Christmas Deep Inside

by Bob Setzer, Jr.

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 a few dear friends and God can see, such bereaved souls are nursing a broken heart. And at Christmas, especially, they wonder if that broken place inside 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 once familiar 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.

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The Extra Point

by Bob Setzer, Jr.
As virtually everyone in Georgia knows, this year’s epic contest between the Bulldogs and the Yellow Jackets came down to a missed extra point.

It had been a back-and-forth game with neither team playing their best. Still, Georgia appeared likely to cinch its next win in this storied rivalry. Tech was trailing as the fourth quarter ground to a close.

Then Tech mounted an impressive drive and scored a touchdown with 4:57 remaining. Once the extra point was made, the game would be tied. With the momentum in the game seeming to shift,  ever hopeful Yellow Jackets believed they were poised to eke out a victory.

But then Scott Blair, the place kicker, missed the extra point. After hitting 77 straight extra points, he chose that moment to miss. The ball wobbled wide of the uprights as Tech fans looked on in disbelief and Georgia fans erupted in wild jubilation. There was a last gasp effort on Tech’s part to come back and win, but after that missed extra point, the game was essentially over.

Extra points are the gimme putts of football. No college or pro kicker is supposed to miss an extra point, ever. But to miss that extra point at the end of a hard fought contest between two bitter rivals, is unthinkable. Sadly, that mishap is likely to be the defining event of Scott Blair’s football career, if not his life.

As our church approaches the end of the year, financially speaking, we are trailing in the game of income and expenses. As December began, our checkbook was in arrears about $23,000. That is not surprising given a floundering economy and the tough financial year many in our church have faced. And fortunately, we have the reserves to keep a one-year shortfall from being catastrophic.

Still, I hate to see us lose a game we have it within our power to win. And I don’t want our history of balancing the  church family checkbook by strong year-end giving to lull us into complacency. This year, more than most, we need very strong December giving.

So here’s what needs to happen if we’re to avoid flubbing the game-winning extra point:

• Don’t assume someone else is going to ante up. This is a team effort and we need everyone doing his or her part if we’re to meet our goal.
• Curb your Christmas gift-giving, if necessary, to make sure Christ and his kingdom gets its fair-share of your hard-earned dollars.
• If you are in a position to give over-and-beyond what you pledged or intended, this would be a great time for some  Jesus-style, grace-intoxicated excess.

The defining kick of Scott Blair’s life is over and I’m sure he’d give anything to have that one back. For us, the game is still within our grasp.

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Advent Conspiracy

by Bob Setzer, Jr.
According to one recent study, the fastest growing religion in America is not Islam or Christianity. The symbol of this rising faith is not the star or the crescent or the cross. No, the symbol of this burgeoning movement is a dollar sign, for the religion that is swallowing Christianity whole is rampant unrestrained consumerism.

So argue the authors of a provocative new book entitled The Advent Conspiracy and a companion website, www.adventconspiracy.org. The pastors and congregations at the helm of this movement believe the celebration of Christ's birth has been shanghaied by compulsive spending that returns less and less, at least as measured by the love, joy, peace, patience, kindness, generosity, faithfulness, gentleness, and self-control the New Testament suggests are the litmus tests for the truly spiritual life (Gal. 5:22-23).

Of course, an anti-capitalist crusade of the "Ain't it awful" variety is pretty standard fare at Christmas. But The Advent Conspiracy is different. It is not driven by joyless, wincing Christmas stooges but by serious Christians asking what a Christmas with Christ at the center might look like in twenty-first century America. The Advent Conspiracy is about saying "No" to Christmas excess so we can say "Yes" to the things that really matter: like giving very personal gifts to the people we love while sharing our bounty with those in need.

The four movements of The Advent Conspiracy will provide our focus for the four Sundays of Advent:

• Spend Less
• Americans spend nearly half-a-trillion dollars each Christmas. That's enough money to provide clean drinking water to every person on the planet, many times over. Are we buying what's on Jesus' Christmas wish list, or just our own?
• Give More
• The point of spending less Christmas is to stay out of debt and give more to Kingdom causes. But "giving more" isn't just about giving money. It's about giving yourself. When God gave the best God had that first Christmas, God didn't give more stuff, even good stuff. God gave God's Son, God's Self.
• Worship Fully
• Advent and Christmas are sacred times to gather and sing our hearts out to the newborn king. On Sunday, December 12, the third Sunday of Advent, our choir will present "A Service of Lessons and Carols." Not to be missed!
• Love All

Jesus' first act of solidarity with the poor and needy was to be born among them. What does that tell us about the radical, reckless love of God?

The Advent Conspiracy is a plan for treating Christmas like the birthday party for Jesus it was always meant to be. I'm going to give it a try. Care to join me?

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Living a Lie

by Bob Setzer, Jr.
Last night, I saw a story on the evening news that saddened and disturbed me. Several times before cutting to a commercial, the news announcer offered a teaser about an upcoming story of ministers “living a lie.” I feared the worst.

And in some ways, this really was the worst: not local church pastors neck-deep in some moral scandal, the usual fare of such exposes, but ministers who are self-avowed atheists. Yet these ministers have not confessed their loss of faith. Instead, they bear it as a shameful secret while pretending to believe.

One of the two ministers featured in the story calls himself an "atheistic agnostic" “I don't think we can prove that there is not a God or that there is a God," he says, (but) "I live out my life as if there is no God." So why does he and his fellow doubting Thomas stay in the ministry? Because they need a job and feel poorly qualified to do anything else.

As with all shameful secrets, part of what consigns these ministers to a hell of misery and self-hatred is not confessing their dilemma. Granted, if one or both of them announced this Sunday morning they are atheists, they would likely be looking for a job on Monday morning. But what if they had come clean with their troubling questions long before healthy doubt congealed into the hardened amber of cynicism and despair? That’s what the Bible does.

Writhing in agony, the Psalmist confesses, “My tears have been my food day and night, while people say to me continually, ‘Where is your God?" (Psalm 42:3). Jesus cries from his cross, “My God, my God, why have you forsaken me?!” (Mark 15:34). Even Paul, the cockiest of Pharisees, admits with refreshing candor, “We see in a mirror dimly” and “know only in part” (1 Cor. 13:12).

A religion without any capacity for critical self-reflection is a cult in-the-making. By contrast, a healthy faith is one that is always growing, always stretching, always in process. And doubt--honest to God doubt--is an essential part of an ever deepening apprehension of the Divine Mystery at the heart of all things.

The difference in the original Doubting Thomas (John chapter 20) and the two agnostic wannabees in the news story is that the first went to church and confessed his doubt while the other two did not. They didn’t trust God or their fellow believers enough to confess, “I’m hurting. I’m bewildered. And I’m so afraid.”

By contrast, the original Doubting Thomas came clean with his struggle within the community of faith and as a result, found the strength to believe and hope again.

I’m grateful to belong to a church where being honest and real is not seen as the abandonment of faith but as the epicenter of where a real and living faith begins.

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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 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 this 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 a special time each year when First Baptist folk leave the safety of the pew to joyously process down the aisles and publically proclaim 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 a bit showy, even pretentious. This newer generation didn’t have a hand in creating this tradition and doesn’t always understand or appreciate it. Some of these folk choose to skip Processional Sunday altogether.

So let me offer a challenge: if the Processional of Commitment doesn’t appeal to you, show up anyway and sit in prayerful contemplation as others march to the regal music. And if you love the pageantry and joy of the Processional, don’t raise an eyebrow toward those who are of a more private bent. Thankfully, there is room enough for all of us at the top of Poplar for we belong to a Kingdom so much bigger than ourselves. And we serve a Lord who delights in making us One without making us all the same.

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A Word on Halloween

by Bob Setzer
As a Baptist boy growing up in the South, Halloween was one of my favorite holidays. It was the one time of year my preferred sins were sanctioned: gluttony, especially of the chocolate variety, and getting to dress up like a ghost or goblin. The latter allowed me to go public with the fact there was a dark side to my “good boy” image.

