Americans, I’m trying to sort through the current health care debate. But for me, this issue is complicated by the fact I am not just an American consumer of health care; I am also Christian. So I don’t have the luxury of reducing the current debate to “What’s in it for me?” That question gets things in focus pretty quickly. But I have to ask the Jesus question as well: “What’s in it for my neighbor?” It was the Master after all, who said the essence of a godly life was to (1) love God and (2) love your neighbor as yourself.

Does that mean I’m about to lobby for a “big government” solution to the nation’s health care ills? A lot of people seem to make that leap: bring Jesus into the discussion and anybody who is sick should get whatever help they need at taxpayers’ expense. And yes, Jesus did challenge the entrenched interests of his day, stood by and with the poor, and taught us to pray, “Thy Kingdom come on earth as it is in heaven.” But as to the public policy mechanisms for making that happen, Jesus’ teaching is mostly silent. No surprise in that. He lived under Roman occupation, not American democracy.

The one time Jesus was pressed on a hot button political issue--paying taxes to Caesar--he asked for a coin. “Whose picture is on it?,” asked Jesus. When told the emperor’s image was on the coin, Jesus said, “Then give unto Caesar the things that are Caesar’s and to God, the things that are God’s!” In my mind’s eye, Jesus then flips the coin back to his interrogators. He hasn’t so much answered their question, as deepened it. The answer is still theirs--and ours--to forge.

Do I believe Jesus cares about the health care plight of so many uninsured and under-insured Americans? Absolutely. And neighbor-love, which is at the heart of following him, requires that I care too. And more than “care,” that like the Good Samaritan, I do what I can to get sick and wounded people the help they need. But as to the exact shape of that moral obligation in the current health care debate, I have more questions than answers.

How can we be “wise as serpents and innocent as doves” in lobbying for needed changes in our nation’s health care system? How can we make sure children, the special objects of God’s compassion, are not penalized for being born into poor families without adequate medical care? How do we balance “neighbor love” with taking responsibility for oneself and one’s own family?

I know a lot of people have this all figured out. I don’t. But then most of the time, Jesus doesn’t simplify my life so much as he complicates it. That is why following him is so much more fulfilling--and infuriating--than following the Answer Man we keep wanting our Messiah to be.

READ MORE

What's in a Name?

by Bob Setzer Jr.
With a last name like “Setzer,” I am familiar with having one’s name butchered by well-meaning if ill-informed people. My name has been variously mispronounced as Seltzer, Setzie, Settie, Setzler . . . the list goes on and on.

Given that, one would think I might be particularly sensitive to getting people’s name’s right. In fact, I am. I am also fallible. Despite my best intentions, sometimes the brain skips a track and I forget or misspeak a name.

It happened recently during a funeral. Following a fine eulogy by Mercer Law professor, Joseph Claxton, I began my remarks by referencing his. Unfortunately, I mispronounced his name not once but several times, calling him “Mr. Callaway.” Members of the First Church family in attendance who realized the error were appropriately mortified.

Later, after learning of my mistake, I sought out Professor Claxton and profusely apologized. He was more amused than annoyed. I explained I had a professor in seminary named Joseph Callaway. It was an honest mistake and Professor Claxton graciously waved it aside.

He then told me about being in boot camp, 40 years before, where the drill sergeant regularly called him “Clayton” rather “Claxton.” After enduring this indignity for some weeks--as wise recruits do--Mr. Claxon was finally fed up. As gingerly as possible, he informed the drill sergeant of the mispronunciation. The drill sergeant glared and growled, “C-L-A-Y-T-O-N, drop for twenty! You are C-L-A-Y-T-O-N as long as I say you are C-L-A-Y-T-O-N!”

Ten pushups into the prescribed punishment, the drill sergeant called Mr. Claxton by his proper name and told him to get up. That was as close to an apology as any self-respecting drill sergeant could get!

Sooner or later, if one’s name is more challenging than “Jones” or “Smith,” someone will likely mispronounce it. Even pastors and professors can unwittingly dole out such an injury. Thankfully, our Lord cannot. For the Bible contends again and again that God knows people by name, loves names, and never forgets a name.

God says to Moses, “I know you by name” (Ex 33:17). God says to Cyrus, “It is I, the God of Israel, who calls you by your name” (Isa 45:3). There are whole pages of the Bible with nothing but names. Take a look at 1 Chronicles chapters 1-8 for a sampling: names, names, and more names. In fact, there is precious little besides names on those pages.

