Come to the Water

"You have been buried with  Him in baptism through your faith in God who raised Him from the dead."  Colossians 2:12

Until recent days I had grown to be rather bitter and cynical toward the faith of my fathers. Since I was raised as a devout Southern Baptist in the deep south, I didn't see being Southern Baptist as a good way to relate to Christ, I experienced my denomination as the only way to relate to Christ.  And to the world around me.

Our church, like most Baptist churches at the time, never said the words  "We are the only ones who do it right" but the implication was there in many ways.  One way that comes to mind was the annual visit by a "foreign missionary" to promote the Lottie Moon Christmas Offering. Even as an adolescent I noticed that the missionary talked as if no valid ministry had ever been done in her country until the Southern Baptists arrived.  Methodists, Catholics, Presbyterians and other Christians may have been there for years, but the work of the Lord arrived when the Southern Baptists arrived. Everyone was a prospect for salvation and baptism including the members of those churches.

And baptism by immersion in my church was not only a symbol  of new life in Christ, but a way to exclude from membership those not immersed and exclude them from full fellowship in the church. This exclusion even applied to Christians who had been faithful servants for decades in churches of other denominations.

I have been baptized three times.  I was baptized twice by immersion in a Baptist church baptistery and once with water from a drinking straw.  That last method performed by a United Methodist friend  in a local restaurant has become the most meaningful for me. That friend died a few years ago, but the loving act lives on.

Not the least of my issues with all of this  is the fact that "Christian" has been dreadfully tainted for me. "Christian" it seems is now associated with the extreme religious right which is much more political than religious. This group is pro-life (even in the case of rape and incest),pro-American military (and all its bombs and wars), pro-American flag flying on the front lawn of the church, pro-guns (including assault rifles and semi-automatic pistols), pro-ultra right-wing politics. Regardless of whether or not these positions are good or bad, just how and when did Jesus, a middle Eastern Jew, get all caught up in  American politics and American weapons?  Does this brand of "Christianity" even have all that much to do with Jesus? How did "I am the way, the truth, the life" become --"These  uniquely  American codes of behavior are the way, the truth, the life" ?

Against this backdrop of my own biases, prejudices and strong opinions, I read this morning of something quite marvelous. At the Durham County jail, Durham, North Carolina, last Sunday the chaplain baptized 39 inmates.  He immersed 39 bodies and souls in the cleansing water of righteousness and peace. Before I had time to switch on my knee-jerk cynicism  and callousness about the entire process, I recognized the beauty, power and grace of the occasion.  These prisoners are  facing charges of rape, murder, theft with a deadly weapon and other capital crimes. Many of these 30 men and nine women will never see the outside of a prison cell for the rest of their mortal lives.  But for one shining moment they were completely cleansed of sin. They were made whole. They were free. Together they became card-carrying members of the body of Christ. As I read the article and saw the photograph of the man emerging from the baptismal pool dripping from head to toe, I was taken with the look on his face. With the apparent joy in his heart. "What can wash away my sin? Nothing but the blood of Jesus.  What can  make me whole again? Nothing but the blood of Jesus."

I am not so naive to think that all of their problems are over. The clank of metal doors, the discomfort of shackles, the screams and curses of other inmates, the inevitability of painful assaults, the stench of sweaty bodies and faulty plumbing, the claustrophobia and the heat, the chains of guilt and regret will still be difficult to endure.  But at least they have the memory of that moment in time when they belonged together to the fraternity of the free. "O precious is the flow that makes me white as snow. No other fount I know. Nothing but the blood of Jesus."

And what of my own  self-made prison of bitterness and resentment?  My only hope of escape is to become immersed in the way, the truth, the life of forgiveness, grace and love. The way of Jesus.  Just like my brothers and sisters  in Durham, North Carolina, then and only then  will I be completely free.