Thus, for me, Halloween has always been a fun-loving time, both for the kids, and for the adults who get to revel in the wonder of a child’s imagination and bravado. However, there are a good many Christians and churches who view Halloween as Public Enemy Number One (or at least, Number Two or Number Three). The objections, to the extent I can fathom them, seem to be twofold: (1) Halloween began as a pagan festival and therefore, is sub-Christian and (2) Halloween constitutes dabbling in the occult.

As to the first objection, it is true Halloween has its roots in ancient Roman and Celtic festivals marking the approach of a cold, dark winter. At such times, it was believed the boundary between the living and the dead thinned and ghosts might slip through. Eventually, these pagan celebrations were Christianized as “All Hallows Eve,” the evening before All Saints Day, November 1. By the late 19th century, especially in America, Halloween had essentially become a secular holiday featuring tricks and treats for the children.

But if we’re going to dismiss holidays because of their pagan origins, let’s get rid of Christmas while we’re at it. December 25 was originally the day Romans celebrated the rebirth of the sun god during the winter solstice. Thankfully, Christians turned that day into something far better: a celebration of Jesus’ birth. Personally, I like the “take something bad and turn it into something good” approach to once pagan festivities. As Luther said of hymnody, “Why should the Devil have all the good tunes?”

As to dabbling with the occult, I seriously doubt Satan--whoever or whatever one deems Satan to be--sees Halloween as a ripe opportunity for snatching a few unsuspecting souls. No, Satan prefers the stealthy approach, sneaking up on us when we least expect it. According to the New Testament, Satan is far more likely to show up disguised as “an angel of light” (2 Corinthians 11:4) than reveal his true colors as the Prince of Darkness.

Here’s my suggestion for Halloween. Turn on the porch light. Have plenty of candy on hand. Be a neighbor. Welcome and delight in the kids who show up at your door. Smile at the parents who linger behind in the shadows. Act a lot less like a finicky, self-righteous Pharisee and a lot more like a joyous, fun-loving Jesus. Make him proud. Shine his light, share his love.

Trust me: If Satan is in the area, he won’t linger long at a place like that.

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Camping on Hope

by Bob Setzer, Jr.

There is a line in the Apostles’ Creed, an early Christian confession, that says Jesus “descended into hell.” That claim is based on some fairly obscure New Testament passages, 1 Peter 3:18-20 and 4:16, being chief among them. Did Jesus preach to the “spirits” in Hades, the abode of the dead, merely to announce his triumph? Or in “proclaiming the Gospel to the dead,” was he offering those condemned the proverbial second chance?

I’ll let other argue the fine points of theology. Let’s just say in the light of the Chilean mine rescue (and near disaster), I have a vivid picture of what it means to say Jesus “descended into hell”: It means there is Someone who loves you so much, he will stop at nothing to rescue you from whatever hell hole where you have landed.

 For seventeen days, 33 Chilean miners existed in a subterranean abode of pitch blackness, meager rations, and stifling despair. At “Camp Hope” above, determined rescuers drilled probes that eventually established an umbilical cord between them and those stranded below. With that life support, the grace of God, and the miner’s own native pluck, these men survived day after excruciating day until a opening large enough to deliver a life capsule was drilled. Finally, after 69 harrowing days, the miners were lifted to safety one-by-one as the world looked on in gratitude and awe.

Now that the nightmare is past, I find myself thinking of Jesus. What did he do on those three days between Good Friday and his Easter triumph? Knowing Jesus, he didn’t twiddle his thumbs or put his feet up on some gold-gilded ottoman in heaven. No, he started digging. He started digging through the rock hard cynicism and despair of those who had written him off. He started clawing his way through the crusty defiance of the world’s disobedience, the dirt and grime of the world’s sin, and the rich, black humus of potential squandered for want of seed.

Finally, at long last, Jesus broke through. Suddenly, his light pieced hell’s darkness, his love vanquished hell’s hate, his truth shattered hell’s lies. In the depths of a brutal, barbarous abyss, Jesus shone with a radiance divine. Then, his face etched in Easter light, he announced, “I’m headed back up. Who wants to come with me back to hope, back to God, back to life?” I suspect the Devil looked helplessly on as Jesus emptied the place, ascending with a long train of newly-minted believers (Ephesians 4:8-10).

Yes, there’s Someone who loves you so much, no matter what hell hole you land in, he’s coming after you. He’s already started digging. Listen for the crumbling dirt. Watch for the light.

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Columbus Sailed the Ocean Blue

Monday is Columbus Day, the holiday that gets no respect. Columbus Day is the holiday I’m most likely to drop by the bank only to be surprised it’s closed. Columbus Day is the day I check the mailbox at day’s end and wonder what happened. Why did the junkmail kingpins decide to give me a day off?

Who has Columbus Day celebrations? When was the last time you were invited to a Columbus Day cookout? Do they have a Columbus Day parade, even in Columbus? (I googled “Columbus Day Parade” and got 268,000 results. That’s nothing in Google land. “Elvis” garnered over 41 million hits).

So how come Columbus Day gets no respect? Is it because we now know Leif Ericson and his mighty Norsemen beat the intrepid Italian to the new world by 500 years? Or because native Americans were here for thousands of years before that? Or is the lack of enthusiasm for Columbus Day, at least in the south, due to its status as a “northern” or even a “Catholic” celebration?

Who knows? But I believe Columbus rates a day all his own and not just because giving him his due spawns another three day weekend. No, Columbus deserves a day because he embodies faith wedded to courage, faith wedded to action, and that kind of faith is the fulcrum that moves the world.

Columbus believed the world was round. This idea was not unique to him. The ancient Greeks, masters of astronomy and geometry, had long ago calculated the earth was likely round. The educated classes of Columbus’ day, steeped in the classics of antiquity, knew this. Still the folk belief persisted the world was flat--it certainly looked that way--so sailing off its edge was a distinct possibility.

But instead of debating the matter from the safety of his study, Columbus set sail with his three trusty vessels, the Santa Maria, the Pinta, and the Niña. He decided to settle the matter in the world of action. And eleven weeks and over 4,000 miles later, settle it he did when he bumped into the “new world” the Bahamas.

In the Bible, the creation of God’s people, the Hebrews, begins when God tells an aged nomad, “Leave your country and your father’s house and go to a land that I will show you” (Gen. 12:1). Perhaps God had told others the same thing but they hemmed and hawed, they doubted and equivocated, and in the end, they stayed put. But “Abram went,” the Bible says with stunning simplicity, “as the Lord had told him” (Gen. 12:4).

Maybe in a world where Christians, Jews, and Muslims are so divided, we should rechristen Columbus Day, Abraham Day, since all three religions revere the Patriarch. But the importance of acting on what we believe is an essential part of what the Bible means by “faith.” Columbus knew that. Abraham knew that. And on the second Monday in October, it’s not a bad thing for the rest of us us to remember.

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Autumn's Gifts

by Bob Setzer, Jr.
I am grateful for the arrival of autumn. I can breathe again. I can snuggle against the chill again. I can hope again.

This summer was the hottest I remember. From mid-May to mid-September, stifling days of oppressive heat were the norm. With the merciless sun bearing down, trying to run, do yard work, or attempt most any outdoor activity ranged from unpleasant to impossible.

But now at last, fall has returned like a long, lost friend showing up on Facebook or knocking at the door. The sky is bluer, the air is crisper, the stars are brighter, and people are nicer.

The poets speak of the “rebirth of spring” but for me, autumn has always been the richest season. Maybe it has to do with all those years fall meant going back to school with fresh, white pages of notebook paper aching for new learning. Or maybe I love fall because as a pastor, autumn means the church is stirring back to life after the lean summer months. Soon, the world famous FBC Stewardship Banquet will be upon us (what are our resident comics cooking up this year?), the children’s Fall Festival will populate our parking lot with inflatable adventures, the harvest table of Thanksgiving will celebrate the abundance of creation, and the lighting of the first Advent candle will defy the approaching cold, grey darkness of winter.