Maybe it’s meant as a reminder: Someone remembers. Someone will forever value your mark upon the world. Someone knows--and will never forget--your name. Someone knows and will never forget, You.

I try to remember that vital truth when an ordinary mortal mispronounces my name. In a universe where Almighty God never forgets, it is an offense easily forgiven.

READ MORE

God's Subversive Truth

by Bob Setzer, Jr.
I keep being amazed at how Bible stories and Bible truths keep showing up in real life. This shouldn’t be amazing, since it happens all the time. I must be a slow learner. Or maybe my confidence in the Bible is subtly eroded by a culture that seeks wisdom everywhere else.

A recent case in point of a Bible truth hidden behind the headlines: “Mortals look on the outward appearance but the Lord looks on the heart” (1 Samuel 16:7). This subversive truth about God is sounded in the story of God selecting the shepherd boy, David, as king.

Meanwhile, on a porch in Cambridge, Massachusetts, this truth from the 11th century B. C. makes its presence felt in an ugly way. A prominent professor and an able, well-intentioned police officer erupt in an altercation because each thinks the worst of the other. And at the heart of the misunderstanding is the matter of appearances: one party to the dispute is black, the other white.

From the “black” perspective, people of color in general and black men in particular are sick and tired of having others assume the worst about them, simply because of the color of their skin. From the “white” perspective, you don’t erupt in angry, disrespectful behavior at a police officer trying to do his job, even if you are dog-tired and fuming at being questioned about “breaking into” your own house! There is, of course, a measure of truth in both those perspectives. But as to exactly what happened on that now infamous porch, only God knows: “For mortals look on the outward appearance but the Lord looks on the heart.”

Notice that vital Bible truth isn’t primarily a statement about how things ought to be but about how things are: we tend to think the best of people like ourselves and are most suspicious toward those who are different. This is especially true when we are under stress or even attack. Because of this, racially-fueled misunderstandings are not likely to disappear soon, if ever. Sadly, such a preference for “our own kind” may even be hard-wired into our DNA.

What then is our hope? Moral perfection? No, grace. Grace to listen to those who are different from ourselves. Grace to admit our mistakes and learn from them. Grace to yearn for and pray for and work toward a Kingdom where people are valued for who they are on the inside, not on the outside. Grace to be part of a community that while not color-blind is color-full, celebrating all the shades of God’s multi-complexioned family. In short, grace to be more like Jesus and less like our often defensive, fearful, and yes, racially-biased selves.

Granted, this is a high hope, but such is the call of the Gospel. I learned that from the Bible too.

READ MORE

And That's The Way It Is

by Bob Setzer, Jr.
With the death of Walter Cronkite, I lost a piece of my childhood. Growing up, he was the presence, the Voice, who reassured my family and me all was right with the world.

Of course, even then, we knew everything wasn’t alright: Vietnam, Kent State, riots in the streets, JFK and MLK, Jr. shot down in cold blood. But somehow, Walter’s calm, grandfatherly demeanor helped us believe the sun would rise again tomorrow. There was still hope. The latest crisis wasn’t the end of the world.

How reassuring to hear at 6:59 each evening, “And that’s the way it is.” Contrast that with the wimpy sign offs of today’s anchors: “I hope you have a good day” or “We hope to see you right back here tomorrow night.” When Katie Couric came on as the CBS anchor in 2006, she even appealed to her viewers to suggest her tagline. How the world has changed. Today, anybody with a cell phone camera and a Twitter account can be a “journalist.”

True, Walter’s trademark phrase was a little over the top. It’s impossible to distill the essence of the world situation down to 22 minutes, not counting commercials. But his weighty pronouncement held out the hope there is such a thing as real, objective truth in a world of ever-changing perceptions. Yes, “the truth” is best arrived at by interviewing multiple witnesses, listening to alternative interpretations of a given event, and making sure women and people of color--and not just middle-aged white guys like Walter and me--have their say. But at the end of the day, there is real truth to be found if the news isn’t reduced to entertainment or political posturing.

The New Testament pulsates with just such a conviction. There is not just one witness, but four to the epoch-making, world-reshaping event of Jesus Christ: Matthew, Mark, Luke, and John. Each speaks with a distinctive voice arising from his own life experience and the pressures and questions driving his witness. But all four Gospels share the conviction God has come near in a decisive way in Jesus Christ, and that his life, death, and resurrection change everything. As the book of Hebrews declares in its opening salvo, “Long ago God spoke in many and various ways by the prophets, but in these last days God has spoken to us by a Son” (Heb. 1:2).