Hold On For Me

"Well I hope that you can hold on. I hope that you can hold on for me."  Marc Cohn, 2016

"Cohn has been treated and released from Denver Health Medical Center." August 8. 2005

"There was exactly enough room in the soft tissue between the outside of my face and the beginning of my skull; there was just enough room to hold that bullet."   Marc Cohn

I have been a Cohnhead since the release of his first album entitled Marc Cohn and  the release of the award winning single "Walking in Memphis."  I didn't know for several years about his shooting that according to all reason and the nature of bullets and brains should have ended his life that night in Denver,  Colorado. During an attempted carjacking, the assailant shot Cohn in the head at point-blank rang. As it turned out, his road manager sustained more injuries than he from flying glass to his face and eyes.

In her song "The Song Remembers When", Tricia Yearwood artfully relates how a song can take us back to a particular time and place.  Those-who-know-these-things tell us that the brain records every detail of that time and place and attaches it to that music.  Then over the years when you hear that song, the brain floods your system with the entire experience--where you were, who you were with, what you were doing and even how you were feeling at that particular moment in time.

Such is the case with "Walking in Memphis."  I was sitting in  my idling '89 Honda Accord hatchback in the summer of 1991 waiting for my wife to come out of the Walmart in Ft. Oglethorpe,  Georgia. Neither of us had a clue what all awaited us in 1991 and 1992, but the song already knew.

If Marc Cohn had died that night in Denver, all of his new music I've listened to since then would have died with him.  But somehow he didn't die and I'm listening now to his new album published earlier this year.  On the 25th anniversary of his first album Cohn released "Careful What You Dream: Lost Songs and Rarities."  Although this music sounds new and fresh, he actually composed these songs before his first album was published. As much as I still enjoy listening to that first album, the music of his latest album has replaced those songs as my favorite of his ballads.

In a strange and wonderful phenomenon of Einsteinian  proportions,  Cohn's song "Hold On For Me' written before 1991 and published this year, tells my story from 1991 and 1992. "Hold On For Me" is a powerful metaphor of the people and events that saved my life. Though not as dramatic as a bullet lodged in my skull, the salvation was just as real. In August of 1991 Cohn said, "I touched myself and there was blood all over my hands and my clothes.  And I realized that I was the one who had been hit." I didn't realize until June of 1992 that I had been struck in the head many years before. Though "treated and released" in July of 1992,  "Hold On For Me" is the story of my continued life.

Sometime in 1986 at Graceland in Memphis, Tennessee,  the gospel singer Muriel Wilkins asked Marc Cohn, a Jew, "Are you a Christian child?" And he responded, "Ma'am I am tonight."  The rest, as they say,  is history.

Mood Swings

I'm somewhat of a  snob about certain things.  I'm a snob about beer. I realize that the vast majority of American beer drinkers prefer domestic beer. But  I would rather drink a nice glass of lemonade than drink a domestic beer.  I'm a snob about camping. I understand that even a tour bus sized recreational vehicle in a camp ground is still considered camping.  When I quit boy scouts, I was working on eagle. I had done everything but the project when I quit.  Not my best decision.  That means that I had spent a multitude of hours over a period of years at Camp AlaFlo  outside of Enterprise, Alabama.  When we went camping it involved a tent and a fire.   We cooked on the fire and slept in a tent.  There was no bedroom, air conditioning, kitchen, full bathroom, multiple flat screen TVs and internet connection. Occasionally we stayed in a cabin.  We slept on sleeping bags on mattresses on springs. It still wasn't air conditioned but it was more comfortable than a tent. That was a lot of fun but it wasn't really camping.

I'm very much a snob about music. I don't pretend to think that my taste in music is the only worthwhile opinion, I just  have certain preferences.  It doesn't make them right; it just makes them mine.

Today I ate lunch in the Waffle House that I frequent most often near Tunnel Hill, Georgia. Besides the breakfast foods that I usually eat, they make a BLT salad for me that isn't even on the menu.  It is a generous amount of food for the money and is fairly nutritious and healthy. All that was good. But the music was horrible. My experience with music in a Waffle House are random songs from the jukebox.  Today they were playing an entire album of Johnny Cash. I had rather listen to an hour of the awful music at the Cracker Barrel than listen to one song by Johnny Cash.  I don't like his voice. I don't like the guitar.  I don't like the repetitive boom chick rhythms. I don't like the lyrics that are on a third grade level (no offense to third graders).  I don't like anything about it. I was in a really good mood when I went in but with each passing measure of music my mood was sagging.