Fall is also the season for a quick trip to the Georgia mountains to drink apple cider and see the explosion of color in the trees. It’s the time for state fairs and cotton candy and Ferris wheel rides. Fall is when the first fire is built in the hearth to knock back the evening chill and the rustic smell of smoke delights the nostrils. Fall is Friday night football, hotdogs and hot chocolate, cardigans and the fog of rising breath. Fall is when a freshly gathered pile of leaves invites would-be skydivers. Fall is when the little ones in the neighborhood dress up like clowns and ballerinas and come knocking at your door squealing, “Trick or treat!”

Yes, there’s much to love about the Fall, but it didn’t have to be this way. We could live (or rather die) on a planet like Mars where we’d turn into a popsicle in a microsecond, or be incinerated on Mercury or Venus. But by God’s grace, we inhabit a miracle planet called Earth where the changing of the seasons is a sign of God’s sustenance and care. As God promised Noah, so God promises us, “As long as the earth endures, seedtime and harvest, cold and heat, summer and winter, day and night, shall not cease” (Genesis 8:22).

Fall is but one of God’s many gracious and often unacknowledged gifts. The least we can do is take a deep breath, awaken to wonder, and whisper “Thank You!”

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You Invited Me In

by Bob Setzer
Last Thursday, September 16, Dan Riley and I gathered with a few dozen folk to dedicate the latest Macon area Habitat House. This house located in south Macon (4251 Roy Avenue) is part of a neighborhood reborn. Five years ago, residents of this neighborhood mostly kept to themselves behind locked doors. Today, they gather freely to stroll, visit, and help each other out. According to the pastor of a nearby church, the transformation of the Lynmore Estates is a miracle of biblical proportions. Today hope is radiant where despair once stalked the streets.

Approaching this neighborhood holistically has been the heart of Habitat’s strategy for restoring the neighborhood’s vitality. Seventeen Habitat houses have been built in the area toward a goal of 40, spurring civic pride along with other renovation and development. Today, Chuckie and Janelle Williams--and their children--are the proud new owners of a safe, affordable home. As partners in the local Habitat movement, our church played a small part in their triumph.

The Williams’ home is the 12th Habitat House First Baptist has built or helped to build; this particular home was built in partnership with Mercer University and Highland Hills Baptist. According to Dan, over the last several years, our church has given 30-40% of the monies donated by churches to the local Habitat chapter. In addition to the resources and labor our church invested in the Williams’ home, the Williams’ family--like all Habitat home owners--contributed “sweat equity,” helping with construction. Thus, the help our church, Habitat, and our other partners provided was not a “hand out” but a “hand up.” The Williams will pay in full for their home over the next twenty years.

This Sunday, our church will host a guest teacher and preacher, Dr. Robert Lupton, who knows a lot about reversing urban blight through holistic neighborhood development. He is the founder and director of FCS (Focused Community Strategies) Urban Ministries in south Atlanta (www.fcsministries.org). Dr. Lupton is author of Compassion, Justice, and the Christian Life:  Rethinking Ministry to the Poor, a book studied by our Global Women and several of our adult Sunday School classes. Rather than simply wax eloquent about the problems of the poor, Dr. Lupton has developed proven strategies for empowering people to climb out of poverty. He has been instrumental in revitalizing two declining, crime-ridden neighborhoods in Atlanta, beginning by moving there himself, along with his family.

During his inaugural sermon, Jesus said his ministry, his movement, would spell “good news for the poor” (Luke 4:18). As our church strives to be “the Presence of Christ” in the world, we hope to rise to this sacred calling. Sunday’s conversation with Robert Lupton, a fellow pilgrim in the way of Jesus, may yield important insights about what we are called to be and do next.

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Gospel on the Ground

by Bob Setzer, Jr.
I’ve been trying to sit out the Ground Zero Mosque controversy. This is one of those toxic issues sure to contaminate anyone who touches it.

Nonetheless, in light of the invective and hatred that has been unleashed during this controversy--rising to the level of “Burn the Koran Day”--I don’t think silence is golden. I think it is moral cowardice. So in the interest of being an equal opportunity offender, let me suggest a Bible passage for each side of this controversy to ponder.

To the Imam and his supporters, both Muslim and Christian, who believe building a Muslim center near Ground Zero is an effective way to combat American stereotyping of Muslims as terrorists, I would commend the truth of Romans 14. In this passage, as in 1 Corinthians 8 and Galatians 5:13-14, Paul argues being free to do something does not mean that is the wise or loving thing to do. Sometimes in the service of understanding and love, one’s freedom must be reined in. So yes, in this great country where freedom of religion is a birthright, you are free--within the bounds of local zoning and building codes--to plant your Muslim center wherever you like. But as a Christian pastor who is deeply grieved at the hatred being leveled your way, I would encourage you not to do so. Recognize that the noble intention of building bridges of understanding is not being served by building your center near such an emotionally charged site. Insisting on your rights in this matter will only further alienate and inflame the very people you say you want to reach.

And to those Americans who insist on painting all Muslims with the same brush--as godless extremists intent on destroying our nation--please meditate upon the Parable of the Tares and the Wheat (Matthew 13:24-30). Our Baptist forebearers often appealed to this passage in 17th and 18th century England and America when they were a religious minority regarded with hostility and suspicion. In this story, Jesus argues that our attempts to eradicate evil (or what we regard as evil) can be more destructive than the evil itself. I see this happening in the ugly slurs about Muslims (all Muslims, even those who are loyal Americans) that keep landing in my inbox and sounding on the airwaves. Since many of those spewing this hatred profess to be Christians, their antics besmirch the name and cause of Christ. I don’t believe the Lord who rebuked his disciples for wanting to rain fire on a village of nonbelievers (Luke 9:52-55) is pleased when his followers indiscriminately attack and vilify their “enemies.”

I understand why so many American are violently opposed to a mosque being built near Ground Zero and in time, I hope those wanting to build that mosque will fathom and respect that sentiment. But in the meantime, despising and attacking our Muslim neighbors is not something real Christians are free to do.

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When I say, "God"

by Bob Setzer, Jr.
On Tuesday and Thursday mornings, bright and early at 8 a.m. sharp, I teach “Introduction to the Old Testament” at Mercer university. Recently, I gave my students an assignment: “When you say ‘God,’ Who or What do you mean? Write your answer in 25 words or less.”

The answers were revealing. Several students thought of God as a philosophical or cultural idea. One wrote, “God, if not personal, is the whole sum of all ideas and morals central to the faiths that invest in him.”

Another 10 or so students thought of God as an impersonal being, someone unknown and probably unknowable, but nonetheless present as a cosmic, guiding force. A typical response: “By God I mean the Judeo-Christian and Islamic concept of an all-powerful being who is like, but not, human, and who is interested in and influences human history.”

The other half of the class gave voice to a more personal image of God as “Father,” “Friend,” “Lord,” “King,” “Savior,” or “Jesus.” One student wrote, “Our Lord, the one who helps guide us through life and gives us the power and faith to go on the journey.” Another wrote the wrenching confession, “The reality or being that saved my life and gave me a second chance, but also took two of my friends. A mysterious character.” That one weighed on my heart.

It is revealing that in a class of 30 college students in the Deep South there is no broad consensus about who or what, exactly, “God” is. Despite much wishful thinking to the contrary, many Americans do not believe in the same God, if they believe in any God at all.

So when politicians or political figures clamor for America to get “back to God,” which God do they mean? The tribal god of their political party or persuasion, who smiles benevolently on their agenda while plotting retribution on their enemies? Or the God and Father of our Lord Jesus Christ, who refuses to be confined to the genie bottle of our beliefs (Ex. 3:13-14; 20:4,7), who has a passionate concern for “widows and orphans” (James 1:27), and who implores us to pray for our enemies, rather than relish their destruction (Matt. 5:44-45). Sadly, I hear precious little about that God in our political discourse.

The back-to-God rhetoric sounded in the political arena has great mass appeal. But strip away the pious gloss and what such language usually means is: “America needs to get back to my God, my values, my beliefs, my agenda.”

If America were really to get “back to the God of Jesus,” there would be fewer smug, self-serving appeals and a lot more genuine respect, caring, and compassion. I don’t see that happening anytime soon.