The church doesn’t exist to pretend there are certain special people who have everything figured out. But in a world where increasingly the mantra is, “One person’s truth is as good as another’s,” we do have a holy obligation to keep our heads and hearts clear about the One who is “the way, the Truth, and the life” (John 14:6).

Walter Cronkite understood the elemental human hunger to know the Big Truth above and beyond all the little truths. Let’s hope God’s Good News people do also.

READ MORE

Vacation Bible School 2009

Thank you to all the children and workers who helped make VBS a great success.

From July 13-17, Kids experienced God through Bible stories, crafts, recreation, snacks, missions, music, science experiments and relationships. The time allowed kids to learn the Bible in various ways while building relationships with other kids and adults.

READ MORE

The Day She Was Remembered

by Ed Grisamore
In his July 10th Telegraph column, Ed Grisamore compared Ruth Cheves’ memorial service with the Michael Jackson service held the same week. The column is a classic and appears here in a in a slightly abridged form -- Dr. Bob

There was no gold casket in the sanctuary at First Baptist Church on Thursday morning, only a gold picture frame.

There were three dozen roses and two candles at the altar. A needlepoint bookmark, made by Ruth Cheves, rested against the pages of an open Bible. There were no TV cameras on the steps, no paparazzi at the top of Poplar Street. Nobody pulled out a Blackberry to dispatch details of the funeral on “Twitter.”

I sat in the third pew, with my wife and mother, and listened to the tributes, scripture readings, beautiful music and heartfelt eulogy. If only the world could have seen this, too, I thought.

Four days ago, the planet paused to watch Michael Jackson’s memorial service. About 30.9 million viewers tuned in — more than for Ronald Reagan’s funeral but less than Princess Di’s — as if it were a ratings contest. Only about 100 people attended Ruth’s service. I’m sure Miss Ruth never would have approved of turning her farewell into a box-office attraction, anyway.

I did not watch the memorial for the “King of Pop.” Although I applaud his humanitarian efforts, his rather bizarre lifestyle was hardly worthy of hero worship. (Frankly, he lost me after the Jackson Five.) He was, however, an extraordinary talent. I’ve never seen anybody move like M.J.

Miss Ruth never married and lived alone. I once served as her deacon. For years, my family invited her to join us at Thanksgiving. She was born in 1918, grew up in Fort Hill, went to school at Fort Hawkins and joined First Baptist Church when she was 6 years old. She never caused a ripple of trouble, except for some mischief the time she and a few childhood friends waxed the trolley tracks with soap, causing a slight derailment.

Ruth was a pioneer in working with special needs children. Her studies in the field were among the first published in the U.S. She spent 16 years in the Christianity department at Mercer.

She was an avid reader and served as our church librarian. She loved crossword puzzles and classical music. She never needed a dial on her radio. She kept it planted on FM-89.7, the local public radio station.

In 1974, she was the only Georgia woman (and one of 132 in the country) asked to contribute a needlepoint panel for the United Nations in New York. She put 40,000 stitches into her square, which represented Russia.

No, I wasn’t much of a Michael Jackson fan, but I did belong to Ruth’s fan club. Her memorial service replicated the way she lived her life. No fanfare. More substance than glorification.

She was one of those saints who lived her life, served her Lord and would have been proud of the way she was remembered.

(Used by permission of the Macon Telegraph)

READ MORE

The Shoeless Boy

by Bob Setzer, Jr.
On Tuesday, a little boy wandered into my office with one sandal off his foot. His mother was at the church helping to prepare for next week’s Vacation Bible School (VBS). As mom met nearby with Julie, her son went exploring and winded up on my doorstep.

I knelt to help him with his wayward sandal. After it was properly secured, he beamed and went merrily on his way.

Not long afterwards, my study door slowly swung open. I turned see my young friend bearing a pair of men’s hiking boots. I got up to greet him and he placed the boots at my feet as though they were a trophy. It was his way of saying “Thank you.” I was blessed.

Very shortly, Mom came and found her wandering son. She explained with a chuckle she spent a good part of her day trying to keep shoes on his feet. And alas, I discovered the boots were not mine to keep, but were meant for a VBS display elsewhere in the building. I gave up the boots, but the blessing remained.