Then it occurred to me that I had put my Bose ear buds in the truck.  I walked out to the truck, retrieved my ear buds, hooked it up to my iPhone and booted up my Marc Cohn playlist. The swing of music and emotions was immediate and dramatic.  I not only wasn't listening to Johnny Cash drone on and on about nothing in particular, but I was listening to one of my favorite singers. If I was in a good mood when I entered the Waffle House, I was in a much better mood when I left.

I'm going through a "needs improvement" phase of my life. I'm not the sort of person who is in a perpetual state of self-help.  I like who I am.  I enjoy my own company.  But lately I have become aware of some things about my personality that I think can be much better.  I'm not beating myself up during the process; I am just taking a step at a time in some new directions.  One of the things I'm looking at is my snobbery.  I'm considering that my preferences, though good, do not leave enough room for the preferences of other people.  I say that you're welcome to like Johnny Cash if you want to, but  I'm judging you. Then there are a couple of other areas that are under the microscope. When I emerge from this personality transformation, I don't expect to be perfect, I just hope to be better.

You don't like the Waffle House?  Just shows what you know about fine dining.

Remember While You Can

"Two missionary mice walked up on the porch and one of them rang the doorbell.  When the lady answered the door, he said 'We're here to tell you about cheeses' ."

As I've previously described, the summer of 1971 was one of the most eventful summers of my life.  The twelve weeks I spent selling books door-to-door near Owensboro, Kentucky were some of the most challenging and grueling days of my life.  The summer was very rewarding in many ways as well.

The summer of 1972 was relatively uneventful.  I took some classes at my town's junior college and worked for my father's construction company.  It was good to just stay  home.

I spent the summer of 1973 as a "summer missionary" in Eatontown, New Jersey.  This program was sponsored by the then Home Mission Board of the Southern Baptist Convention. Although the summer itself was a significant experience, a couple of things  happened before the actual missions started that were equally important.

 In April I had attended a weekend conference at the Shocco Springs Baptist Assembly in Talladega, Alabama. The itinerary for several hundred college students in attendance included an orientation for a few summer missionaries who would be going all over the country in June. As much as I enjoyed the weekend and benefited from the activities provided, a deeply personal and spiritual incident happened to me that was not a part of anything scheduled("The Lord works in mysterious ways His wonders to perform"). This thing was a profound encounter for me at the time and  looking back I realize was a watershed experience.  It became summer missions orientation in a way I could never have planned or predicted. The other thing that happened before the work actually began was what happened at the orientation in Syracuse, New York. There were twelve of us there who would scatter all over the northeast for the summer.  I had flown into Syracuse on Thursday to leave for Eatontown on Sunday afternoon. . We were told that on Saturday night a singer named Ken Medema would provide a concert for us. When somebody told me that he was blind I didn't know what to expect, especially considering the hotel piano he would be using. All I can say is that at the dramatic and soul-stirring conclusion of "Moses", if I had had an altar and some wood, I would have sacrificed a cow.  "What do you hold in your hand today?  To what or to whom are you bound?  Are you willing to give it to God right now?  Give it up. Let it go. Throw it down".

Anne was my partner for the summer. On Sunday we traveled together to the Monmouth Baptist Church in Eatontown, New Jersey to begin our work together there.  The church was our headquarters for our various projects and ministries in the area. The core of our activities were Back Yard Bible Clubs that we held in various parks and apartment complexes.  Sometimes we had a crowd of ten or fifteen children, but usually it was five or six.  The children were interesting and engaging and made the experience worthwhile for them and for us.

Anne was a much braver missionary than I was.  She took her guitar everywhere we went and often sang Jesus songs in restaurants and other public places.  I never got entirely comfortable with that but it's just something we did. About three weeks into the summer Anne's brother was killed.  She flew home to Virginia for the funeral and returned about two weeks later.  Her demeanor changed somewhat, but she was as determined as ever to spread the gospel  of Jesus in her own unique way.  I've tried to find Anne through the Southern Baptist Convention and the New York Baptist Convention, but no one has any record of her. Dang.