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Defining Meaning

by Bob Setzer, Jr.
For anyone who doubts the transition from print to digital media has passed the tipping point, here’s a news flash: the next edition of the Oxford English Dictionary will likely be “published” on the web but not in print.

The last edition of the Oxford English dictionary weighed in at more than 170 pounds in 20 bulging volumes. 30,000 sets have been sold since 1989 at $1,165.00 a pop. By contrast, the online version of the Oxford English Dictionary gets 2 million hits a month from subscribers who each ante up $295.00 a year. You do the math. (1)

Still, there is something deeply unnerving about Oxford University Press quite literally “closing the book” on print and slinking toward cyberspace. If such a venerable old publisher steeped in stodgy English tradition, can’t be counted on to keep churning our books, who can?

Yes, I know, many of us First Baptist types are in love with books. We just finished an authors’ series featuring a number of our published authors who between them have generated a sizeable poundage of volumes. And to a person, they profess an enduring love affair with books: the heft of books, the smell of books, the tactile pleasure of turning the pages. But most also acknowledged we are in the midst of a publishing revolution not seen since the invention of the printing press.

As to how this evolution will impact Christian education and spiritual formation, we shall see. Already, numerous video and online providers are bringing top quality resources into churches, homes, and classrooms. Our own Nikki Hardeman is featured each week as a Bible teacher on one such site, www.faithelement.com. And our church’s weekly sermons are available at www.fbcmacon.org as “podcasts,” meaning a downloadable audio file playable on most computers or portable players. This sort of innovation will continue to grow as churches become more sophisticated in harnessing the power of the web.

If it’s any consolation, the church existed for its first 1,500 years without printed books. During that period, Bibles were laboriously hand-copied. Thus, most Christians only heard the Bible read in public worship, saw Bible stories etched in stained glass windows, and committed Bible passages to memory.

Fortunately, the “word of God is not fettered” (2 Timothy 2:9), whether by print or anything else. That word sounded at creation (Genesis 1:3), was fleshed out in Jesus of Nazareth (John 1:14), and remains the sword of the Spirit (Ephesians 6:17), piercing the heart and renewing the soul (Heb. 4:12). And whether that word is sounded in a medieval chant, the enchanted pages of a gold-gilded Bible, or in an audio file on the web, the promise remains that God’s word will not return void, but will accomplish God’s purpose (Isaiah 55:11),

Thankfully, while the Oxford English Dictionary is destined to fade and perish, “the Word of our God shall stand forever!” (Isa. 40:8).

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(1) The Macon Telegraph, 9A, 8/30/2010, AP, Sylvia Hui, “Internet may phase out printed Oxford Dictionary.”

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Sessions with John

by Bob Setzer, Jr.
In a shameless act of self-promotion, let me announce the publication of my new book, Sessions with John: The Vocabulary of Grace. This book is an exploration of key words and themes from the Gospel of John. Unlike most studies of John’s Gospel, this book does not journey through John in the usual chapter-by-chapter fashion. Instead, it unpacks the meaning of twelve words from John’s distinctive “vocabulary of grace,” words like “life,” “light,” “truth,” “believe,” and “eternal life.”

My guiding image of John’s Gospel is a spiral staircase. The enchanting power of a spiral staircase rests in its ability to give an ever-changing perspective on the same space. As one ascends the staircase, the sights above and below are seen again and again but each time, from a slightly different angle, at varying distances and in shifting light. The result is a much fuller immersion in the beauty of a lovely, inviting entrance than is possible from ordinary stairs.

Similarly, in John’s story of Jesus, certain words and themes appear again and again. The reader leaves a given emphasis, only to circle round and see it reappear, but this time in a different context. With each “spiral” of the truth or theme, the reader’s grasp of the message deepens until Jesus’ “words of life” penetrate the deepest parts of the self where real transformation begins (John 6:63, 68).

The Vocabulary of Grace is, broadly speaking, a Bible study book for individuals and groups. Indeed, it is part of a larger Smyth and Helwys series called Sessions with . . . (various Bible authors). But what sets this book apart, at least in my mind, is the way it follows John’s artful unfolding of a single truth throughout his work, step by step, up each round of a spiraling ascent toward a dazzling view of God’s grace and glory in Jesus Christ (John 1:14-18).

Naturally, I hope members of the First Church family will want to buy a copy, whether out of love for John’s Gospel or just to help pad my retirement account! But in the likely event some do not, I want all to see the book’s dedication:

To the good people of the First Baptist Church of Christ of Macon, Georgia, who taught me far more about knowing, loving, and following Jesus than I ever taught them . . . and to Bambi--my wife, pastor, and friend--who has become Christ’s truth and grace to me time and time again.

I have been deeply blessed by John’s Gospel, by my dear wife, and by you, the people of God at the top of Poplar. That’s the truth. And the truth, John’s Gospel tells us, “shall set you free” (8:32).

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Lightning Strike

by Bob Setzer, Jr.
During the severe thunderstorms that rumbled through Macon on Saturday, August 21, lighting struck the taller of the two towers on our church. The lightning struck on the Washington Avenue side where the roof line meets the face of the tower. The band of white quatrefoils ("four-leaf clovers" for the architecturally challenged like me) that borders the top of the tower shows slight signs of damage. Twenty feet below there is a damaged area of chipped brick where the lightning exited the building.

Among the fragments of brick and mortar found on the sidewalk and street below, there was a white, pressed tin quatrefoil from far above and a piece of charred timber about the size of a book of matches. That fire-blackened fragment was from a rafter in the roof line of the spire.

When I first held that charred piece of timber in my hand, I was struck by how close we came to a real catastrophe. Twice before, our sanctuary was destroyed by fire: first, in 1883 (a  former sanctuary on Second Street) and then in 1885, just days before our present structure was to be dedicated. The congregation resolved to rebuild and consecrated our present house of worship two years later in 1887.

While the cosmetic damage to the tower appears slight--and a Sunday afternoon inspection by the fire department revealed no structural problems--the lightning strike created havoc elsewhere. It knocked out the air conditioning, the PA system, some electronic stops in the pipe organ, the alarm system, and portions of the phone system. Fortunately, the wizards on our audio crew rigged up a makeshift PA system and Anne played beautifully on the piano instead of the organ. Other able helpers managed to resurrect the blowers, if not the air conditioning, so the sanctuary--while warm--was bearable. Many worshipers turned their bulletins into makeshift fans as we enjoyed an unplanned "heritage Sunday," battling August heat much as our predecessors did 100 years ago.
  
The good news is that the air conditioning is now fully functional, the alarm is on, and the phones are working. A complete repair to the audio system and organ may take a couple of weeks, but we will be in business Sunday, lustily singing our praises and proclaiming the best news of all: that whether catastrophe befalls us, or we are spared, in times of wrenching tears and joyous song, God is faithful and loving and true. For while lightning is fickle and unpredictable, "Jesus Christ is the same yesterday, today, and forever" (Hebrews 13:8). And for that, most of all, we say, "Thanks be to God!"

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Riding the Waves

by Bob Setzer, Jr.
During our recent vacation at the beach, I did a lot of body-surfing. In fact, that is probably my favorite thing to do at the beach. Bambi is the sun goddess. I prefer frolicking in the surf.

For the uninitiated, “body-surfing” means to ride the waves with one’s body in a prone position, stiff as a board. The would-be surfer waits waist-deep in the ocean for the “right” wave to come along, meaning a wave large enough to propel the person forward but not so strong as to overwhelm him or her. When the swimmer commits to a wave, he or she stretches out with arms and legs suspended like Superman, rocketing through the sky. The wave rises and lifts the swimmer until he or she is skimming on the surface, hurtling toward shore. If all goes well, the swimmer may glide 20 or 30 yards before the wave sputters out or the surf becomes too shallow to support a swimmer.

When there is good symmetry between a swimmer and a wave, the resulting ride is exhilarating. To feel the power of the ocean surging beneath one’s body, spiriting one along, is to experience the playful abandon of the dolphins while leaving the landlubbers behind.