One of the perks of being a pastor is getting to have children in one’s life, even after all the children in one’s home are gone. Jesus taught children are vital to our spiritual growth: “Unless you change and become like children, you cannot enter the Kingdom of God” (Matthew 18:3). Here Jesus pointed to the need for a natural, trusting love in the One he called Abba, Father. Indeed, discovering that the awesome Creator of the cosmos is also a most loving, gentle, and attentive Parent is in at the heart of entering the Kingdom of God.

Children bring a joy and spontaneity to life that keeps super-serious adults from dying of sheer boredom. Children keep us vital, young, and alive. No wonder Jesus chided his disciples when the “big boys” pushed the children away (Matthew 19:14). He needed the children as much as they needed him. Indeed, it’s hard to become like children when there are no children around. That’s why churches without children are destined to die.

Next week, our church will be teeming with children as we host an extravagant, grace-filled, Bible-rich celebration called Vacation Bible School. From nine till - 12:15 p.m., Monday through Friday, our staff ministers and many volunteer leaders will be teaching the children about Jesus. But if my encounter with the shoeless boy is any indication, the children will also be teaching us.

Drop in next week for a much needed shot of child-induced enthusiasm. Or join us next Friday at 12:15 p.m. for the VBS Commencement program and lunch, complete with jubilant VBSers waving their arms and singing their songs. It will do your heart good. And Jesus will be smiling.

READ MORE

The Point of Worship

by Bob Setzer, Jr.
This week, someone asked me for the Bible reference to the “quiver of arrows” I mentioned in last Sunday’s sermon. He remembered this verse as likening “the children of one’s youth” to a bountiful supply of arrows. The verse he was searching for is Psalm 127:4-5. The only problem was--if indeed, it was a problem--I made no such reference in my sermon.

This sort of thing happens to me a lot. People hear all sorts of things in sermons I don’t remember saying. In some cases, they are simply mistaken; in others, I surely am. But there is another reason people often hear things in sermons I didn’t actually say: maybe I’m not the one doing the talking. We gather in worship to hear the Word of God, after all.

In fairness to my friend searching for the quiver of arrows, I did use the expression “wild quiver of joy” in my sermon. Apparently at that point, his mind skipped a track and he went merrily on his way chasing a holy rabbit. At least he was thinking about the Bible!

Some preachers and worshipers find such holy rabbit chasing deeply troubling. The preacher’s job, they seem to believe, is to make sure everyone hangs on the preacher’s every word. Toward that end, some pastors expect people to take notes on the sermon or at the very least, doggedly follow the PowerPoint presentation.

But what if the point of worship and preaching is not to get every word in the preacher’s head into the head of every worshiper with as few transmission errors as possible? What if the point of preaching and worship is instead to create a context for hearing what God has to say to you, second person singular? What if a sort of sanctified mind-wandering if one of the primary ways God’s word speaks to us where we need it most?

In a recent issue of Discover magazine, researchers report that even when concentrating, the mind spends as much as 50 percent of its time not focused on the task at hand. And the mind does some of its most important work while “wandering,” a sort of waking dream, in which the mind searches for solutions not immediately evident to the conscious brain.

We might as well be honest: that’s the way most people hear a sermon. Hopefully, the hearer is snagged by a point, phrase, or image that fires the imagination. Then he or she checks out of the sermon long enough to probe the feeling or idea evoked by the preacher’s words. Sometimes the listener spends a few seconds, or a few minutes, wrestling with him or herself in the presence of God’s people and God’s Word. And often, it is during those private moments of reflection that the sword of God’s truth finds its mark and the Holy Spirit exclaims, “Gotcha!”

I don’t take offense when minds wander during my sermons. In fact, I rather expect it, indeed, I count on it. For it’s when the defenses are down that God’s Spirit is mostly likely to scale the walls of an unwitting worshiper’s heart.

READ MORE

Wading Through Quicksand

by Bob Setzer, Jr.
This column has been slow in coming. Grief does that. It slows time down. Sometimes ploughing through the “valley of the shadow” is like wading through quicksand. Movement is difficult and exhausting when pushing against the suction of tears.

My dad died a year ago this June 27th after a long and debilitating illness. He spent his last year mostly bedfast and in perpetual pain and discomfort. In many ways, his death was a blessed release, not only for him, but for those who knew and loved him. As a believer, I know he is in a “better place.” Most days, I am in a “better place.” But sometimes, the unfinished grief sneaks up and taps me on the shoulder.