A funny thing happened during Bible school that I have chuckled about over the years.  This Vacation Bible School was actually at the church for church kids and the community. As I recall we had about thirty children enrolled for the week.  Anne's accent could grate on you if you let it.  It  just had an edge to it that was somewhat unpleasant. Some words like the word "God", for example, she strung out in several syllables.  "God" came out something like "Geeahd"  She was teaching a Bible lesson and was saying "Geeahd" every few minutes.  One ten year old girl had finally had enough. She threw her hands up in exasperation and exclaimed, "God. God.  God. All you ever talk about is God!"  Anne looked at me and I looked at her and we both broke out laughing.  I'm laughing now.

That was 43 years ago.  In twenty years or so when I look back at the summer of 2016, what will I have to say about it? Will there be an overarching theme like '71 and '73 or will I just remember bits and pieces?  Or will I remember anything at all? I ran into another Ann recently. This Ann is in her 90s and deep into dementia.  I said something to her about her husband who died not that long ago.  She said, "I don't remember my husband."  Then she took my hands, looked into my eyes and added, "David, you need to remember while you can."

I've attended many Medema concerts over the years and he and I have become good friends.  In 1990 I was involved in a project with him that involved 80 local youth and raised several thousand dollars for Habitat for Humanity. My wife and I had lunch recently with Ken  and Beverly his agent.  He was in town for a concert. We were not able to attend the concert, but it was sure good to see him after so long. Ken's music is incredible, but his person is extraordinary.  Who knew in June of 1973 in Syracuse, New York, that I would be having lunch with him 43 years later in Dalton, Georgia?  Who knew??  I don't know for sure, but I have a good idea.

Good Vibrations

I have heard and read much over the years regarding the question "If a tree falls in the forest and there's no one there to hear it, will it make a sound?"  The answer is no.  There really is no question about that or any argument.

Nothing creates "sounds". Things create vibrations.  When the tree falls in the forest, no matter how many people are animals are in the vicinity, all the tree creates are vibrations otherwise known as sound waves.

If you are totally deaf standing near the tree when it falls,  the tree will generate billions of sound waves but you won't hear a thing. You're completely deaf.  Depending on the size of the tree and the ferocity of the crash you might actually feel the vibrations, but you won't hear them.  If you have hearing and are standing there, you still won't hear any sounds.  The vibrations will reach your outer ear, then vibrate the ear drum and be transferred to your inner ear.  From the miracle of the mechanisms inside your ear, the vibrations will travel to your brain, the cerebrum to be exact.  There the brain unscrambles these vibrations and hearing is born.  The tree didn't make this sound; your brain did.

So the next time you are at the symphony listening to Beethoven's Fifth, none of the instruments are creating sound.  All of the instruments are generating vibrations at various frequencies.  The percussion instruments create their particular vibrations as do the brass, strings and woodwinds. There now there is a symphony of vibrations going past your body and your head.  Again if you are totally deaf and are sensitive enough to it, you may be able to feel these vibrations especially of the percussion.  "Percussion" is exactly what the instruments create. But technically all of the instruments are percussion instruments. Some are more percussive than others.

If you have the ability to hear then as all of those various simultaneous vibrations flow past your head, your ears pick them up and your brain unscrambles them.  The symphony of sound is not in the hall, it's in your head.

I often take my Bose earbuds along with me in self-defense. It's not that I want to hear my playlist that badly, I just don't like listening to the vibrations that are offered by various waiting rooms and Waffle Houses.  Waiting rooms offer horrible TV and Waffle Houses offer horrible music.  So I take my own good vibrations with me. Although my earbuds are not noise-cancelling, they accomplish that all the same.  Since the vibrations in my ears are  much closer to me than the vibrations in the room, within a few minutes the vibrations that I choose are the only ones I hear.  Another thing about this is that because of my tinnitus, I can't listen to the earbuds all that loudly.  I'm not trying to drown out the other music, I just replace the vibrations in the room with the vibrations from my cell phone. These vibrations become "noise-cancelling" without the technology.