It struck me while riding the waves that this experience was an apt metaphor for authentic spirituality (Trust me. Preacher’s minds work like that). So often, spirituality is conceived as what we must do to make God pay attention or take notice of us. But what if God is not an impatient school master, waiting for us to turn in our lessons, but a glistening, swelling wave, inviting us to play? What if “being spiritual” is not so much about the religious games we play or the pious (or impious) words we use but learning to pick the best wave of the Spirit to ride? What if God is already at work, churning up the surf, and our job is but to join God in God’s mission, rather than stubbornly pursue our own plan or program?

Spirituality seen as Kingdom work we must doggedly pursue leaves us exhausted, while spirituality viewed as Kingdom work God will do while we wait for divine deliverance, leaves us immobilized. In truth, the best spirituality--the most transforming mode of discipleship--involves all the artistry and skill we can muster yoked to a heady confidence in the grace and goodness of God. As Paul writes to the Philippians, “Work out your own salvation with fear and trembling”--a strong affirmation of human initiative--“for it is God who is at work in you, enabling you both to will and to work for his good pleasure”--an equally strong affirmation of the buoyancy and momentum of grace (Phil. 2:12-13).

Sure sounds like body-surfing to me.

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Living Water

by Bob Setzer, Jr.
During our recent beach vacation, Bambi and I took a day trip to the Universal Studios theme park in Orlando. Built around Universal Studio blockbusters, the park is full of glitz and glamour and adrenaline-packed excitement. Fans of Shrek and Harry Potter will think they have died and gone to heaven.

For me, however, the park was something of a disappointment. Yes, it was “fun,” but fun as cotton candy is fun, full of sensory stimulation but no enduring satisfaction. Watching the sun rise over the Atlantic swells the soul with gratitude and awe; disembarking from the “Revenge of the Mummy” ride at Universal Studios left me wondering, “What’s next?,” like an entertainment addict looking for his next hit.

Granted, I don’t exactly fit the park’s demographic target. I’m caught in the strange no man’s land between fatherhood and (hopefully!) grandfatherhood. No doubt having a couple of kids along to relish Universal Studio’s playground would have increased my fun by a factor of 10!

Still, I feel somehow out-of-sync with my culture’s love affair with the movies. Sure, I enjoy a good flick as much as the next guy, but I don’t believe Hollywood is nearly as important as all the hype would have us believe. The movies, like a theme park, reside in an artificial, make-believe world. But to learn the truth about myself and my world, I find myself hankering after Jesus. He is more sunrise than blockbuster, more soft light than spotlights, more beauty than glamour, more lasting peace than passing pleasure. That’s why I love him so.

In their book on the Lord’s Prayer, Lord, Teach Us to Pray, Will Willimon and Stanley Haueras point out that on any given week, about 50 million Americans attend a service of worship in their church; only a small fraction of that number go to a movie. Yet when you open your web browser or newspaper on Monday morning, you’re a lot more likely to read about Lindsey Lohan or Paris Hilton than Jesus.

That’s why the church is so vitally important: it helps us remember and see and feel what is essential and enduring and eternally true. No, Sunday worship at the top of Poplar (or anywhere else) is not as entertaining as the Universal Studios theme park or their latest blockbuster. But Sunday worship bears witness to the unseen but powerfully real Presence that gives  life meaning that doesn’t fade with the roll of the credits at the end of the film.

Jesus promised “living water” that would lead believers to “never thirst” (John 4:14). Maybe what he meant was that believers are the folk who remember--when lost in a wilderness filled with everything else--what they are truly thirsting for, namely, the life and love of God, radiant in and through the Risen One.

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The Pulpit's Backside

by Bob Setzer, Jr.
Sunday morning as I was waiting to preach, I noticed a small fan humming away from inside the pulpit. It was angled to cool the preacher as he delivered the sermon on a day the heat index reached 109 degrees. A 109 degree day--plus the additional hot air being generated in the immediate vicinity of the pulpit--might lead to head stroke. An unseen angel thoughtfully added a fan.

That fan was just one more strange artifact to end up on the back side of the pulpit, a holy place most people never see.

In the great Temple of Jerusalem, the innermost sanctum was the Holy of Holies, a small chamber where the Ark of the Covenant was kept and the High Priest went to atone for the sins of the people. No one save the High Priest could venture into the Holy of Holies and he but once-a-year.

Our “holy of holies”--the back side of the pulpit--is available for all to see, though few adults ever bother to look. The children do, though, and they can tell you what is found there: a glass of ice water (just in case!), a box of Kleenex, two reading lights, a hymnal or two, and a foot stool for children to stand upon when reading Scripture during the service.

Then there’s all the stuff that ends up inside the pulpit that doesn’t “belong”: abandoned sheet music, a director’s baton, somebody’s reading glasses, broken pencils, forgotten bulletins and sermon notes, a half-devoured pack of Hall’s throat lozenges, and a necklace or ear ring bound for lost-and-found.

Perhaps those who picture the sanctuary a serene and holy place where heaven and earth meet find the truth about the backside of the pulpit disconcerting: all that chaos, debris, and inelegance! Shouldn’t everything in the sanctuary be in perfect order, prim and proper to a T?

I hope not because if the sanctuary is that kind of place, nobody I know is welcome. Each of us is comprised of both a shiny, presentable exterior and a hidden, interior world filled with anxieties and fears and secret hopes and longings. Occasionally somebody gets to see the “real me,” the “essential you,” but such moments are rare. Mostly the only One to see the back side of the Soul is God, before whom the secrets of every heart are disclosed (Psalm 44:21).

Thus, for Christians, the holy of holies is not some supposed perfect place but rather honest heart where we quit pretending to ourselves, to others, and to God. And this, we can dare to do for we have a high priest who has opened up a “new and living way” to God that starts with being real about our need for grace (Hebrews 10:19-22).

Miss Manners notwithstanding, I don’t worry much about the unkempt nature of the back side of the pulpit. We are a Good News people, after all, a people of grace.

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Vacation BIBLE School

DOWNLOAD GALATIC BLAST

by Julie Long
Several years ago, I was having dinner with a family of the church in the weeks preceding Vacation Bible School.  Since the wife was volunteering at VBS, the conversation naturally shifted toward our preparations. As we clamored on about the jazzy theme, decorations, and schedule of activities, the husband sarcastically snorted, "I remember the days when the theme of Vacation Bible School was THE BIBLE!"

Many times since that occasion, I have remembered that comment – mostly when I have been on a ladder hanging a sparkly decoration from the ceiling or rearranging the sanctuary to create a beach scene or space shuttle mission control center!; Sometimes, when I have been racking my brain for a creative backdrop or am exhausted by the countless hours of preparation, I have been tempted by the same wondering – can’t VBS just be a little simpler?; Maybe you have wondered the same thing as you’ve entered the festive building on the Sunday morning before VBS!

But then, the Monday morning of VBS arrives, and I see the wonder-filled eyes of our preschoolers and children as they see this familiar place take on a new shape.  For this week, their imaginations are allowed to run wild.  The church becomes outer space, or a western ranch, or an exciting summer camp.  They enjoy games and snacks and music and science experiments.  They make new friends, both with kids their age and with various generations of adults who have given their time to help.  Above all, they LEARN because they are having fun!  And they feel special because they know that all of this energy and excitement and preparation is done just for them.

So is all of the effort and planning and time and money worth it?  Does what we invest in Vacation Bible School make a difference?  Yes.  For the 90-something kids that entered these church doors last week to worship the God of the universe, it did.  For the 60-something adults and youth who volunteered their time to laugh and play and be a role model for children, it did.  And for a church who looks hopefully toward her future, it is worth every dime and every moment.

I overheard a long-time VBS volunteer say last week, "VBS is not what it used to be! But that’s a good thing." No, VBS is not what it used to be.  All good things must endure some change in order to survive.  But for the children of this church and community, VBS continues to be a wonderful gift.  It teaches our children that they are loved by God and by this church, and it teaches them to share the love that they have received with our community and our world.   When that happens, no matter what the decorations say, the theme of Bible School is the Bible!

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Time, Time, Time

by Bob Setzer, Jr.
The Sunday after Father's Day, I marched into the sanctuary five minutes late. Not a "few minutes" late but five minutes late. On the dot.