It happened this week when I saw an ad touting Father’s Day gifts. The pang of remembrance tugged at my soul as I realized I wouldn’t be buying a Father’s Day gift this year. In some ways, that’s a relief. My father was impossible to buy for, a “don’t worry about me” kind of dad. Eventually, I learned to ship him a box of chocolates from a world-class candy company in California. That was a hit. But what pleased him most on gift-giving occasions was a donation in his honor to the Salvation Army.

What I miss most about my dad was his plainspoken, take-no-prisoners honesty and commonsense. He kept me grounded. He kept me from taking myself too seriously. Once years ago, I signed something I had written, “Bob Setzer.” He didn’t like that at all. “You’re not Bob Setzer,” he told me sternly. “I’m Bob Setzer. You’re Bob Setzer, Junior.” Never again did I sign my name in such a way as to usurp his place in the world. These days, I sign Bob Setzer, Jr., proudly. The “Jr.” reminds me of where I came from and the unpaid debts I owe.

One morning this week, I discovered I was out of powdered creamer for my coffee. I looked in the fridge for a substitute, but 2% milk is not much of a creamer. Then my eyes lit upon a pint of whipping cream. “Now that would be an unhealthy, decadent delight,” I thought. Normally, I would push the whipping cream aside but for some reason--that particular morning--I used it to turn my coffee into a enticing milky white concoction. My coffee never tasted better. As the aroma filled my nostrils and the whipped cream bathed my tongue, a memory of my father slipped unbidden into my mind: He always put whipped cream in his coffee.

Yes, most days I am in a “better place,” as is my dad, but grief still demands its due. I don’t run from its tap or recoil at its touch. Mostly, I welcome grief as I might embrace an old friend who reminds me of good times, now past. We share a few laughs, maybe a few tears, and then part to live into God’s future where someday, I will see my dad again. He will nod in recognition, give me a hug, and say, “Welcome home, Junior.”

READ MORE

E-Etiquette and Jesus-Free Zones

by Bob Setzer, Jr.
Email etiquette. First, don’t believe everything that comes in your email. Just because someone has written it in cyber-script does not mean the report or allegation is true. Sometimes it seems otherwise smart, sophisticated adults suspend their critical faculties when reading--and forwarding--emails. Just for the record, Madeline Murray O’Hair (long deceased) is not circulating a petition to ban all religious programming and President Obama is not the love child of an alien from a planet of Muslims living in a parallel universe.

Second, email forwards. Please don’t send them en masse, at least not to me. Chances are sixteen other people have already sent whatever email ditty is currently making the rounds. Instead, tell me why this particular anecdote or inspirational offering touched you. Tell me why it matters to you and then it will matter to me. But making folks one of a thousand on somebody’s “blanket email” list is not a way to win friends and influence people.

Third, when angry or annoyed with someone, email is a very poor medium for communicating that frustration. For some reason, people feel free to be curt and rude in emails in ways they would never be in person. Further, while electrons reportedly move at the speed of light, email does not provide for instantaneous communication. Email allows for an instantaneous monologue or rant, but real communication requires a face-to-face or at the very least, a phone-to-phone, encounter between two people. Remember, when Paul wrote “don’t let the sun go down on your anger” (Ephesians 4:26), he lived in a world where people still talked with one another instead of firing a snippy email to a co-worker two cubicles over.

I sometimes wonder if email is a net gain or loss for me in my work as a pastor. On the one hand, I spend about an hour a day processing email, a task that didn’t exist when I started in the ministry. On the other hand, email allows for effective collaboration on projects that without it, would require a lot more paper and meetings. But on the whole, I am working to spend less time on email--and other forms of cyber-communication--not more. So it’s nothing personal, but a Facebook “friend” I’m not and as for “Twitter,” don’t even ask!

Feel free to send an email telling me what you like most and least about email. Just keep it short, keep it personal, and keep it nice. Because for Christians, there are no “Jesus free” zones of communication and conduct. Even in using email, the ordinary rules of courtesy, Christian grace, and civility still apply.