My Bose headphones I use at home are in fact "noise-cancelling".  The battery powered phones not only transfer vibrations from the music medium, but they listen to the vibrations in the room.  The headphones create a frequency, a vibration, opposite of what they hear in the room thus cancelling those frequencies.  It would be really nice to have these in the waiting room or the Waffle House, but that would look pretty silly. My ear buds work very well.

So if a tree falls in the forest and there's no one around, will it make a sound?  No.  But if a tree falls in the forest and you have your back turned.  Well, that's another matter.

On Earth as it is in Heaven

"When I get to Heaven, will the sea still be green?
Will the sand taste salty, can you hear the seagull beat her wings?
Can the waves still dance while the tide makes a foam?
I might miss the ocean when my soul goes home.

When I get to Heaven will the garden still perfume?
Will the lilies greet me in their velvet white bloom?
Will blossoms go to sleep at night and open for the day?
I might miss the flowers when my soul goes home to stay.

They tell me that it's lovely there, that gates are made of pearl
That all the streets are paved with gold and jasper walls surround the world.
I understand that shadows flee and everywhere there's light
But what about the moon and stars and dreams I dream at night?

I never thought I loved the Earth until I held your hand
I felt you take my heart and you made me understand
That God is love and touching Him was also touching man
So dance in the grass let the Word become flesh and wash the world in sun.
And thank the God of Heaven and Earth until my soul goes home."

When  My Soul Goes Home,  Cynthia Clawson

I am constantly amazed at how many Christians want to give their lives away.  Healthy people who have everything going for them including a family, friends, a home, a church and financial resources want to "go home and be with the Lord."  The New Testament and Christian songs suggest that Heaven is a beautiful place of eternal bliss. No more darkness. No more dying. No more pain and sorrow.  And maybe it is. Who knows?

A few years ago I was in a situation where I had little choice but to attend a Southern gospel quartet singing. There was a time in my life I enjoyed this kind of music, but that was many years ago. It was an obligation that I tried to make the best of.  One of the singers was a young man in his late twenties who, according to his own testimony, wanted above all   for Jesus to come back and take him to glory. Many "Amen"s ensued. He was twenty something and only wanted his life on Earth to end for it to continue in a better place.

When I Googled this song to find the lyrics, I was again amazed that many of  the comments said that this song is about the beauty of Heaven.  How can they hear this and think that?  "So dance in the grass, let the Word become flesh" is about Heaven? This song is about the  Earth and man, the crown of God's creation.  Jesus Himself said that  "the kingdom of God is within you."  The kingdom of God is now. And here. We don't have to yearn and pine for some other time and place.  All of the resources of God's grace and love are available here. The beauty of Heaven is here. If you read the lyrics closely, I think you'll agree that the song even  suggests that when we get to Heaven we might want to die and go to Earth.

I think we often  fail to notice the incredible beauty all around us.  I certainly don't have to board a plane to find beauty.  I am surrounded by pristine beauty here in the north Georgia mountains where I live.  But in June of 1975 I found myself on a fjord cruise near Oslo, Norway. The beauty was more than I could comprehend. I felt that I had fallen into the pages of a children's book and was somehow looking out at the world through its pages.  The snow capped peaks reflected into the blue water creating the illusion that the water was as deep as the surrounding mountains were tall. And Niagara would have had to admire the waterfall that cascaded into the pool of blue and green. Will gates of pearl and streets paved with gold be that much better?

And how can you stand at the rim of the Grand Canyon and ask for any more awe and majesty? I've stood at the rim for hours and never got my fill of it.

My second home growing up was at Laguna Beach on the panhandle of Florida. No matter what else we did on any given day, we ended  most days on the beach as the western sun descended into the translucent Gulf of Mexico.  The summer sun seemed to take an eternity to  complete its course. Our shadows lengthened, but the day stood still. On those splendid afternoons, it never once crossed my mind that I wanted to go to Heaven. Why would I have wanted to be anywhere on Heaven or Earth but there?

Clawson's song says, "That God is love and touching Him was also touching man". Couldn't it  just as easily say that 'We can love and touching man is also touching God"?  Flesh made Word.