At the time, I didn't realize I was late so I was shocked to open the sanctuary door and find the service already in progress. It was like awakening from a dream to discover the world you thought was real, was not, while the real world had gone on quite nicely without you.

Still dazed, trying to figure out what happened, I now realized why I hadn't heard the choir sing their final warm-up next door to my study. But it was June, after all, and sometimes in the dog days of summer, we have a solo rather than a choral anthem. The uncommon quiet and stillness in the moments just before worship should have been a warning, but lost in final preparations for the service, I didn't notice.

So standing up there in front of God and everybody, five minutes late for the high and holy hour, I wracked my brain: How did this happen?! My digital watch clearly said "11:05," which meant I was right on time because I have run my watch five minutes fast for years. The practice provides an extra measure of protection to prevent just such embarrassing moments as this!!

Then it hit me. My daughter, Whitney, gave me a new watch for Father's Day. And this high-tech wonder automatically syncs with the national automatic clock in Colorado. So even though I set the watch five minutes fast, it automatically corrected the "error" without bothering to tell me!

Since then, I've been trying to readjust my life to live on "real" time.  Like the most annoying of friends (you know, someone like Jesus) the watch insists on always telling the truth! So far, I’ve been spared any further embarrassments, but I've also been surprised at how hard it is to retrain my time-keeping habits. Even small lies, once long-held and fiercely coddled, are not easily surrendered.

The experience left me wondering about all the other "little lies" that shape or rather, mis-shape my character: Lies about my good intentions ("This time will be different"), lies about diet and nutrition ("Really need to start that new regimen--tomorrow") lies about money ("One more credit card purchase can't hurt"), lies about...

On Sunday, we'll come face-to-face with one of the saltiest of the prophets, Amos, who proclaimed God was dropping a plumb line into the life of Israel (Amos 7:7-9). What was straight and right and true would stand; what was warped and twisted was destined to fall.

Plumb lines, atomic clocks, and yes, Jesus, proclaim there are certain, unerring truths that define our lives whether we like it or not. I don't like that rule, but as my five-minutes- late worship caper proves, I am stuck with it. A loving God long ago decided, "The truth shall set you free" (John 8:32). The only play we get to make is deciding when to fess up and find the true freedom our lies can never give.

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"Christian" is a Noun

by Bob Setzer, Jr.
With July 4 looming, I expect the usual flurry of e-mails telling me the following: (1) On the aluminum cap atop the Washington Monument are two Latin words, Laus Deo, meaning, “Praise be to God;" (2) the Founding Fathers were deeply religious men who founded the American republic on Christian principles; and, (3) the phrase “separation of church and state” does not appear in the United States Constitution. All those points are true or mostly true, in my view; however, the usual implications drawn from them in the free-floating Internet ditties I receive are not.

As to point one, yes, “God language” is and always has been a prominent part of our national dialect. The president’s recent speech addressing the disaster in the Gulf was rich in religious imagery. He spoke of the blessing-of-the-fleet ceremonies in which Gulf fishermen appeal for God’s protection and help in good times and bad. Despite highly publicized attempts to remove “In God We Trust” from our coins or the phrase “under God” from the Pledge of Allegiance, the Supreme Court has consistently held that such generic references to “God” are permissible. It is advancing one religion at the expense of another that violates the spirit and substance of the First Amendment.

As to point two, it is true most of the Founders were conventionally religious for their place and time, meaning they were Deists. They were not, for the most part, evangelical Christians, but more philosophically minded believers who thought God wound up the Universe like a clock and was now letting it run according to “natural law.” So, yes, the Founders believed “God” was, in some sense, watching over the republic, founded on the general principles of the Judeo-Christian heritage that characterized the Western world.

Nonetheless, they deliberately did not create a “Christian Republic,” but a secular one -- despite some of those present at the Constitutional Convention of 1787 pressing for a formal acknowledgment of Christianity in our founding document. This faction did not prevail -- not because the other delegates were anti-religious, but because they were fiercely committed to freedom of conscience for all people and had seen the atrocities perpetrated by state-sponsored religion in both Europe and the
colonies.

As to point three, it is correct that the literal phrase “separation of church and state” does not appear in the Constitution. Neither does “separation of powers” nor “a trial by a jury of one’s peers.” Each expression is, rather, a shorthand phrase that summarizes important constitutional provisions.

The phrase “separation of church and state” is usually dated to Thomas Jefferson’s letter to Connecticut’s Danbury Baptist Association in 1802. The Baptists were thankful for Jefferson’s strong support of religious liberty, since they were then facing rebuff and ridicule from the local Congregational religious establishment.

“Separation of church and state” means the state doesn’t get to “establish” religion or “prohibit” its “free exercise.” As always, the devil is in the details, and conscientious Christians and other people of faith (and no faith) will disagree about the application of this principle in practice. But the all-too-common sentiment this time of year that America is, or should be, a Christian nation is neither true to the facts nor to the American experience.

Nations, after all, can’t be Christian. Only people can. As that Baptist maverick of yesterday, Carlyle Marney, would remind us, “Christian” is best used as a noun, not an adjective.

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Deep Calls Out to Deep

by Bob Setzer, Jr
My mother sent me a news clipping containing yet another searing image of a raging petroleum fire. The bright yellow inferno at the burn site is belching an ugly, black plume of smoke into the sky.

Only this picture was not one of many shocking photos to come out of the Gulf oil disaster. This photo was taken at a petroleum tank farm in my hometown of Greensboro, North Carolina. It is an area I remember well because one of my dad’s jobs when I was a boy, was working at just such an gas and oil storage facility. When Phillips 66 decided to move dad to Texas, that proved the end of his “oil career.” A hometown boy, my dad soon found another job and we stayed put, but those massive, round petroleum tanks--each holding nearly 200,000 gallons of gasoline--left an indelible impression on my memory.

The recent near disaster at a tank farm facility in Greensboro started when a storage tank was struck by lightning.  While sophisticated lightning rods deflect most such threats, a stray bolt slipped by to ignite a five alarm fire. With 75 huge tanks of gasoline in the immediate vicinity, a deadly, out-of-control wildfire was imminent. Fortunately, a highly skilled fire department acted quickly and decisively to spare lives and property and prevent a costly environmental disaster. Having trained repeatedly for just such a scenario, the fire fighters had everything under control within a few short hours.

The parallels with the BP oil disaster in the Gulf are telling. From all reports, it appears BP was ill-prepared for the disaster their negligence largely created. Granted, putting out a petroleum fire above ground is not nearly as daunting as stopping an oil geyser 20,000 leagues under the sea. But any corporation daunting enough to drill such a well must have failsafe and oft practiced plans for addressing the inevitable accidents. Tragically, BP did not.

Of course, in addition to all the finger pointing and outrage rightly directly BP's way, I too played a bit part in the largest environmental disaster in U.S. history. Oil money payed for my diapers after all, and every time I drive when I could walk or ride a bicycle, or excessively heat or cool my home, I help create the economic climate where it is profitable for companies to take insane risks to feed my addiction to fossil fuels. Early on in the Gulf oil disaster, I read that the oil billowing from the bottom of that sea would fuel America's highways for 15 minutes. Obviously, that number has climbed since, but the sickening shock of the realization remains.

The first job God gave Adam and Eve was to be good stewards of the creation they held in trust. Our first forbearers failed miserably at their task and judging from the soupy sea of oily sludge wreaking havoc with the Gulf's helpless creatures and heartsick citizens, our generation has fared no better. No wonder the Apostle Paul proclaimed the creation as "groaning" for redemption (Romans 8:22). Apparently, only God can save God's once beautiful world from the likes of us.

Or maybe God is waiting on us, counting on us to do something radically different in light of this disaster. What is your best Spirit-filled guess as to what that might be?

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The Dogged Truth

by Bob Setzer, Jr.
Last Wednesday morning started off badly. I woke up and found that my dog of nearly 14 years, Maggie, had died.

This was not unexpected. Maggie had an inoperable tumor behind one eye that was slowly squeezing the life out of her. The day was drawing near, said the vet, when we would have to put her down. Still, upon seeing Maggie’s lifeless form where so much joy and love used to be, I felt a geyser of grief burst forth from some place deep inside me.