READ MORE

Divine Comedy

by Bob Setzer, Jr
Since I’m not much of a television fan, I have no idea how Conan O’Brien will fare as the new host of The Tonight Show. Personally, I prefer Jay Leno, but if the studio execs are to be trusted--and generally speaking, they’re not!--that says more about my aging tastes than the relative merits of these two comics. But there is one way in which I readily identify with Mr. O’Brien, and that is in his acknowledgment it is far easier to actually do a show than wait for it to start.

In a Parade Magazine interview regarding the start of his new show, Conan O’Brien likened himself to a thoroughbred aching to start the race: “I’m a little bit like a horse—you know, when they load those horses into the gates to run the race. I am being loaded in, and I am kicking and tossing the jockey off and smashing into the sides, and they’re saying, ‘You can run . . . June 1st.’ I’d like to go. The doing of it is how you find it.”

For me, preaching is like that. The preparation is the hard part: the study, the mulling over of the text, the pastoral conversations that shape what I listen for and hear in the Scripture, the search for imaginative material that gives the sermon tenterhooks. But even when the sermon is done, or mostly done (it’s never really done until it’s preached), there is still the tense countdown to the actual preaching of it. Let’s just say I’m not good for much on Saturday nights. Saturday nights are devoted to the preacher’s nervous wondering, “How will this go? How will I do? Any chance the congregation might actually hear a word from God through all this feeble chattering?”

Sunday mornings aren’t much better. Butterflies start doing aerial acrobatics inside my stomach. I work at memorizing the essence of my remarks, while my weary brain rolls its eyes and says, “Enough already!” I watch the hands of the clock slowly but relentlessly ticking toward the high and holy hour.

But most Sundays, when I step into the pulpit to preach, a refreshing wind starts to blow. The Holy Spirit shows up and meets me in the act of preaching. Very shortly, the worrying and fretting is gone and in its place, a calm and joy that comes from God.

It’s a little like two friends agreeing to meet at a favorite old haunt. Maybe they haven’t seen each other for a while, but when they meet, it’s like they never parted. They are at home in each other’s presence.

Jesus promised, “I will not leave you orphaned. I am coming to you” (John 14:18). On the wings of the Spirit, he comes to vanquish the loneliness and fear of life without him. And he does that not just for Preachers in their hour of need, but for all who count on him to help them do what they would not dare attempt without him.

I don’t know how Conan O’Brien does what he does, but that’s how I do what I do.

READ MORE

Bird Watching

by Bob Setzer, Jr
My home study is on the second floor of our house. The window by my desk looks out into some trees. The one nearest the window is a holly tree that has pushed skyward across the years. Its lush, green leaves are speckled with bright, red berries. The birds love that tree and so do I.

In fact, often as I gaze out that window, a robin hops along the branches of the holly. He walks the slender branches in the upper reaches of the tree as they bend and quiver beneath his delicate dance. After looking over the delectable berries, the robin picks one, snatches it with a quick strike of his beak, and then flutters away, satisfied.

But sometimes, the robin notices me staring at him through the window pane that separates my world from his. He stops his hopping, peers back, and edges toward the window to take a closer look. Often, he cocks his head--first to one side and then the other--as if he’s trying to figure out what a normally earthbound creature human like me is doing up high, where he lives. With rapt attention, we size either other up, if not in mutual understanding, then certainly in mutual respect. Usually, the robin tires of the staring match before I do and gets backs to work, snatches a berry, and is gone. I am left with only the sound of the chirping that tells me others like him yet hide in the green wonderland that is his world.

A lot can be learned by visiting a world one doesn’t normally inhabit: snorkeling in the crystal blue waters of the Caribbean; floating above cotton candy clouds in an airliner; peering into the night sky at teasing, twinkling stars; sitting all alone in a quiet place, listening to the silence. One of the great losses from childhood is losing our sense of exploration and adventure: we quit climbing trees.

But sometimes, God surprises us with a heavenly moment, slab-dap in the midst of our down-to-earth world. Sometimes Jesus’ prayer, “Thy will be done on earth, as it is in heaven,” is answered. Sometimes, even on terra firma, the robins and the angels sing: times when we notice someone we ignored before, listen to someone we dismissed before, and welcome someone we excluded before. In those moments, the divide between heaven and earth is breached, God’s Spirit breathes new life into our feeble attempts to be the church, and we discover the wonder a world where everyone speaks the same language: the language of a radical, reckless Christlike love.

Such moments are the gift of Pentecost. And Sunday is the day the Spirit-wind blows, the dove and the fire take wing, and the church is born anew.

READ MORE