I like the idea of Heaven.  How could anyone not want to live forever in the beauty of Heaven and the very presence of God? However, if  the new Earth is just like this one less the sickness, hate,  death and dying,  then I couldn't ask for anything more. But if Heaven really is a place of everlasting light, I sure will miss the sunsets.

The Deep, Deep Love of Jesus

"Oh the deep, deep love of Jesus
All I need and trust
Is the deep, deep love of Jesus." Samuel Trevor Francis (1834-1925)

At seventeen years old I graduated from the Enterprise High School, Enterprise, Alabama on Friday May 28th. Beginning that night, I spent the weekend with my family and a friend at the Redmon family beach house at Laguna Beach, Florida. I enjoyed the weekend except for the knot in my stomach.  My mother and father were taking me to Nashville, Tennessee on Monday for training with the Southwestern Publishing Company. And from there I'd go with my team to regions unknown to sell Bibles and Bible story books door-to-door all summer.

I was actually recruited to sell  books by my older brother, the student manager,  who had sold the previous summer.  I was to be with his team from Oklahoma Baptist University. When he arrived from Oklahoma and splashed into the gulf water on Saturday afternoon he exclaimed "Guess what!?  I'm not selling books; I'm staying here and working for Dad."

Why didn't I decide right then and there that working for Helms Construction another summer wasn't such a bad idea?

Instead Mom, Dad and I ventured to Nashville on Monday. My father didn't tell me until he picked me up the last week of August that he thought he was telling me goodbye for good.  He didn't think he would ever see me alive again. But Mom and Dad wished me well, hugged me and left me there to fend for myself. I think we all cried a bit.

It was a grueling and demanding week of sales school. At the end of the week they put me with a team from Texas to spend the summer in Owensboro, Kentucky.  Within two weeks the entire eight man team, including the student manager, had quit and gone home.   Why didn't I go home too?  What was I trying to prove?

At that point the company put me with two other guys from Texas.   John and Dave affectionately referred to their school Howard Payne University as "Hard Pain University". We stayed in a boarding house in Owensboro for about three weeks and then moved.  John and I moved to Fordsville and Dave went to I don't remember where.  At the end of the summer we all hooked up again in Owensboro to deliver our books from there. Both of them completed their summer a week before me. I stayed there alone the next week to deliver mine.

Although Mercy  delivered me safe and sound to my parents who drove to Owensboro to get me, I did have a few close calls. Since I had no other means of transportation I hitch-hiked the entire summer.  One night hitching from Hartford to Fordsville, about twenty miles,  was one such close call.  Only a second too late after I closed the door of the car did I realize that the three passengers were all drunk, including the driver.  And they were still drinking beer, including the driver. To drunks everything is very, very funny. It was hilarious !  It wasn't at all funny to me. Not only was he driving over 100mph on a county road, but there was a short in the electrical system that caused the headlights to go off and on.  I thought that was it. When they finally let me out in Fordsville, I got out and kissed the ground.

Never before or since the summer of '71 have I felt as strongly that I was being carried.  Call this force angels, God, Jesus or Whoever, but I knew I was being protected and cared for.  I kept a journal that I called my daily book of miracles.  And they were many.

I cared about my sales team of three, but John and I particularly bonded.  You get close to people under those circumstances. When they were leaving me in August, John put his hands on my shoulders, looked at me and said, "David, you need to stay close to Jesus. He's the only hope you've got."  Truer words were never spoken.  And then Dave gave me his own Bible and said, "Here I want you to have it. You read it a lot more than I do."

The summer of 2016 finds me alive and well.  I am surrounded by a community of family and friends who are my family. My wife and I are dipping our toes into the Golden Years and finding we like it. We are provided for in every way possible.  We feel loved and cared for. Because we are loved and cared for. We feel a deep sense of gratitude for who we are and for what we have together here.   But May never becomes June without the summer of '71 finding me. It was a long, difficult, home-sick twelve weeks, but  I wouldn't take anything for the love of God and the power of friendship that I found there in  Kentucky.

Just how deep is the love of Jesus?  As deep as you need for it to be.  And for me that's pretty deep.