The chapters of my life are marked by the dogs I’ve loved. My first was a little terrier named “Bandit” for the patch of color that covered one eye. During seminary and early marriage, Bambi and I had two Irish setters, “Tillich” and “Tennille,” the one named for high-brow theology and the other for low-rent music, two of my passions then as now. After Whitney came along, we had a sleek, black lab mix named “Catra” for the “Princess of Power” action figure, then the rage.

But of all the dogs to grace my days, none was more loving, loyal, or long-lived than Maggie. For years we ran together, the two of us panting our way though hot Macon summers. She hated our pool, having fallen in as a pup, but loved to yap at her silent friend, the Polaris, trolling the depths of the pool, sucking up debris. At night, a rawhide chew or steak bone brought hours of sweet contentment. But the best part was the way Maggie always lit up with joy at the sheer gift of my presence. Until the very end, she never lost that, but now she has and I have too.

Now Maggie lies at rest in the woods behind my house. Her grave is well marked and I will visit it from time-to-time. As to what becomes of beloved pets when they die, the internet is full of the assurance they live on in God’s nearer presence. By contrast, the Bible is silent on the question, though there can be no doubt animals are even more beloved by God than they are by us.

The creation story abounds with animals, all of which are God’s exquisite handiwork; animals are trotted onto Noah’s Ark while most of the rest of the world is lost in the flood; the humane treatment of animals is a staple of the biblical revelation (e.g., Deuteronomy 25:4; Proverbs 12:10; Jonah 4:11); Jesus said the Heavenly Father notes the sparrow’s fall, while the promise the lion and the lamb will lie down together is a central premise of the New Creation (Isaiah 11:6; 65:25).

Does this mean Maggie is “in heaven”? As much as I want the answer to be “yes,” Jesus never made any such promise. But I do know the promise of a new heaven and a new earth means that much God (and we!) love about this world, gone so terribly wrong, will be redeemed and restored. As to what that means for the plot of ground where my beloved Maggie now rests, I don’t presume to know. But on resurrection morning, God willing, I’ll be there to see.

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Bigger and Better

by Jody Long
As you read this, 10 FBC high schoolers and 3 chaperones will have recently returned from the annual FBC Youth Ministry High School Mission Trip. In past years, we have journeyed to such far-flung locales as Arlington, TX, Washington D.C., and Miami, FL. These trips - and many more - have been formative for many of our youth through the years. Short-term mission trips provide a place for relationship building, utilizing known (and unknown) skills, and exploration into God’s calling for our lives.

Recently, The Christian Century magazine featured an article about the pitfalls of short-term mission trips. One of the problems that stuck in my craw was the following:

“If this is 2010, then we must be in Tanzania: Tanzania this year, Bosnia next year, Nicaragua the year after that, and the Philippines in year four: a different country on a different continent every year! Changing the mission trip location each year may provide variety for participants, but it subverts the goal of establishing deep and lasting relationships. Better to make a commitment to one community.”

One of the temptations of church ministry, in general, and youth ministry, specifically, is to always do "bigger and better."

The idea is that we build on each event or program by making its successor bigger and better than before in hopes to attract more people to our church or event. It doesn’t require too much imagination to see the tragic ends to which this ministry philosophy leads. It requires a swelling budget, more resources, more planning, more publicity and more effort. Eventually, though, you run out of places, events, or ideas.

This summer, instead of shooting for bigger and better, we went for smaller and local. Instead of flying to an exotic location to serve God’s neediest children, we traveled all the way to Americus, Ga. After the long, hour and a half drive, we pulled into Maranatha Baptist Church to hear President Jimmy Carter teach Sunday school and worship with the good folks of Plains, Ga.

The final stop was Koinonia Farms, founded by Baptist prophet Clarence Jordan and birthplace of Habitat for Humanity. The group spent the week living in a guest house without air conditioning, picking organic blueberries, clearing brush from the Peace Trail meditation trail, making candy from south Georgia pecans and various odd jobs around the farm. A trip to Habitat’s Global Discovery Village and Cafe Campesino helped frame international issues of housing, poverty, and economics.

Most of the time was spent focusing on building relationships among our group and learning to be community to each other. In an increasingly scattered world, the best mission for our students may be working, learning and reflecting alongside each other. It may be a wise lesson for the rest of us, too.

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A Marriage Bog

by Bob Setzer, Jr.
This Saturday morning at 11:00 a.m., I'll be taking my place at the Bog Garden in my hometown of Greensboro, North Carolina. A "bog" is a marsh that grows out of rich deposits of decaying plant material. This particular bog is a beautiful park nestled in the center of a thriving city.

I'll be taking my place in this bog to officiate at my younger sister's wedding. Some might prefer a sanctuary for such an occasion, but for this wedding, a bog seems perfect. A bog is a living testament to the power of life in the face of decay and death. And promising second marriages, like this one, represent new life rising out of death.

My sister, Linda, married an abusive alcoholic the first time around. He left her with a toddler and a baby on the way. Years of struggle and sadness followed, and not just for Linda, but for her children and the people who held her and them precious, most notably, my parents who lived just around the corner. I still remember my dad sitting on the front porch, baseball bat in hand, waiting for, hoping for my sister's deadbeat "husband" to come around. Fortunately, he never did.

Linda managed to eke out a living and a life for herself and her children, but the demons of depression were ever lurking. Eventually, they had their way with her and she was left to fight a long battle with a disabling illness. But after years of wrestling with her demons--plus treatment, support and her own courageous persistence--Linda emerged from her ordeal like a water lily flowering into life from the dark, lush peat hidden below the surface of the pond.

Linda's not ashamed of her struggle, else I would not speak of it. But with the help of a good church, a gracious God, and some faithful friends, her struggle helped shape and sculpt her into the wise and able woman she is today. Now she works as a volunteer chaplain, offering others "the consolation with which we ourselves are comforted by God" (2 Cor. 1:4).

So yes, it's entirely fitting that Linda's wedding will be held in the bog that has become for her a place of solace and renewal. For a bog takes things that are ugly in themselves and turns them into something beautiful. And with the help of the One who raised Jesus from the dead, that's what God's people do too.

I'm sorry I'll miss a truly special day at the Top of Poplar this Sunday, as our Global Women lead in worship. Our Global Women have heard and believed the promise of Pentecost that God's "sons and daughters shall prophesy!" (Acts 2:17). They have also given wings to some innovative new ministries, such as a computer lab for training and empowering underprivileged women.

Because of Easter and Pentecost, our world is alive with hope. And we say, "Thanks be to God!"

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Watching Baseball

by Bob Setzer, Jr.
Watching baseball on television is not my idea of a good time. I constantly glance at my watch, wondering when the misery will be over.

But going to a baseball game, now that’s a different matter. I love to go to the ballpark and see the action up close and personal, rub shoulders with the crowd, and hope for a foul ball hit in my direction. So on Thursday May 20, I was at Turner Stadium with some clergy buddies for what turned out to be an epic baseball contest.

The Cincinnati Reds jumped out early to a decisive 8-0 lead. The Braves managed to eke out a few hits and crawled back to 9-3 by the end of the third inning. Then we settled in for a long afternoon of boring baseball, but I didn’t mind because I was sedated with a cup of glazed pecans, a greasy hot dog, and a $4.50 Coke.

Finally, the bottom of the 9th rolled around. I stretched and gathered my things. A lot of fans had already left. Three quick outs and we’d be on the road in time to beat the worst of the Atlanta traffic.

But wait! Hit 1, hit 2, hit 3! No outs! At least we were going out in style! A walk with the bases loaded. A run or two. Hope!

Still no one, certainly not I, saw the magnitude of the victory that was coming. With the bases loaded, local middle Georgia sensation, Jason Heyward--whose homer won the game the night before--struck out. The next batter, Brooks Conrad, amassed a 3-2 count. It looked like the Cincinnati pitcher was poised to smoke him. If that happened, one more out and the game was over.

But Conrad’s bat erupted with a crack that sent shivers down every spine in the stadium. The ball sailed for the left field fence. The Cincinnati fielder leapt high and touched the ball with his glove, just enough to tap it over the great divide. Home run! Conrad’s grand slam won the game and set the stands to shaking from fans delirious with relief and joy.

The moral of the story? Don’t leave the game in the 8th inning. And if a baseball game can create that kind of surprise and sensation in the bottom of the 9th, just think what God can do!

On Good Friday, Satan was gleefully thinking, “Game over!” Then on Easter morning, Jesus hit a walk away homer with the bases loaded. Satan shook his head in numb disbelief. He never saw that one coming. And if Jesus could come back to win a game so completely in the bag as that, Satan’s cocksure confidence was gone. In fact, it was worse than the Prince of Darkness thought. Easter was just the beginning because the God who raised Jesus from dead revels in surprise comebacks.

Forgive me if likening Easter to a baseball game offends. But that Thursday in Atlanta, with Turner stadium shaking in awed triumph at an impossible win, somehow the one made me think of the other.

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A Word from our Chair of Deacons

by Bryan Whitfield
I always think of summer as a special time for fellowship: watermelons and home-churned peach ice cream, singing around the piano, catching fireflies at dusk. Just as that was true for my family growing up, so I’ve found it true for our church family at First Baptist Church of Christ. In recent summers, we have gathered for fellowship at Vespers at the top of Poplar. This year, however, only one Sunday School class volunteered to serve as hosts. Knowing the importance of fellowship, we decided to develop a series of home fellowships centered around our deacon family groups. Our deacons will team up together to host First Family Fellowships on June 27, July 25, and August 22.

On these Sundays, we will gather in homes for a meal, a time of fellowship, and a brief devotional focused on passages from Paul’s letter to the Philippians. This time of fellowship will enable us to get to know one another better, to deepen our understanding of a short biblical passage, and to have fun together. In most cases, two or three deacon family groups will meet together. The informal atmosphere and brief time of study mean that the fellowships are designed for all ages to join together for intergenerational fellowship.

We will also have a weekly devotional resource for individuals and families to use each week during the summer. These resources will be available in print copies and on the FBC website.  Families and individuals will use them on Sunday nights, or perhaps at another convenient time during the week. These devotional resources will also focus on Philippians and will include material especially designed for families. They will suggest mission project options that members may complete during the week. On these Sabbath weeks when we do not have a First Family Fellowship, we will encourage families and individuals to use the devotional resource and also to plan creative ways to have fellowship within and beyond the family unit. You might meet with another family one week, or invite a single adult to join you for supper and Bible reading, or find a group to work together on a common mission or service project.

You will be hearing more about these exciting summer events during the month ahead. In particular, you will receive a note, card, letter, or email from your deacon reminding you about the dates and indicating where your deacon family group will meet. I look forward to hearing about the ways you find these new initiatives strengthen our fellowship as a congregation and deepen our faith.

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Inspiration

by Bob Setzer, Jr.
The short answer is “Yes,” Bambi, Whitney, and I successfully completely our relay in the Knoxville Mother’s Day triathlon. Caroline, Whitney’s sister-in-law who is recovering from a traumatic brain injury, inspired our participation in this triathlon. We owe many blessings to Caroline. For me, one of those was recovering the joy of cycling.

When I was a boy, my dad and I rode our bikes from Greensboro, North Carolina to Hanging Rock State Park. It was a ride of over 50 miles, mostly uphill, on 5-speed, low-end bikes that weighed a ton. We didn’t train for the ride; we just “did it.” My dad was an ex-Marine. He was of the “grin and bear it school.” When we finally got to Hanging Rock, I suggested we get off and walk our bikes up that long, tortuous climb. My dad wouldn’t hear of it so we huffed and puffed our way to the top.

Some years later, my dad got a decent road bike. Eventually, like most of the good stuff he ever owned, he gave it away, in this case, to me. It was that bike, a vintage 1980s 10-speed  racer, I rode in the Knoxville Triathlon.

While training for the Triathlon, I thought often of my dad. Riding “his” bike made me feel close to him, even though he died almost two years ago. It was as though he was near, enjoying the rush of scenery, the deep, renewing breaths, the rhythmic pumping of the legs, the wind whisking the sweat beads off the brow.

 On race day in Knoxville, my 25-mile bike ride started out easily enough. But once we left the city and entered the foothills of the Blue Ridge, things got tough in a hurry. The hills were steeper and longer than any of my practice runs in middle Georgia. As I pedaled with grisly determination up a 1½- mile incline, a woman with a “53" magic-markered on her calf passed me. That meant a 53-year-old lady was beating me! My pride wounded, what little steam was left in my engine fizzled out. I started to climb off my mount and walk to the top.

Then I thought of what my dad would say. And I thought of that “great cloud of witnesses” Hebrews 12:1-2 hints may be cheering us on at such moments. So I stayed on my bike and kept slamming my legs down, down, down on the pedals, like a 19th century immigrant driving spikes in the transcontinental railroad, one after one after one, seemingly forever. Eventually, I crested the hilltop, and felt the flush of triumph.

Some miles later as the finish line drew near, I saw a faint “53" on a biker’s calf up ahead. It was the woman who had passed me! I pumped harder than ever, feigning a strength I did not feel, gaining on her and eventually flying by her. It really wasn’t fair though, because from some place deep inside, an unseen coach was egging me on. I think it was my dad but it might have been You-Know-Who.

Thanks, Caroline. The triathlon you inspired touched a lot of lives and mine was one.

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Triathloning

by Bob Setzer, Jr.
Bambi and I are going to have a different kind of Mother’s Day this year. We’re heading to Knoxville to participate in a Triathlon. Our daughter Whitney put us up to it. Kids do that sort of thing.

Our foray into Triathloning began with a tragedy that with God’s help, was turned towards good. In the fall of 2006, Whitney’s sister-in-law, Caroline, sustained a traumatic brain injury in an automobile accident. Since then, Caroline has been fighting her way back to an ever increasing measure of strength and vitality. Caroline is bright and bubbly, communicates through sign language, and is a joy and inspiration to all she meets.

In Knoxville’s Mother’s Day Triathlon, Caroline will participate with the help of her brothers, Jay--Whitney’s husband--and Reid. Caroline’s family commissioned a specially designed bicycle that will allow Caroline to pedal from a sitting position during both the cycling and running portions of the race, as her brothers provide balance and steering. During the swim, she will kick as her brothers pull her on a raft.

Caroline’s world-class parents, David “D” and Susan Owen, have devoted themselves to Caroline’s recovery and rehabilitation. While D resumed his practice as a OB/GYN physician, Susan has spent the last 3½ years as more-than-full-time mother, always at Caroline’s side tending to her needs, sharing her laughter, and updating her Facebook page! You can follow this remarkable and still unfolding story at www.caroline.can or www.caringbridge.org/visit/carolineowen. If ever there was a life story that illustrates the truth of Romans 8:28--that God works in all things for good--this is it.

The Owen family has also committed themselves to raising money for the Patricia Neal Rehabilitation Center in Knoxville, a facility that has proven essential to Caroline’s recovery. Our participation in the Triathlon is part of the family’s efforts to raise $100,000 to endow a scholarship fund for physical therapists; over $70,000 has been raised thus far.

So... Whitney persuaded Bambi and me to gear up for our part of a three-person relay team in the Knoxville Mother’s Day Triathlon: Whitney will swim a mile, Bambi will power-walk a 10K (6.2 miles), and I’ll ride my bike 25 miles through Knoxville’s rolling hills. Thus, this will be for Bambi and Whitney a special Mother’s Day, indeed. As usual, the dad--me--will be along for the ride, literally and figuratively.

Meanwhile, back at the top of Poplar for the first time in the history of our church--and I say this with no fear of contradiction--a mother will preach the Mother’s Day sermon. Julie is an excellent preacher anytime, but with the birth of Merrill (now 11 weeks old!), this sermon will hold special meaning for her and for our congregation. I hate to miss this memorable, yea, historic event. But I’m glad to know from the top of Poplar to the top of Rocky Top, Mother’s Day will be a blessed day for the First Baptist family, far and wide.

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